Detaching himself from the wall, Adamsberg pushed the door of his office and beckoned her in.
‘It’s true, of course,’ Mathilde said, seating herself, ‘this isn’t the lost-property office. It’s been a bad day. And not much better yesterday, or the day before either… A whole section of the week gone to pot. I hope you’ve had a better section than I have.’
‘A section?’
‘Well, the way I see it, Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday, that’s section number one of the week. What happens in section number one is different from what happens in section number two.’
‘And that’s Thursday-Friday-Saturday?’
‘Of course. If you pay attention, you’ll see there are more serious surprises in section one as a rule – note that I’m saying as a rule – and more fun and distractions in section two. It’s a question of rhythm. It never switches over like the parking in the street, where you have to park one side one week and the other the next. Why do they do that, anyway? To give the street a rest? Let it lie fallow? No idea. Anyway, sections of the week don’t change. First section: you’re alert, you believe all sorts of stuff, you get things done. It’s a miracle of human activity. Second section: you don’t find anything you’re looking for, you learn nothing new, it’s pretty much a waste of time. In the second section there’s a lot of this and that, and you drink quite a bit, whereas the first section is more important, obviously. In practice, a section number two can’t go far wrong, because it doesn’t really matter, so to speak. But when a section number one goes haywire, like this week, it’s really horrible. And another thing: the special today in the café was beef and lentils. Beef and lentils is a dish that really depresses me to the point of despair. Right at the end of a section one. Just no luck at all, a wretched plate of lentils.’
‘What about Sundays?’
‘Oh, Sundays, that’s section three. Just that one day takes up a whole section – see how important that is? And section three is the pits. If you get beef and lentils combined with a section three, you might as well go hang yourself.’
‘Where were we?’ asked Adamsberg, having the sudden, not unpleasant impression that his thoughts could wander even further talking to this woman than when talking to himself.
‘We hadn’t got anywhere.’
‘Right, OK, we’ve got nowhere.’
‘It’s coming back to me,’ said Mathilde. ‘Since my section one was practically a write-off, as I was passing your police station I thought I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, so I’d give it a go. But you see, it doesn’t work – trying to rescue a section one might be tempting, but it gets you nowhere. What about you, anyway?’
‘Oh, it’s not been a bad week so far,’ Adamsberg admitted.
‘Now if you’d seen my section one last week, that was terrific.’
‘What happened?’
‘I can’t just tell you like that, I’d have to look it up in my notebook. Still, tomorrow we start a section two, so we can relax a bit.’
‘Tomorrow I’m going to see a psychiatrist. Is that a good start for a section two?’
‘Good Lord! On your own account?’ asked Mathilde in surprise. ‘No, of course not, stupid of me. I get the feeling that even if the spirit moved you to piss against all the lamp-posts down one side of the road, you’d say to yourself, “That’s the way it is, and God help the lamp-posts,” but you wouldn’t go and consult a psychiatrist. Sorry, I know I’m talking too much, I’m fed up. I’m getting on my own nerves.’
Mathilde took a cigarette from Adamsberg, saying ‘May I?’ and pulled off the filter.
‘Perhaps you’re going to see the psychiatrist about the chalk circle man,’ she went on. ‘Don’t look at me like that – I haven’t been snooping. It’s just that you’ve got those newspaper cuttings about him tucked under the base of your lamp, so naturally I wondered.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Adamsberg admitted, ‘it is about him. Why did you come into the station?’
‘I’m looking for this man I don’t know.’
‘Why are you looking for him, then?’
‘Because I don’t know him! What a question!’
‘Touché,’ said Adamsberg.
‘I was following this woman in the street, and I lost her. So I ended up in a café, and that’s how I met my beautiful blind man. There are an amazing number of people walking round on the pavements. You just can’t imagine it, you would have to follow everyone to do any good. So we chatted for a few minutes, the blind man and I, about something or other which I’ve now forgotten – I’d have to check in my notebook – but I liked him. Generally, if I like someone, I don’t worry, I’m sure to bump into them again. But in this case, no, nothing. Last month, I followed twenty-eight people and got close to nine of them. I filled two and a half notebooks. So I’ve covered a lot of ground, OK? But not a whisker of my beautiful blind man. That was disappointing. He’s called Charles Reyer, and that’s all I know about him. Tell me something: do you keep doodling all the time like that?’
‘Yes, all the time.’
‘I suppose you won’t let me see.’
‘No, that’s right. You don’t get to see.’
‘It’s funny when you turn round on your chair. Your left profile is tough and your right profile is tender. So if you want to intimidate a suspect, you turn one way, and when you want to soften him up, you turn the other way.’
Adamsberg smiled.
‘What if I keep turning from side to side?’
‘Then they won’t know where they are. Heaven and hell.’
Mathilde burst out laughing. Then she controlled herself.
‘No, stop,’ she said again. ‘I’m talking too much. I’m ashamed of myself. I’ve got a friend who’s a philosopher, who says to me, “Mathilde, you play fast and loose with language.” I said, well, in that case, tell me how to play slow and tight.’
‘Look, let’s see what we can do,’ said Adamsberg. ‘Do you have a work address?’
‘You’re not going to believe me. My name is Mathilde Forestier.’
Adamsberg put his pencil back in his pocket.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mathilde Forestier. Famous oceanographer. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but don’t let that stop you doing your doodling. I know who you are too, your name’s on the door, and everyone’s heard of you. But it doesn’t stop me rabbiting on about one thing and another, at the end of a section one, what’s more.’
‘If I find your beautiful blind man, I’ll tell you.’
‘Why? Who would you be doing the favour for?’ asked Mathilde, suspiciously. ‘For me, or for the famous underwater specialist whose name is in the papers?’
‘Neither one nor the other. I’m doing a favour for a woman I asked into my office.’
‘OK, that suits me,’ said Mathilde. She remained for a moment without speaking, as if hesitating to take a decision. Adamsberg had brought out his cigarettes and a piece of paper. No, he wouldn’t forget this woman, a fragment of the earth’s beauty on the point of fading. And he was unable to guess in advance what she was going to say.
‘Know something?’ Mathilde asked suddenly. ‘It’s at nightfall that things start happening, under the ocean the same as in the city. They all start stirring, the creatures who are hungry or in pain. And the searchers, like you, Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg, they start stirring then too.’
‘You think I’m searching for something?’
‘Absolutely, and quite a lot of things at the same time. So, anyway, the chalk circle man comes out when he’s hungry. He prowls, he watches, and suddenly he draws his circle. But I know him, I started looking for him right at the beginning, and I found him, the night there was a cigarette lighter in the circle, and the night of the doll’s head. And then again, last night, in the rue Caulaincourt.’