Raymond set off in the direction of Le Convivial. His walk quickly turned into a run. He felt unsteady on his feet, as if he had been drinking. His head hurt. It was getting dark and he had to shield his eyes from the headlights of passing cars. He had no idea what he was going to do. He felt murderous. They had conspired against him, the lot of them: his father, Irene, Gorski, Yvette, Delph. Delph most of all. He felt a sudden fury towards her. How could she not have known? What an idiot he had been to allow himself to be drawn in!
He reached the junction where Delph had ambled so nonchalantly across the road. It was busy with late afternoon traffic. He recalled the grubby scene in the backroom of Johnny’s, his risible attempts to thrust his limp penis between his sister’s legs. He rested his hand against a lamp post and doubled over. His stomach convulsed, but nothing came up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It would be a simple matter to step off the kerb in front of a passing truck. Raymond imagined the sound of brakes, the impact of the cab on his ribcage, his skull cracking against the radiator. Then an easeful slump to the ground. The texture of tarmac on his cheek, a pool of dark blood forming around his head. Voices in a gathering crowd shouting for an ambulance to be called. The driver protesting that there was nothing he could do: the kid had just stepped out in front of him.
The motion of the passing vehicles made him dizzy. He turned away from the road. The young man who had followed him onto the train was twenty metres or so behind, lingering outside a shop on the corner of Rue de Manège. As soon as Raymond had seen him making an inept attempt to conceal himself on the platform at Saint-Louis, he recalled Gorski’s promise to keep an eye on him. Then he remembered the young cop who had driven his mother and him to the mortuary. He looked quite different in his civilian clothes, but Raymond was sure it was him. Raymond had waited until the very last moment to board the train. The young cop had followed suit, abandoning all pretence that he was not trailing him. Once in Mulhouse, Raymond had not looked over his shoulder again. So what if he was followed? If anything, it only heightened his sense that things were coming to a head.
He stepped off the kerb. A car braked sharply. The driver mouthed an expletive through the windscreen. Raymond gazed blankly at him and continued across the carriageway. He looked back across the road. The young cop was nowhere to be seen. Raymond paused on the opposite kerb, then spotted him tentatively picking his way through the cars. When he was sure that he had seen him, Raymond turned and ran along Rue de la Sinne until he came to a halt on the opposite side of the street to Le Convivial. He paced the pavement. What exactly did he intend to do? He wished he had never found the scrap of paper in his father’s desk, never come to Mulhouse, never set eyes on Delph. He realised that he could—if he chose—continue along Rue de la Sinne, get on a train to Saint-Louis and return to the house on Rue des Bois as if nothing had happened. But that was out of the question. Something had happened. And it had happened without any exertion of will on his part. One thing had simply followed from another. And now here he was, pacing the pavement outside a bar that, until a few days ago, he would never have had the nerve to enter.
It was impossible to see beyond the reflections on the plate-glass windows of the bar. Raymond patted the pockets of his jacket and realised he had left his cigarettes on Irene’s kitchen table. He checked his satchel. It contained only his book and the knife. The young cop was only a short distance behind.
Raymond crossed the street and pushed open the glass door of the bar. The regulars were congregated around the tables by the door, just as they had been on his previous visit. Delph was nowhere to be seen. Raymond approached the counter. Dédé welcomed him with the curt upward nod of his head with which he greeted all his customers.
Raymond asked for a packet of Gitanes.
Dédé fetched the cigarettes and placed the box on the counter. He eyed Raymond impassively. ‘Been in the wars?’ he said.
Raymond looked blankly at him. Dédé gestured towards the graze on his forehead. Raymond instinctively raised his fingers to his brow.
‘I fell down some stairs,’ he said.
‘That’s what they all say,’ said Dédé drily.
Raymond climbed onto a stool with some difficulty. He was swaying slightly. He could not just pay for the cigarettes and leave. He asked for a beer. Dédé weighed up whether to serve him. Then he shrugged to himself—what did he care if the kid was drunk?—and poured the drink. Raymond attempted to remove the cellophane from the packet of cigarettes, but his hands were shaking too violently to complete the task. When Dédé placed his beer on the counter, he took the packet and wordlessly unwrapped it. Raymond thanked him. He took one out and managed to light it. He swivelled on his stool and looked outside. The young cop was standing on the pavement. It pleased Raymond that whatever was going to happen would be witnessed; that there would be an official record which he was sure would absolve him of all responsibility.
