The barman was beginning to look at him anxiously. Well, you can go fuck yourself, buddy, I’m heading for sweet oblivion. Vivaldi would understand. Oh yeah.
Prudently, Adamsberg had already laid out enough dollars on the counter, in case he fell off his stool. The cognac seemed to put an interesting final touch to his radical loss of bearings, vague feelings of aggression mingled with bursts of laughter, and a sense of immense strength. Come on, I’ll fight anyone, a bear, a chum, a dead man, or a fish, anything you like. ‘Any nearer and I’ll spear ye,’ his grandmother had said, brandishing a garden fork against a German soldier, who was advancing on her with rape in mind. That was a laugh, it rhymed. It still made him laugh, that. Good ol’ grand’mère! From very far away, he heard the barman saying something.
‘Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you’d better call it quits for tonight, and go take the air. You’re not making sense.’
‘I’m talking to you about my grandma.’
‘Grandma, whatever, I don’t care, all I know is you’ve had way too much, and you’re gonna fall flat on your face.’
‘I’m not goin’ anywhere, I’m sitting at this nice bar, on this nice stool.’
‘Listen to you, Frenchie. You can’t even see straight, you’re so smashed. Did your girl let you down, or what? No reason to fall on your ass. C’mon, out with you, I’m not serving you any more.’
‘Yes, you are,’ said Adamsberg, holding out his glass.
‘Shut up, Frenchie. Get out or I’m calling the pigs.’
Adamsberg spluttered. The pigs, eh? What a laugh.
‘Any nearer an’ I’ll spear ye! An’ that goes for the pigs as well.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ said the barman, furiously, ‘don’t you try any funny business with me, you’re really pissing me off. I told you, eff off out of it!’
The man was built like a lumberjack from a story book, and when he came round the bar, he lifted Adamsberg up under the armpits, carried him to the door and dumped him upright on the sidewalk.
‘And don’t try driving,’ he said, handing him his jacket.
The barman was even kind enough to wedge his cap firmly on his head.
‘Gonna be cold tonight, 12 below they say,’ he explained.
‘What time is it? Can’t see my watches.’
‘Quarter after ten, way past your bedtime. Just walk home. No cars. And don’t worry, man, plenty more girls out there.’
The door of the bar slammed shut in Adamsberg’s face, and he had difficulty picking up his jacket which had fallen on the ground, and then putting it on the right way round. More girls. No thanks, just what he didn’t want.
‘Got one girl too many!’ he shouted out in the deserted street for the barman’s benefit.
His uncertain steps took him automatically towards the portage trail. He had the vague feeling Noëlla might be there waiting for him, in the shadows like a wolf. He found his flashlight and switched it on, sweeping it vaguely in front of him.
‘Don’t want any more, got enough!’ he shouted.
Guy who can beat up a bear, or the cops, he can handle one girl, can’t he?
Adamsberg embarked determinedly along the trail. Despite his staggering progress, the memory of the path was implanted in his feet, which carried him along valiantly, even if from time to time he bumped into a tree trunk. He was about half-way home already, he reckoned. You can handle it, my boy, you’ve sure got what it takes.
Not enough of it, however, to miss a low branch he should have avoided. It hit him full in the forehead, and he felt himself drop to the ground, knees first, then face, without his hands being able to break his fall.
XXVII
WHEN ADAMSBERG REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS, IT WAS WITH A WAVE OF nausea. His forehead was throbbing so much that he could hardly open his eyes. When he did manage to focus, he could see nothing. The world had gone black.
The black was the night sky, he eventually realised, his teeth chattering. He was no longer on the trail, but on a metalled road, and the air was freezing cold. He raised himself on to one arm, propping up his head. Then he stayed sitting for a while, unable to move further, since the ground seemed to be swaying all over the place. What in heaven’s name had he been doing? He recognised the sound of the Ottawa River, not far away. That at least helped him to get his bearings. He was at the edge of the trail, only about fifty metres from the residence block. He must have passed out after hitting his head on the branch, then tottered along for a while, and fallen over again, on reaching the road. Putting his hands on the ground, he pushed himself up, holding on to a tree trunk to counter the dizziness. Just another fifty metres, that was all, and he would be in his room. He moved forward clumsily through the biting cold air, stopping every few steps to regain his balance, then setting off once more. The muscles in his legs seemed to have turned to jelly.
The sight of the well-lit entrance guided him the last few steps. He pushed, and shook the glass door. The key, oh God, where was the damn key? Leaning his elbow on a door-panel, sweat freezing on his face, he managed to locate it in a pocket and pushed it into the lock under the eyes of the night janitor who was looking at him in consternation.
‘Jeez, what’s happened to you, commissaire?’
‘I’m not too good,’ Adamsberg managed to say.
‘Need any help?’
Adamsberg shook his head, accentuating the pain under his skull. He had only one desire, to lie down and not to have to talk.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said feebly. ‘Just a bust-up. A gang.’
‘Goddamn hoodlums. Going round in gangs looking for trouble. Ought to be locked up.’
Adamsberg nodded agreement and called the lift. Once in his room, he rushed into the bathroom, and expelled a great deal of alcohol. Good grief, what vile concoctions had they served him?
His legs trembling, his arms shaking, he flung himself on the bed, keeping his eyes open, to stop the room from spinning round.
When he woke up, his head felt almost as heavy as before, but he had a sense that the worst was over. He got up and took a few steps. His legs felt a little more solid, but were still inclined to give way under him. He fell back on the bed, then gave a start, when he caught sight of his hands, which were caked with dried blood, even under the nails. He hauled himself to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Not a pretty sight. The blow on the forehead had made a gash and a large purple bruise. It must have bled a lot, then he must have rubbed his face and got it on his hands. Great, he thought, as he started to sponge his face carefully, a brilliant Sunday night out. Then he froze, and turned off the tap. It was Monday morning. At nine o’clock, he was due at the RCMP building.
His alarm clock was showing a quarter to eleven. Oh Lord, he must have slept more than twelve hours. He took the precaution of sitting down before he called Laliberté.
‘What kind of a joke is this?’ said the superintendent with a smile in his voice. ‘Clock stopped?’
‘Forgive me, Aurèle, but I’m not in good shape.’
‘What is it?’ said Laliberté with concern, his voice changing register. ‘You sound terrible.’
‘Yeah, I feel terrible. I knocked myself out and took a fall on the trail last night. Blood everywhere, I was sick as a dog and this morning my legs feel weak.’
‘Wait a minute, man, you fell over, or you had a skinful? Sounds like those things don’t fit together.’
‘Both, Aurèle.’
‘OK, tell me about it from the beginning. You’d had too much to drink, right?’