Liberty Bar Read online

  An inspector in plain clothes who had been talking to bystanders turned his attention to the old man, who had been pointed out to him. But it was too late to question him. He had emptied half the brandy bottle and was glaring suspiciously at everyone.

  ‘Is he your father?’ the inspector asked the girl in the nightdress.

  She didn’t seem to understand. Too many things were going on at the same time. The landlord of the bar stepped in and said:

  ‘Gassin was already pretty drunk. He must have slipped off the gangplank.’

  ‘And the other man?’

  The doctor was undressing the other man.

  ‘Émile Ducrau, the one who owns tugs and quarries. He lives over there.’

  He motioned to the tall house. The venetian blinds on the first floor were still leaking thin streams of light and the windows on the second still showed pink.

  ‘On the second floor?’

  Bystanders explained hesitantly:

  ‘First,’ said one.

  Another added mysteriously:

  ‘On the second too. I mean, he’s got somebody on the second floor.’

  ‘You mean he’s been playing house with somebody else?’

  High above them the window of the pink room shut, and the blind came down.

  ‘Anyone told the family?’

  ‘No. We were waiting to know what was happening.’

  ‘Go and put some stockings on,’ one boatman said to his wife. ‘And fetch me my cap.’

  And so, from time to time figures were observed moving from one boat to the next. Through hatches and portholes oil lamps could be seen, and even framed photographs were visible hanging on pine walls.

  The doctor said in the inspector’s ear:

  ‘You’d better call the chief. This man was knifed before being thrown into the water.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  It was as if the drowned man had been waiting for just that question to open his eyes and, with a gasp, cough up water. He was seeing everything at an angle because he was lying on his back, so that his horizon was the star-studded sky. From where he was, the people round him rose giant-like into the heavens, legs resembling interminable columns. He said nothing. Perhaps he was not yet thinking anything. He looked with eyes that were slow and flinty, but gradually they relaxed and became less fixed.

  His gasp must have been audible, for everyone started forward at the same instant, and suddenly the policemen imposed the usual, official order on proceedings, that is that they formed into a line, held back the crowd and let through only those who needed to be there.

  The man on the ground saw the space around him empty and then a lot of police uniforms and silver-braided police headgear. He continued dribbling greyish water, which ran over his chin down on to his chest, while his arms were being continuously pumped. They were his arms. He watched their movements out of curiosity and frowned when someone at the back of the crowd said:

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Old Gassin got to his feet, without relaxing his hold on the bottle. He took three faltering steps, parked himself between the rescued man’s legs and spoke to him. His speech so thick and his tongue so clotted that no one understood a single word.

  But Ducrau saw him. He did not take his eyes off him. He was thinking. He seemed to be racking his memory …

  ‘Move further back!’ the doctor said crossly and he pushed Gassin so roughly that the drunk went sprawling on the ground, broke his bottle and stayed where he was, moaning and fuming, as he tried to fend off his daughter, who was bending over him.

  Another car stopped on the quay above and a new group formed around the police chief.

  ‘Is he fit to be questioned?’

  ‘No harm trying.’

  ‘You think he’ll pull round?’

  It was the man, Émile Ducrau, himself who replied, with a smile. It was a peculiar smile, still not fully formed, more a grimace, but everyone had a clear sense that it was an answer to the question.

  Somewhat uncertainly the police chief acknowledged him by removing his hat.

  ‘I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.’

  It was awkward speaking down from a height to a man whose face was turned up to the sky above while the rescue team were still working on him.

  ‘Were you attacked? Was it far from here? Do you know where exactly you were stabbed and then thrown into the water?’

  Water was still coming out of his mouth, in weak spurts. Émile Ducrau was in no hurry to reply or even to try and speak. He turned his head a little because just then the girl in white passed through his field of vision, and his eyes followed her until she reached the gangway.

  She had gone, with the help of a neighbour, to make coffee for her father, who resisted whenever anyone suggested he should go home to bed.

  ‘Do you remember what happened?’

  And since he was still not responding, the police chief took the doctor to one side and asked:

  ‘Do you think he understands?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘But …’

  They had their backs to the prone man when they were stupefied to hear him say:

  ‘… you’re hurting me!’

  All eyes turned to him. He was showing signs of impatience. It seemed that trying to speak was a great effort to him. Moving one arm painfully, he added:

  ‘Wanna go home.’

  What his hand was trying to do was to point at the house on six floors, a little way off behind him. The police chief looked rather put out and hesitated.

  ‘Sorry to insist, but it’s my job. Did you see your attackers? Did you recognize them? Maybe they haven’t gone very far.’

  Their eyes met. Émile Ducrau’s gaze was steady. Yet he did not answer.

  ‘There’s going to have to be an investigation, and the prosecutor’s office is bound to ask me if …’

  What happened next was unexpected. The shapeless bulk, which had looked so limp as it lay on the light-coloured stones of the unloading wharf, roused itself briefly and pushed away everything that cramped its movements.

  ‘… go home!’ Ducrau said again in a fury.

  There was a feeling that if they went on opposing his wishes he might turn very nasty and even summon up enough strength to stand up and set about those crowding round him.

  ‘Go easy!’ exclaimed the doctor. ‘You’ll make the wound bleed.’

  But the man with the bull’s neck didn’t care, he had suddenly had enough of lying flat on his back in the middle of a lot of gawping people.

  ‘Take him home,’ sighed the police chief with a gesture of resignation.

  The stretcher from Lock No. 1 had been brought. Ducrau didn’t want to be carried on a stretcher. He growled a refusal. They had to carry him by his arms, legs and shoulders. While he was being helped away, he looked angrily at the bystanders, and the bystanders made way because they were afraid of him.

  The procession crossed the street. The police chief called a halt.

  ‘Hold it there. I must go up and warn his wife.’

  He rang the bell while the men who were carrying him waited under the green gaslight which marked the stop for trams and buses,

  Meanwhile, a number of boatmen were having a very hard time carrying old Gassin across the gangplank of the Golden Fleece. He was dead drunk. He had also cut his hand on a shard of glass from the bottle.

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