He made a mental effort to properly take in his surroundings: the torn corners of the playbills plastered to the two pillars that informally divided the room; the singes on the floorboards by the bar where customers had ground out decades of cigarettes; Dédé’s habit of stroking his little beard between his thumb and forefinger; the slow movement of the clock on the wall. The old man with the wattle entered the bar and shuffled to the counter. His slippers made a sound on the floor like wood being sanded. Raymond could hear the wheeze of his shallow breathing. Dédé placed a glass of rum on the bar. The old coot stared at it for some moments, both hands gripping the brass railing of the bar as if summoning a reserve of strength, then knocked it back. He delved in his trouser pocket for a coin and slapped it noisily down on the counter. He turned to Raymond and looked him up and down with a disdainful expression, then left without a word. Raymond’s gaze followed him out of the bar. The regulars resembled an audience awaiting the curtain of a play. The pockmarked man who had given Raymond directions was among them. He nodded a greeting. Only the two chess players, intent on their game, seemed oblivious to Raymond’s presence. The clock ticked towards the hour.
Delph emerged from the door marked WC Femmes.
‘Hello, Raymond,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’ She did not seem disconcerted to see him.
Despite everything, Raymond felt a pang of desire in his groin. ‘I need to talk to you,’ he said.
She glanced at the beer on the counter.
‘So you’ve recovered from the tomates?’ she said. ‘You were very drunk.’ She tutted slowly, shaking her head in mock disapproval.
Raymond stared at her uncomprehendingly. How could she behave as if nothing untoward had occurred? But there it was: she was the consummate actress. Perhaps the whole thing was an elaborate charade. Her address had been planted in his father’s desk for Raymond to find. Delph—perfectly cast—had been cued to exit the apartment building at exactly the right moment. And the knife: of course the knife had been set out where he would see it. The philatelist’s shop was likely no more than a set. Raymond half expected his father to emerge from behind the bar, still in the make-up he had been wearing on the slab in the mortuary, and the participants would laughingly take their curtain call. What a lark it had all been! But, of course, that was nonsense. Everything that had occurred was all too real. Raymond became more and more agitated.
Delph was looking at him with a perplexed expression. ‘What have you done to your head?’ she asked.
‘I fell down the stairs outside your apartment,’ said Raymond. There did not seem any point in hiding the truth. ‘I paid a visit to your mother.’
Delph widened her eyes, making her squint more pronounced than ever. ‘You did what?’ she said.
‘I wanted to see you, so I went to your apartment,’ he said.
At this point, Dédé gave a theatrical cough. ‘Much as I hate to interrupt the course of true love,’ he said, ‘but our patients require their prescriptions.’ He gestured towards the customers by the door.
Delph seemed relieved by the distraction. She took up her tray and began to clear the tables. Raymond turned back to the counter. He observed Delph in the mirror behind the bar as she exchanged her usual greetings with the regulars. He drank his beer. Delph returned and recited the orders to Dédé as she unloaded the empties onto the counter. He, in turn, removed the glasses and cups to the sink and started setting out the drinks. Delph placed these on her tray. This was their little routine. Delph was close enough for Raymond to smell the peppery aroma of her sweat. He felt a sudden desire to kneel in front of her and bury his face in her sex. He leaned back on his stool, inhaling deeply. Delph moved off with her tray of drinks, pointedly ignoring him.
Raymond asked for another beer.
Dédé looked at him impassively. ‘I think you’ve had enough already. Time to clear off.’
Raymond stared at him defiantly, but he simply returned to his chores. When Delph returned to the counter, Raymond reiterated his desire to speak to her.
‘If you’re so desperate to talk to me, come back at ten,’ she said.
‘I need to talk to you now,’ he said with greater urgency.
Dédé looked up from the drink he was preparing. ‘Did you not hear what I said, kid? Time to pay up and shove off.’
Raymond slid off the stool and took a step towards Delph. A look of what might have been fear passed across her eyes, but she stood her ground, her right hand resting on the counter. In his peripheral vision, Raymond was aware of the regulars by the door shifting in their seats to get a proper view of what was going on. Even the chess players looked up from their game. Raymond glanced at the clock on the wall. Barely ten minutes had passed since Delph’s appearance.
‘Do you not know who I am?’ said Raymond.
‘Of course, I do,’ she said, glancing towards Dédé. ‘You’re a dumb kid from Saint-Louis who can’t get it up.’
Raymond rummaged in his satchel and brought out his knife. He pulled off the leather sheath and held the blade out in front of him. Dédé breathed a weary sigh. He had witnessed many such incidents. He stepped through the hatch and placed himself between the two protagonists.
‘Now, what are you planning to do with that?’ he said.
He took a step towards Raymond. Raymond took a step back, knocking over the stool he had been sitting on.
‘I need to speak to Delph,’ he said. He pronounced each word as if it was a complete sentence. His eyes were smarting.
Someone shouted: ‘Give him a smack, Dédé.’
To general laughter, a second voice yelled: ‘Go for him, kid!’
Raymond glanced at the faces around the room, eager for a bit of action. The young cop was peering through the door. If they wanted a performance, they were going to get it.
Dédé approached Raymond with an outstretched arm, ready to shepherd him to the door. But the bartender did not appear unduly troubled by what was happening.
