Fred Vargas - The Chalk Circle Man

PRAISE FOR THE CHALK CIRCLE MAN
WINNER OF THE CWA INTERNATIONAL
DAGGER AWARD

Quirky, bizarre, riveting, irresistible, utterly French. Vargas is perhaps the best mystery writer on the planet.

Winnipeg Free Press

Like legions of other devoted readers, Ive become addicted to the adventures of Commissaire Jean-Baptiste Adamsberg. If youve already discovered Adamsberg, this novel is essential reading. If you havent, this is the perfect place to begin.

Margaret Cannon,The Globe and Mail

The Chalk Circle Man is everything [that] Grisham is not: witty,

intriguing, disconcerting and, being French, seductively romantic.

The Daily Telegraph

Detective Adamsberg is not only unusual but irresistible as a character.

Ms. Vargass approach to the macabre is formidably funny.

The Washington Times

PRAISE FOR FRED VARGAS

Vargass detective stories are so complex, yet simple, so cleverly nuanced, yet basic, so peopled with misfits, eccentrics and neer-do-wells that they grab the attention of any reader.

Ottawa Citizen

Vargas has a wonderfully offbeat imagination that makes each of her novels a refreshing delight.

The Observer

Vargas is by some distance, the hottest property in contemporary French crime fiction. Her prose has an unusual deftness; a constantly enjoyable lightness of touch; a wry humour that can have a reader laughing out loud; dialogues that turn into verbal jousting contests; historical and psychological detail that enriches, but does not intrude.

The Guardian

ALSO BY FRED VARGAS

Have Mercy on Us All

Seeking Whom He May Devour

The Three Evangelists

Wash This Blood Clean From My Hand

This Nights Foul Work

M ATHILDE TOOK OUT HER DIARY AND WROTE : T HE MAN SITTING next to me has got one hell of a nerve.

She sipped her beer and glanced once more at the neighbour on her left, a strikingly tall man who had been drumming his fingers on the caf table for the past ten minutes.

She made another note in the diary: He sat down too close to me, as if we knew each other, but Ive never seen him before. No, Im sure Ive never seen him before. Not much else to say about him, except that hes wearing dark glasses. Im sitting on the terrace outside the Caf Saint-Jacques, and Ive ordered a glass of draught lager. Im drinking it now. Im concentrating as hard as I can on the beer. Cant think of anything better to do.

Mathildes neighbour went on drumming his fingers.

Something the matter? she asked.

Mathilde had a deep and very husky voice. The man guessed that here was a woman who smoked as much as she could get away with.

No, nothing. Why? he replied.

Just that its getting on my nerves, that noise youre making on the tabletop. Everythings setting my teeth on edge today.

Mathilde finished her beer. Tasteless. Typical for a Sunday. Mathilde considered that she suffered more than most from the fairly widespread malaise she called seventh-day blues.

Youre about fifty, Id guess? offered the man, without moving away from her.

Might be, said Mathilde.

She felt annoyed. What business was that of his? Just then, she had noticed that the stream of water from the fountain opposite the caf was blowing in the wind and sprinkling drops on the arm of the stone cherub beneath: one of those little moments of eternity. And now here was some character spoiling the only moment of eternity of this particular seventh day.

Besides, people usually thought she looked ten years younger. As she told him.

Does it matter? asked the man. I cant guess ages the way other people do. But I imagine youre rather beautiful, if Im not mistaken.

Is there something wrong with my face? asked Mathilde. You dont seem very sure about it.

Its not that. I certainly do imagine youre beautiful, the man replied, but I wont swear to it.

Please yourself, said Mathilde. At any rate, youre very good-looking, and Ill swear to that, if it helps. Well, it always does help, doesnt it? And now Im going to leave you. Im too edgy today to sit around talking to people like you.

Im not feeling so calm, either. I was going to see a flat to rent, but it was already taken. What about you?

I let somebody I wanted to catch up with get away.

A friend?

No, a woman I was following in the metro. Id taken lots of notes, and then, suddenly, I lost her. See what I mean?

No, I dont see at all.

Youre not trying, you mean.

Well, obviously Im not trying.

You are. Youre very trying.

Yes, I am trying. And on top of that, Im blind.

Oh, Christ! said Mathilde. Im so sorry.

The man turned towards her with a rather unkind smile.

Why are you sorry? he said. Its not your fault, is it?

Mathilde told herself that she should just stop talking. But she also knew that she wouldnt be able to manage that.

Whose fault is it, then? she asked.

The Beautiful Blind Man, as Mathilde had already named him in her head, reverted to his position, three-quarters turned away.

It was a lionesss fault. I was dissecting it, because I was working on the locomotive system of the larger cats. Why the heck should we care about their locomotive system? Sometimes I would tell myself this is really cutting-edge stuff, other times I thought, oh for Gods sake, lions walk, they crouch, they pounce, and thats it. Then one day I made a false move with a scalpel

And it squirted in your eyes.

Yes. How did you know?

There was this man once, he built the colonnade of the Louvre, and he was killed like that. A decomposed camel, laid out on a dissecting table. Still, that was a long time ago, and it was a camel. Quite a big difference, really.

Well, rotten flesh is still rotten flesh. The ghastly muck went in my eyes. Everything went black. Couldnt see a thing. Kaput.

All because of a wretched lioness. I came across a creature like that once. How long ago was this?

Eleven years now. She must be laughing her head off, the lioness, wherever she is. Well, I can laugh, sometimes, these days. Not at the time though. A month later I went back and trashed the lab I threw bits of rotten tissue everywhere, I wanted it to go in everyones eyes. I smashed up the work of the team studying feline locomotion. But of course it gave me no satisfaction at all. In fact, it was a big let-down.

What colour were your eyes?

Black, like swifts, the sickles of the sky.

And now what are they like?

Nobody dares tell me. Black, red and white, I should think. People seem to choke when they see them. I suppose its a nasty sight. I just keep my glasses on all the time now.

Id like to see them, said Mathilde, if you really want to know what they look like. Nasty sights dont bother me.

People say that, then they regret it.

When I was diving one day, I got bitten on the leg by a shark.

OK, I suppose thats not a pretty sight either.

What do you miss the most from not being able to see?

Your questions are getting on my nerves. Were not going to spend all day talking about lions and sharks and suchlike beasts, are we?

No, I suppose not.

Well, if you must know, I miss girls. Not very original, is it?

The girls cleared off, did they, after the lioness?

Looks like that. You didnt say why you were following the woman.