Excerpt of By a Slow River by Phillipe Claudel
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When his sentence was pronounced the convicted criminal would howl, burst into
tears, or fly into a rage. Sometimes he'd raise his hands to heaven, as if he'd
suddenly remembered his catechism. By now, though, he was entirely invisible to
Destinat. The prosecutor would be putting his notes away in his briefcase, four
or five sheets on which he'd composed his closing argument, purple ink in his
small refined script, a handful of well-chosen words that reliably made the
court shudder and the jurors reflect, unless they were asleep; a few words that
sufficed to erect a scaffold as if in an instant, surer than two journeyman
carpenters could have done in a week.
He bore no grudge against the condemned. I saw the proof of that with my own
eyes, in a hallway just following the verdict. Destinat emerged with his
Cato-like air, his beautiful ermine still on his back, and came face-to-face
with the Widow's future husband—the Widow, that's what they called the
guillotine. The prisoner harangued him plaintively, eyes still red from having
just heard his awful fate, and now full of remorse that he'd ever pumped those
gunshots into his boss's gut. "Mistah Prosecutor," he whined, "Mistah Prosecutor
. . ." Destinat looked him right in the eye, oblivious to the bailiff and the
handcuffs, put a hand on his shoulder, and answered, "Yes, my friend. We've
already met, haven't we? What can I do for you?" As sincere as you please—no
mockery at all. The condemned man looked stunned. It was as if a second sentence
had been pronounced on top of the first.
Following the end of every trial, Destinat would have lunch at the Rébillon,
across from the cathedral. The owner is a fat man with a head white and yellow,
like an endive, and a mouthful of rotten teeth. His name is Bourrache. He's not
very clever, but he has a good head for money. That's his nature: no fault of
his. He always wears a large apron of blue wool that makes him look like a
girthed-up barrel. He used to have a wife who never left her bed; she suffered
from sluggishness, as we say in this region, where it's not uncommon for certain
women to confuse the November fogs with their own distress. When she finally
died it was less on account of this illness—which after a time she'd probably
put on as a permanent mantle—than because of what had happened, because of the
Case.
At the time, the Bourrache daughters were like three little lilies, but with a
pure touch of blood that brightened their complexions to a glow. The youngest
was barely ten. She had no luck—or maybe she had a lot. Who knows?
The other two merely bore their first names, Aline and Rose, while everyone
called the smallest one Belle and a few would-be poets made it
Belle-de-jour—Morning Glory. When I would see all three of them in the room,
carrying carafes of water, liters of wine, and silverware, among dozens of men
who talked too loudly and drank too much, it seemed as if someone had arranged
the flowers to relieve the sordidness of the atmosphere. And even in the company
of her sisters, the little one looked so unspoiled as to seem not of our world.
When Destinat entered the restaurant, Bourrache—a man of habit—always treated
him to the exact same greeting: "Another one cut down to size, Mr. Prosecutor!"
Destinat would never answer, and Bourrache would show him to his seat. The
prosecutor's table, one of the best, was reserved for him year-round. I didn't
say the best, because that would have been the one nearest the enormous
earthenware stove beside the window hung with crocheted curtains giving onto the
entire Courthouse Square; that table was for Judge Mierck. A regular, Judge
Mierck ate there four times a week. His belly told the tale, sagging down well
beyond his waist; so did his skin, scored with broken veins as though all the
Burgundies he'd drunk were waiting in line to be flushed out. Mierck didn't like
the prosecutor very much. The feeling was mutual. I might even be putting it too
mildly. Yet we would see them greet each other solemnly, doffing their hats,
like two men opposed in life's every matter who share its daily course all the
same.
Excerpted from By a Slow River by
Philippe Claudel Copyright © 2006 by Philippe Claudel. Excerpted by permission
of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this
excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the
publisher.