Raymond was unable to retreat any further. He took a step forward and flapped the knife unconvincingly in front of him. Quite by chance he caught the bartender’s hand at the root of his thumb. Dédé recoiled. He examined the wound on his hand. There were half-hearted cheers from the onlookers. Raymond was horrified by what he’d done. Delph placed her hand on her forehead. Her tray of drinks fell to the floor. Dédé grabbed a cloth from the counter and wrapped it round his wounded hand. It was quickly soaked with blood.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Raymond, but he continued to hold out the knife.
Dédé threatened to break his arm.
There was a lull, of no more than a few seconds, while those involved assessed their positions. Raymond, for his part, would happily have dropped the knife and walked out of the bar. Had it not been for the expectant crowd, and for the fact that he had not yet paid for his beer and cigarettes, he might have done so. He imagined their jeers as he left. Dédé would no doubt shout some abusive remarks at his back. Perhaps he would even pursue him to the door and give him a good beating. But, as it was, events had already escalated beyond his control.
Delph stepped past Dédé. ‘You need to get out of here,’ she said. Then it struck Raymond. Her nose, jutting sharply outwards at the bridge then continuing down at an angle, was his father’s nose. The high cheekbones were his father’s cheekbones. Even her sardonic manner was a mirror of his father’s. It was astonishing that he had not seen it before.
Raymond recalled her opening her shirt—his own father’s shirt—to display her chest in the backroom of Johnny’s. He now felt intoxicated by her scent. He raised his knife hand at a right angle to his body, his arm fully extended. Then, with a firm jerk of his elbow, he thrust it into the side of his neck. He felt the blade penetrate his skin, make some progress through the muscle, before his hand instinctively loosened its grip. The knife lodged there for a few seconds—no more than that—before dropping to the floor. Raymond was pleased the effect of his action. Delph stifled a scream. There were gasps from the onlookers. Chairs were scraped back as people rose to get a better view. Even Dédé appeared taken aback. Raymond imagined a great arc of blood spraying across the floor, but in reality only a small glug emerged from the wound. He grinned stupidly at Delph. Then his legs gave way beneath him. He fell face first to the floor, his arms hanging limply at his sides. After a moment, he was aware of the rough texture of the floorboards against his cheek. He suddenly felt tremendously foolish. What an idiotic thing to do! He wondered whether these were to be his final moments of consciousness. And if his final thought was to be that, he was an idiot. But it was not. He became aware of an assortment of footwear around where he lay on the floor. He recognised the black slip-ons of the pockmarked man. The toe of another man’s shoe was splayed open, and Raymond could see a patch of dried glue where he had attempted to repair it. He looked for Delph’s boots but they were not to be seen. He was hauled to his feet and deposited on a stool. Someone suggested calling an ambulance, but it was decided there was no need. Various derogatory words circulated. Someone asserted, with a hint of admiration, that he could have properly hurt himself. At a certain point, the young cop entered. He declared that he was a policeman, but in such an unauthoritative voice that no one paid him any heed.
Once it was decided that Raymond was not seriously hurt, the regulars drifted back to their tables. The chess players reset their clock and resumed their game. The young cop enquired if there was a telephone on the premises and was directed to the kiosk in the street outside.
Dédé pulled a stool up in front of Raymond and instructed him to tilt his head to the side. He deftly cleaned the wound on Raymond’s neck. Delph appeared from behind the counter and silently handed him a roll of gauze and some sticking plaster. She did not look at or speak to Raymond. Dédé applied a dressing with some dexterity and stuck it down. Then he got up and brought Raymond a shot of brandy and indicated that he should drink it.
Raymond thanked him and apologised for the trouble he had caused. Dédé shrugged. ‘No harm done,’ he said. He made Raymond empty his pockets and took what money he had to cover the cigarettes and the beer he had drunk.
Raymond felt weary. He was ready for home. He drank the brandy he had been given. It was as if nothing had happened. Someone must have picked up his knife and Raymond did not ask for it back. The blood that had been spilled on the floor had been mopped up. At the table adjacent to the door, a pack of cards had been produced. A fat man in braces slowly dealt out the hands. The chess players finished their game and packed up the pieces in their usual fashion. The pockmarked man finished up his drink and left, bidding good evening to Dédé. Delph reappeared from somewhere behind the counter and collected a few glasses. No one made any comment about what had occurred. She did not look at Raymond. He had no desire to speak to her. Perhaps none of it even mattered. He looked up at the clock on the wall. Barely half an hour had passed since he entered the bar.
Outside, he stopped and looked at his reflection in the darkened window of a butcher’s shop. He put his fingers to the dressing of his wound. A little blood oozed through the gauze. He pushed his hair back behind his ears. He now had a bluish lump on his forehead from where his head had struck the floor. This to add to the graze and torn trousers from falling down the stairs. Behind him, the young cop followed on the opposite side of the street. Raymond walked to the station. A train arrived as soon as he reached the platform. He boarded without buying a ticket. What was the worst that could happen? If a conductor came along, he would only put him off at Bartenheim.