Descartes was staring off into space. I wasn’t sure he was following me, or even hearing me. “Inspector?”
“Excuse me for one minute, please.” He took out his cell phone and made a call. The only words I caught for sure were “cherchez” and “appartement.” Descartes listened a long while, then murmured, “Ah, oui? C’est bon.” When he hung up, his face was a mask, but his eyes were gleaming. “As you were talking, I remembered. In his apartment were some small glass jars containing bits of metal, pieces of pottery, small bones. And—this is what I called to ask them to look for just now—two teeth. A dent de sagesse, the tooth of wisdom”—he pointed at one of his third molars—“and a dogtooth, a canine, broken at the root, exactement as you describe.” He caught my gaze and held it. “Okay, I’m leaving now. We should finish with a small fight.” He jabbed a finger in my chest. “You are not telling me everything, Docteur,” he said loudly. “I think you know where are these bones. I am watching you. And I can make things very bad for you if you give me a reason.”
He spun on his heel and walked toward the street. “Descartes,” I called after him. He stopped and looked back at me. “We saved your butts in World War Two,” I shouted. “If not for America, you’d be goose-stepping and eating sauerkraut.”
He resumed walking, and he raised both arms, his middle fingers extended. Unless it had a radically different meaning in France, the gesture needed no translation.
And the man claimed to be a lousy actor.
CHAPTER 25
WHEN MIRANDA AND I LEFT THE LIBRARY AN HOUR later, we persuaded Philippe to let us out a back door. We took a long, meandering way back to her hotel, detouring through the Rue des Teinturiers—the street of the tinters, the dyers. For centuries this was Avignon’s textile district, where the wools and silks for tapestries, vestments, courtiers’ cloaks, and ladies’ gowns took on hues of red, orange, gold, green, blue, violet, indigo. A small canal paralleled the street, and the buildings lining that side all had small bridges leading to their entrances. A smattering of ancient waterwheels, some still turning, offered picturesque reminders of the importance of waterpower to medieval industries. Miranda stopped to snap a waterwheel photo with her iPhone, then climbed the steps onto the small bridge beside it. Leaning on the stone balustrade, she peered down at the water. “Fancy a dip?” I called.
She shook her head. “Remember what Stefan said about the pollution in the Rh?ne? This looks a lot worse. The water’s opaque.”
“Urban runoff,” I said. “Brake fluid, mop water, dog crap—not great for the water quality.”
“Imagine, though, what this must have looked like in 1350. If all these buildings were dyers’ shops? This water probably changed color every time somebody emptied a dye vat. Wouldn’t that be fun? The canal running fuchsia one minute, burnt orange the next? Like something out of The Wizard of Oz.”
“That’s a pretty image,” I said. “And Avignon did play the part of the Emerald City for most of a century.”
“We’re not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure.”
A few blocks later, we wandered past the historic marker that mentioned the poet Petrarch and his unrequited love, Laura. Pointing it out to Miranda, I asked, “Do you know their story?”
“Petrarch and Laura? A little. He saw her at church and fell instantly in love. But it was doomed—she was married to someone else, I think—so he spent the rest of his life worshiping her from afar.”
“They were never together?”
“Only in his dreams. Well, and his poems.”
“DO YOU KNOW THE STORY OF PETRARCH?” ELISABETH and Jean looked up from their wineglasses and nodded in unison.
I’d dropped Miranda at her hotel after an early dinner at a Middle Eastern restaurant near the clock tower—couscous, grape leaves, hummus, and eggplant; not my favorite fare, but Miranda liked it. The last of the daylight was fading as I entered the sanctuary of Lumani’s garden, and Elisabeth and Jean were sharing a bottle of red wine. A candle burned on the small table between them, and the wine in their glasses glowed like liquid rubies.
“Petrarch, oui,” she exclaimed. “A famous poet pastoral.”
“Pastoral? Like a pastor, a priest?”
Her brow furrowed, then brightened. “Ah, non. Like sheeps. Shepherds and maidens. Petrarch loved the countryside.”
“And Laura? What do you know about his lady love?”