By a Slow River by Philippe Claudel

Author:Philippe Claudel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307425133
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

XV

It took four hours to reach V. The horse kept bogging down in the mire, and the ruts were actually pits. In places the snow was melting like barrels that had been overturned, flooding the way until running water flowed into the ditches ahead and vanished. There were also troop convoys heading to the front line—on foot, in carts, in trucks—obliging us to heave to the side to let them pass as best we could. We caught their melancholy gaze. Not a one of them reacted; not a one spoke, these denizens of the other world. Pale calves dressed in blue, meekly headed for the great abbatoir.

Crusty, Judge Mierck’s clerk, left us seated in an antechamber lined with red silk. I knew the room well. I had had frequent occasion to brood there about the universe—about boredom, the endlessness of an hour, a minute, a second. Without looking I could have drawn a perfect map of that room, showing the exact position of each piece of furniture, every decorative object, the number of petals on each dried anemone that sighed in the stoneware vase perpetually set on the mantelpiece. Joséphine drowsed with her hands on her lap, waking abruptly from time to time as though struck by an electric shock.

After an hour Crusty reappeared, picking at his cheek. He’d evidently been at it since seating us, since there were lapels of dead skin on his black suit, which was worn to a shine at the elbows and knees. He showed us into the judge’s office.

At first we almost couldn’t see anything, but we heard two laughs. One, as thick as spit, I already knew. The other was totally unfamiliar, but I would get to know it soon enough. A haze of stinking smoke floated in the room, obscuring both the fat judge seated at his desk and the fellow standing near him. As my eyes grew accustomed to the pea soup, the judge’s companion revealed himself. It was Matziev. They continued laughing, just as though we weren’t there three steps in front of them. The officer was puffing on his cigar. The judge had his hands folded contentedly on his stomach. They were slow to let the laughter die, picking at the scraps of their joke. And when they were sure there was absolutely nothing left to laugh about, Mierck peered at us with his big green fish eyes.

“Well? What now?” The judge harrumphed in irritation, as if we had killed the gag. He was sizing up Joséphine as though I had come in with a head of livestock.

Mierck had no use for me, and the feeling was mutual. Our jobs—or, rather, my job and his office—often forced us into contact, but we never exchanged an unnecessary word. Our conversations were brief and without warmth, and when we spoke we hardly looked at each other.

I made the introductions, but before I could even summarize what Joséphine had told me, Mierck cut me short to address her.

“Profession?” Joséphine opened her mouth wide and thought for two or three seconds, but that was already too long for the judge.

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