7

Resurrection

Jason

Most experts advise the jet-lagged traveler to stay up until bedtime in the country of destination for a faster adjustment to the new time zone, but my wife prefers to fall directly into bed, sleep until dinnertime, eat, and get a full night’s sleep. I’m always amazed that it works for her, but she is a very grumpy companion if forced to stay up until bedtime on the first day in Europe. We’ve tried that.

So I expected her to be rested when I called about the welcome dinner planned by the chairman. I’d have returned to get her, but I’d stayed too long talking science with new colleagues since the man I had specifically gone to see, in the unexpected absence of Adrien Guillot, hadn’t been there. “It’s Jason,” I said into the chairman’s telephone. “We’re invited to dinner at a restaurant highly recommended for its local dishes. I knew you wouldn’t want to miss that, sweetheart. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Don’t ask,” she muttered.

So I didn’t. “Look, could you get dressed and meet us over here? It’s an easy trip from the Perrache Station. I’ll give you—”

“You want me to go by myself? On the train? During rush hour? I’ll get lost and end up in Toulouse, maybe even Spain.”

I laughed at the idea that Carolyn would end up in Toulouse, which is quite some distance from Lyon.

“It’s not funny, Jason. I’m tired and upset and—well, maybe I should just stay here.”

“Sweetheart, we’re the guests of honor. If you’re worried about getting lost, you’d better take a cab.” God knows what that will cost, I thought. “You’ll need to change dollars for francs at the hotel. And you might as well go straight to the restaurant. Say at seven-thirty.” While Carolyn looked for pen and paper, I consulted the chairman, who estimated the length of the cab ride and suggested that she meet us at eight instead of seven-thirty.

“Your wife will wish enough time for all the necessary feminine preparations before a night out in Lyon,” he said rather pompously.

“Dress up,” I advised when she got back on the line. Then I told her the name of the restaurant, and she wanted me to spell it. French spelling is not my forte, but I made a stab at it and was quickly relieved of the telephone by the chair, Professor Laurent, who introduced himself to “dear Madam Blue,” and proceeded to dictate the name and address, a lengthy process because the French pronounce the letters differently, and many letters required whole conversations to convey.

The chairman seemed irritated by the end of the process, so I could imagine how Carolyn was feeling. Not the best beginning for the evening, I thought with misgivings as I took the phone back to say good-bye.

“Who in the world was that?” she asked. “He’s almost as bad as the woman down at the reception desk. And, Jason, I have the most amazing story to tell you. When I got here—”

“Carolyn, it will have to wait until later. If you’re to make it to the restaurant by eight—”

“Oh, all right, Jason. I’ll start getting ready. Did you mean formal, as in long dress and—”

“No, no. But the men will be wearing suits. See you at eight, love. I’ll let you go now.” I hung up before she could tell me that she didn’t like the hotel. She’d had her doubts when I made the reservation, so I assumed her story was about the Charlemagne’s deficiencies. At least I could count on her enjoying the dinner. Carolyn always responds happily to new culinary experiences.

I’d had my doubts when she became a food writer, mainly because she grew more interested in eating out than in cooking at home, but her new occupation did avert the onset of empty-nest syndrome when our youngest left for college. Carolyn even makes some money with her writing hobby, not to mention the tax advantages. What man could object when his wife was able to deduct all her travel expenses? We ate in restaurants we could never have afforded before.

Carolyn

Our replacement room was much like the first, same décor, same leafy trees outside, and the bed was luxuriously comfortable. I’d slept soundly until Jason called. I hadn’t even showered or unpacked before falling into bed. Consequently, I didn’t discover the drawbacks of the bathroom facilities until I began to prepare for dinner. On one side of the hall off the bedroom were a small closet and a room holding a toilet, bidet, and sink. On the other side were another closet and another room with a skimpy, curtained shower and another sink. It had looked fine on my brief visit before going to bed.

When I actually used the shower, I discovered the problems. While turned on, it sprayed everything in the room—the sink, the shelf for cosmetics above the sink, the towels, the bath mat, the wastebasket under the sink, even the wall socket into which one could plug a razor if one had a razor that worked on French current and was unconcerned with the danger of being electrocuted.

Imagine stepping from the shower onto a wet tile floor and soggy bath mat, then trying to dry off with a damp towel. I left footprints across to the other half of the bath, and then down the hall into the bedroom, where the telephone began to ring while I was donning my robe. If Jason was calling to hurry me up, I had a thing or two to tell him that couldn’t be said at the dinner table.

“Madam Blue,” said a French-accented voice. “This is Inspector Theodore Roux. I have very strange news for you.”

What now? I wondered, sitting down in the orange chair.

“The man you found in your room. It seems that he is not deceased, as we thought.”

“But Doctor Petit declared him dead! They carried him out in a body bag.”

“That is true, madam, but our good doctor was so curious about the case that he scheduled Monsieur Levasseur for immediate autopsy.”

I shuddered, loath to hear what came next. Something ghoulish seemed likely.

“Most embarrassing. After all, the gentleman had no signs of life until Doctor Petit made the first cut. You may not be familiar with the practices of autopsy—”

“Nor is it something I really want described to me.”

“And I do not wish to upset you, madam. To make short my story, Monsieur Levasseur, upon being cut with the dissecting knife, bled. The dead man does not bleed. Certainly not several hours after being declared dead. Doctor Petit and his assistant were horrified.”

“I should think,” I replied weakly, wondering how many more bizarre happenings I was to encounter on my first day in Lyon. “What did they do?”

“They cancelled the autopsy and checked again for signs of life. There were none. Then they bandaged the cut and sent Monsieur Levasseur to the hospital, where he is being examined. We will hear when anything is determined.”

“Well,” I said in a shaky voice, “let us hope he recovers from—whatever it is that makes him seem to be dead. Have you ever heard of such a thing, Inspector?”

“Only when the wrong person was sent to autopsy, but that mistake was discovered before the procedure began. However, Doctor Petit is much intrigued. He has turned his duties over to others and gone into a medical library to search out similar cases.”

“Romeo and Juliet come to mind, although I’ve never heard exactly what potion it was the priest gave Juliet.”

“That is fiction, madam,” said the inspector sternly. “This is reality. We must now determine why Monsieur Levasseur appeared to be dead and how this deception was caused.”

“You think he was playing a trick?” I asked.

“Or perhaps he attempted suicide. But never have I heard of pâté sending a man into a coma so deep that he appeared to be dead. I think you can assume that no attempt was being made on you or your husband, madam. So I wish you happy dining.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “And you will let me know how this strange affair turns out?”

“But of course.”

“And you should have the pâté tested. Just in case.”

“Certainly, madam. The pâté is safe in our laboratories, ready to yield up its secrets, if any.”