He could have walked away. And if he had not done so, wasn’t that precisely because he wanted to go through with it? Because he was sick at heart, he’d had enough?
He wanted something definite to happen, so that he would never need to return to this moment. That was so clear that when he had hit the man with the knuckleduster, it was the face of his English teacher that he saw in front of him.
He had walked away very calmly, almost relieved. He had reached the end of the bridge when he had turned and seen the dark mass lying on the cobbles.
Then he had hesitated again. Wouldn’t it be simpler just to tip the man into the water? That would avoid complications next day. He would be left alone.
He had retraced his steps, almost casually. Then he had leaned over …
Why not?
Every person condemned to death …
And it was now, years later, when he was running no risk, that he was gripped by fear, a retrospective, piercing and all-encompassing fear. He walked to the door of the attic; he wanted to go down to Tati, sit on the end of her bed. She would understand that he needed company.
What had become of Maître Fagonet? He had always been affable towards Jean, who had unwittingly provided him with his first case. By the end they had become quite friendly, and the lawyer had told him about his troubles with women.
He raised the skylight. Cool air entered. He heard the cries of birds, night birds no doubt. He didn’t know anything about birds.
He felt cold and threw himself down on the bed. Why had he been so happy, only the day before and why, suddenly …
His head ached, and since he had not slept until early morning, he was not properly awake. Tati noticed at once.
‘Something wrong? Have some coffee before feeding the chickens.’
She was perhaps the first person in the world to understand him. From that first Saturday in the bus, when she had had no idea who he was, or what he had done, she had started to treat him as one would a child. She had never really taken him for a grown-up.
‘Do this! Do that! Wash! Shave! Have a cup of coffee!’
And she watched him coming and going, keeping her thoughts to herself. If he had been ill, she would have been capable of picking him up in her arms like a child, putting him to bed, turning him over, undressing him and applying poultices.
‘Keep still. Let me finish.’
And it was exactly what he had always wanted, to be ill like that. Back home, they would just have sent him one of the maids, or the doctor or a nurse.
‘It’s my fault, isn’t it,’ she said suddenly, as he was leaning over the incubator to adjust the lamp.
‘What do you mean, your fault?’
‘I shouldn’t have mentioned all that.’
He shrugged nonchalantly.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
He measured out the bran, the crushed grain, poured on the warm water and stirred the mixture. That morning, Tati arranged things so that he was never alone.
‘Next Saturday, you’ll come to market with me. That’ll be a distraction for you. Anyway, it’s time you got your hair cut. It’s already down over your collar.’
What he would have liked was to go across the canal, lie in the long grass and watch out for Félicie. He had to be content to stare over at the pink roof and the column of smoke.
One day, when he was about twelve, he had had a touch of pleurisy. The doctor was concerned and sent him for an X-ray in case he had tuberculosis. A friend of his was in a sanatorium in Leysin.
And he had desperately wished that he was showing tubercular symptoms. He would go up there too, to the mountains. He wouldn’t have to do anything. Just lie in a deckchair – that was how he imagined life in a sanatorium – gazing at the mountains, and everything would be done for him, he’d have mouthfuls of food like a baby bird, everyone would be kind and attentive, and all he would have to do was daydream from morning to night.
‘No, nothing at all, sonny! Your lungs are as sound as a bell!’
Tati was looking regretfully at the clock.
‘I have to go to Mass now.’
It was Sunday again. He had not noticed the anglers along the canal, nor the increased number of bicycles.
Every person condemned to death …
He should have been condemned to death. He knew it. Article 314.
Murder shall be punished with death, whenever it shall have preceded, accompanied, or followed any other crime …
And that was true in his case. The theft of the wallet. And in fact Article 304 had exactly predicted this situation:
Murder shall also be punished with death when it has as its object either to prepare for, facilitate or execute a crime, or to procure an escape and to enable the perpetrators of the crime or their accomplices to go unpunished.
In other words, if he had not lied, if he had not sworn in court that the businessman had struck him first and that it was during their struggle that he had overbalanced on the parapet …
‘Tati!’ he called.
He had gone up to the door of her room, as she was getting dressed for church.
