The voice spoke again. ‘I’ll give you one thing,’ it said with a tinge of regret. ‘I admit you got a long way. You got the point. So I’d keep your head and leave the rest of your body. Anyway, scumbag, I’m going to abandon you now, like you abandoned me.’
Zerk pulled on the wire and the little speaker must have slipped back under the door. The last sound Adamsberg heard. Except for the agonising tinnitus in his ear, which had almost disappeared before, he realised. Unless what he was hearing was the cold breath of the rosy-skinned woman sleeping on the lower shelf, on his right. He caught himself wishing that Vesna the vampire would come out of her coffin and suck his blood, to give him eternal life. Or just to keep him company. But no, nothing doing. Even in the tomb, he believed in nothing. Without his being able to control it, his body went into a spasm of shivering for a few seconds. Several convulsive shudders, the start of the organic breakdown, in all probability. His frantic thoughts went to the doctor with golden fingers and his fuse F3. Could Dr Josselin’s treatment help him to resist a little longer than other people? Now that his fuse and parietal bone had been cured? But another shudder froze his blood under the wrappings. No. Not a chance.
What should you think about when you are about to die? Some lines of poetry came into his mind, although he had never been able to learn any. It was like that word kobasice that he had remembered. If he were able to survive till the next day, perhaps he would wake up speaking English, and remembering things, like normal people.
In the night of the tomb, Thou who…
One of those lines Danglard muttered to himself, along with thousands of others. But he couldn’t remember the rest.
In the night of the tomb…
Already he couldn’t feel his feet. He would die there like a vampir, his mouth sealed and his feet pinioned. That way they can never get out. But Peter Plogojowitz had. He had sped away like a flame from the ashes of his remains. And he had taken possession of Higg-gate, and the wife of that Dante somebody, and the schoolgirls. He had gone on oppressing the vampirised family of the Serbian soldier. A vengeful family, from which that madman Zerk must surely be descended, but he could no longer send a text to Danglard to find out. That bastard Weill had made him switch off the GPS. Why?
In the night of the tomb, Thou who consolest me.
Yes, that was it, the end of the line. He was taking short breaths now, with more difficulty than before. The asphyxia was happening faster than he had thought. Zerk was obviously an expert. But what did ‘before’ mean? It must be about an hour since Zerk had left the graveyard. He couldn’t hear the church clock striking. Too far from the village. And he couldn’t see either of his watches. So they couldn’t even tell him Lucio’s pissing timetable.
In the night of the tomb, Thou who consolest me.
There was more to this poem, something to do with ‘the sighs of the saint’ and ‘the cries of the siren’. Yes, like Vesna. One breath, then another breath. His own.
Arnold Paole! Yes, that was the name of the soldier overcome by Peter Plogojowitz. He would never forget it now.
XXXVI
DANICA CAME INTO VLADISLAV’S BEDROOM WITHOUT knocking, switched on his bedside lamp and shook him awake.
‘He hasn’t come in. It’s three in the morning.’
Vlad lifted his head and let it fall back on the pillow.
‘He’s a cop, Danica,’ he muttered, without thinking. ‘They don’t do things like everyone else.’
‘A cop!’ said Danica, shocked. ‘But you said he was a friend of yours who’d had a breakdown.’
‘A psycho-emotional episode. Sorry, Danica, it slipped out. But he is a cop. One who’s had a psycho-emotional episode.’
Danica folded her arms, looking both worried and offended, revisiting the previous night, which she now learned she had spent in the embrace of a policeman.
‘So what’s he up to here? Does he suspect someone in Kiseljevo?’
‘He’s searching for traces of a Frenchman.’
‘Who?’
‘Pierre Vaudel.’
‘Why?’
‘Someone might have known him here a long time ago. Let me go back to sleep, Danica.’
‘Pierre Vaudel? Never heard of him,’ said Danica, biting her thumbnail. ‘But I don’t remember all the tourists who come here. Have to look in the register. When was this? Before the war?’
‘Oh, long before, I think. Danica, it’s three in the morning, so just what are you doing in my room?’
‘I said. He isn’t in yet.’
‘And I gave you an answer.’
‘It’s not normal.’
‘With a cop, nothing’s normal, you should know that.’
‘He hasn’t any business being out at night, even if he is a cop. Anyway, Vlad, you shouldn’t say “cop”, you should say “police officer”. You haven’t turned into a polite young man. But then your dedo wasn’t either.’
‘Leave my dedo out of it, Danica. And don’t start lecturing me about good behaviour. You haven’t exactly gone by the book yourself.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Vlad made an effort and sat up in bed. ‘Forget it. Are you really worried?’
‘Yes. Was it dangerous, what he came here for?’
‘I don’t know, Danica, I’m tired. I don’t know anything about the case, and I don’t care, my job’s just to translate. All I know is, there was this murder somewhere near Paris, a nasty one. And another before that in Austria.’
‘If there are murders involved,’ said Danica, attacking her nail more viciously, ‘then that means it is dangerous.’
‘I know he thought he was being followed in the train. But all cops are like that, aren’t they? They don’t look at people the way we do. Maybe he went back to see Arandjel. I think they had plenty of stories to tell each other.’
‘Vladislav, you’re such an idiot. How is he supposed to talk to Arandjel? In sign language? Arandjel speaks English but not French. And he speaks French but not English, that’s for sure.’
‘How do you know?’
‘There are some things one just knows,’ said Danica, in some embarrassment.
‘Right,’ said Vlad. ‘So let me go back to sleep now.’
‘Look, the police,’ Danica went on, by now chewing angrily at both thumbs, ‘if they start finding out the truth, the murderer will kill them, won’t he? Eh, Vladislav?’
‘If you want my opinion, he’s getting further from the truth with every step.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Danica, letting go of her thumbs, by now glistening with saliva.
‘If you go on biting your nails you’ll end up eating a whole finger. Then you’ll wonder where it’s gone.’
Danica shook her mass of blonde hair impatiently and carried on chewing.
‘Why are you so sure he’s getting further from the truth?’
Vlad laughed quietly, sat up and put his hands on the landlady’s plump shoulders.
‘Because he thinks the Frenchman and the Austrian who were murdered were from the Plogojowitz family.’
‘And you think that’s funny?’ exclaimed Danica, starting up. ‘Funny?’
‘Well, anyone would think that was funny, Danica, including the cops he works with in Paris.’
‘Vladislav Moldovan, you’ve not got the sense you were born with, just like your Dedo Slavko.’
‘So you’re just like all the others, are you? Ti to verujé? You won’t go near the place of uncertainty? You won’t go and visit the tomb of poor old Peter?’