8

Anne Freux, Schrader’s wife, shook her head when Terrier handed her the fruit bowl. She got up from the table and dropped into an armchair in a corner of the room, where she inhaled her Kent and stared into space. Terrier picked up an orange and set about peeling it fastidiously with a knife and fork. Félix Schrader watched him with a fascinated and amused look.

“What have you been doing, exactly?”

“Employee relations,” said Terrier. “A big firm.”

“You’ve seen something of the world.”

Terrier raised his gaze from the orange for a moment and caught Félix’s look of amusement.

“A little.”

Félix got up, went through the open glass double door, and foraged in the shadows of the adjoining study. Bound volumes covered the walls. He worked a drawer and returned to the well-lighted dining room with a shoe box. Anne jerked her head; her lips tightened a little. Félix opened the box and turned it over on the tablecloth. Some twelve or fifteen postcards poured out. They had been mailed from a great variety of places: Nairobi, Geneva, Los Angeles, Colombo, Kyoto, Berlin, Tripoli, Manaus, and other spots. There was no text, only the name of Mademoiselle Anne Freux and her old address.

“You’re the one who sent all these?” asked Félix.

“Uh, well,” said Terrier. “Uh, well, yes.”

“I thought you’d thrown them out,” Anne said, without looking at Félix.

Her husband smiled at her. She lighted a new cigarette from the butt of the preceding one. She got up, opened a small glass sideboard, and poured herself a good twenty centiliters of Martell in a snifter.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink today?” asked Félix.

“Shit.”

Anne sat violently back down. She was a rather tall, well-proportioned young woman with plump breasts, a generous mouth, very light green eyes, pale complexion, and blond hair. Her eyes seemed to express not the slightest thought. Fine lines were apparent at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She took a healthy swig of her cognac.

“I’ve come to take Anne away,” Terrier said suddenly, putting his napkin down.

Standing with his spread fingers pressed against the table, Félix half smiled in a reflective way.

“You shouldn’t be speaking to me. Speak to the lady.”

Terrier got up. He stumbled imperceptibly.

“Anne,” he said.

Anne stood up and drained her cognac.

“I’m sleepy. I’m going up.” She slurred her words a little.

“Anne,” repeated Terrier. “Anne, for God’s sake!”

The young woman left the room without looking at anyone. Terrier moved to catch up with her. Félix took a half step to the side. Terrier almost bumped into him.

“Shall I make us coffee?” suggested Félix. “I have an Italian machine that makes fantastic coffee. Do you know how to play Mastermind?”

“What?” Terrier looked at him as if he were crazy.

“Coffee?” Félix repeated affably. He had black eyes and black hair and a Latin face with a dull complexion, slightly protruding cheekbones, and a long, slightly hooked nose; he was smaller in size and stature than Terrier and seemed three or four years younger; he wore gray corduroy pants, a sport shirt, and a woolen smoking jacket. “So you don’t want any of my coffee?” he said, putting on an expression of comical disappointment.

“Shit, no, you can’t be for real!” exclaimed Terrier. Terrier raised his forearms, then brought his fists down to his thighs, sighed, moved back a step, shook his head, and seemed to calm down.

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” asked Félix. “Do you want my advice? Do you need my advice? Is that it? Is that it? I don’t give a damn! I don’t give a damn!” he shouted. Then he added calmly: “If there’s anything wrong, it’s your head!”

Terrier advanced blindly and with his outstretched right arm tried to push Félix out of the way. Félix retreated.

“I want to talk to Anne,” said Terrier.

“She’s drunk. She’s sleeping. She’s snoring.” He snickered.

Terrier slapped Félix’s mouth full force with the back of his hand. Félix backed away again.

“Come spend the weekend,” he said. He touched a finger to his lip and then examined the end of his finger. “Do you remember the cabin? We often spend the weekend there. We’re going this weekend. Come up Saturday, okay?”

Terrier stared at him.

“Hey!” laughed Félix. “You want to knock me off or what?”

“Excuse me,” whispered Terrier.

“You’re excused.” Félix gave Terrier’s arm a pat. “It’s an embarrassing situation for you. Well, actually, no. Anyway, screw it!” He turned his back to Terrier. “So you don’t want my coffee? Would you care for a liqueur? You don’t want to play Mastermind with me? Maybe Saturday?”

“Maybe,” murmured Terrier.

He turned around and quickly reached the door, grabbing his leather coat on his way down the hall. He got in the DS, drove off rapidly, and returned to his hotel. It was midnight.

“Someone brought a package for you,” said the clerk in the burgundy jacket as he handed Terrier his key.

“Give it to me.”

“The chambermaid took it up.”

“Well, fine,” said Terrier.

“It was awfully heavy,” the clerk ventured as Terrier was getting into the narrow elevator.

After unlocking the door to his room, Terrier slowly opened it with his foot, turned on the lights, and suspiciously examined the room and the enormous package tied up with ribbons. After a moment, he went inside and locked the door. He glanced inside the armoire and the bathroom. Then he circled the package and scrutinized it from all sides. He dug in his suitcase and pulled out an Opinel knife. Squatting before the package, he made little pokes with the blade into the wrapping paper and bumped something hard everywhere. He cut the ribbons and then, still using the blade of the Opinel knife, slit the paper and began to tear pieces off. Metal and plastic corners appeared along with transparent glass surfaces, behind which indistinct forms could be made out. Terrier finished tearing off the paper.

Inside the package was a sealed aquarium, full of water. In the aquarium floated the tomcat Sudan, gutted, his eyes ripped out and his intestines undulating slowly in water dark with blood.