I put a makeshift bandage on Léonard and we set off for the hospital. In a situation like that, any other kid would have shown some emotion, not him. Apart from his reluctance to have me touch him, he hadn’t displayed either anger or fear since the incident. He’d gotten into the car when I’d asked him, and that was all. He sat up straight in his seat and looked out at the road, his face still expressionless.
“What did you tell the boy who hit you?”
“The truth. That’s what I always do.”
“What exactly did you say?”
“That he should have done a backspin.”
“Why?
“Statistics. Out of every fifteen head-to-heads with the goalkeeper, seven turn into goals. Out of seven goals, I counted only one dribble, two feints, and four backspins. So you have to do a backspin. That’s what I explained to him. It was to help him.”
“That’s what you told him?”
“Yes.”
“To help him?”
“Yes.”
“And you got those statistics from watching those matches last night?”
“Yes. I started putting the moves into categories. The head-to-heads, the crosses, the corner kicks, the one-twos. But I didn’t finish.”
“And for all these moves you established statistics of success?”
“Obviously.”
“Is that the method you use when you play chess?”
“Of course. But it’s much more difficult with chess. In chess, I know one thousand and forty-three variations. And I’m not a very good player. In soccer, for the moment, I’ve only counted about fifty.”
“But you didn’t view all the recordings. And I don’t have all the possible moves on those DVDs.”
“That’s true. But I’m sure there are a lot less than in chess.”
Ahead of me a van was moving at a snail’s pace. The driver must have been trying to find his way, or else looking for somewhere to park, but he wasn’t flashing any lights. So I changed down a gear, pulled out, and accelerated. I didn’t look behind me, paid no attention to the double white lines, and was gripping the wheel more than I needed to. I really had to calm down.
“When Kevin’s facing you, you know he’s going to dribble?”
“Yes. It’s easy. You have to look at the foot he has his weight on. If the tip of the foot is pointing outwards, he’s getting ready to dribble. I saw that when I froze the image.”
“So every time a player is going to dribble, the foot he has his weight on is turned out?”
“No, three times out of four. It’s a calculated risk. There’s no such thing as a no-risk situation. It’s the same in chess.”
I turned onto the beltway that bypassed the center of town. We passed rows of low-rise buildings, and the hospital loomed up in front of us. It was a fairly new building, and the entrance to the emergency department was still under construction. I parked as best I could, between a truck and an ambulance.
The glass door opened automatically and I found myself at the reception desk, filling in a form about a boy whose date of birth I didn’t know. Then we waited, sitting on chairs, next to a man with a swollen face who stank of booze. Léonard had started beating his leg back and forth, faster and faster. I had already seen him react that way when he’d settled into the bedroom at home. A doctor came up to us and asked us to follow him. We entered a room where the equipment looked brand new, and the doctor pointed to a bench for Léonard to sit on. A nurse joined us.
“How did he get this?” the doctor asked, examining the cut.
“He hit a goal post.”
“Well, it’s quite a deep cut. And there’s a lot of dirt in it.” He started cleaning the wound. “It’s going to sting a little, young man,” he said to Léonard. “Then we’re going to put some stitches in. It may be a bit painful. But I get the impression you’re a brave boy . . . ”
Léonard didn’t reply and the doctor stood there for a moment, looking at him, then came over to the cabinet where the instruments he would need were. I was standing next to it.
“Does your son always look at people that way?”
“He’s my nephew.”
“I mean, he avoids eye contact.”
“He’s quite shy.”
“His reaction to pain is also unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“Children are more or less capable of controlling themselves. But he doesn’t seem to be hurting at all, or very little, which is different.”
“What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
He must have been in his forties. He wasn’t the kind of overworked greenhorn you sometimes come across in emergency departments. He chose a needle with care and put the thread in without hesitating.
“Would you mind if a colleague of mine examined him?”
“For what reason?”
“I have the impression he’s in a state of shock.”
“Because he’s miles away.”
“Miles away?”
“You have that impression because he’s miles away. But that has nothing to do with shock. He’s always like that.”
“You know it’s just routine . . . that kind of examination.”
I had no particular reason to object. After all, he was in his area of expertise. When I was on the soccer field, I didn’t like anyone disagreeing with my decisions.
He picked up his phone and talked to a colleague named Catherine. He spoke quite softly and I didn’t quite catch what he was saying. I looked at Léonard. He was waiting, sitting on the bench, his face turned to the white wall. I thought about the thousand and forty-three possible moves in chess. Maybe he was going over them.
The doctor made the first stitch. His movements were quick and precise. He asked the nurse for pliers to tighten the thread. At that moment, a woman of about thirty-five came into the room. She must have been the colleague he’d sent for.
“Are you this boy’s uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?”
Her voice was calm, her eyes clear. She motioned to me to follow her into the corridor. There was a lot of movement out there. And noise. We avoided a gurney on which an old man was waiting. She stopped a little farther on, near a column that allowed us a bit of peace and quiet.
“I’m Dr. Vandrecken. My specialty is child psychiatry. I’m going to run a few behavioral tests, nothing complicated. Family members aren’t normally present. Please don’t think we’re trying to keep you out of the loop. It’s simply been established that having someone close to him there may distract the patient. Of course we’ll have a proper talk after the tests. It’s my understanding that you’ve only known the child for a short time.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s his family situation?”
“He lives with my sister.”
“What about his father?”
“He left when he was seven.”
“And your sister has given him to you to look after.”
“Just for a few days.”
“All right. There’s a waiting room on your right. This won’t take long.”
She went back into the room where Léonard was and I stood there in the middle of the corridor. I didn’t feel like being seated. Or facing a gurney. I looked for the nearest exit.