pis!” The sound of a man’s voice, and wood creaking, then another crash. “Show her in, Fabrice, before I rupture myself again!”
The irritating Fabrice opened the door wider, revealing a sweating man in a long white coat. “Film people!” the new man panted. “ Alors, you run by a different clock. But I’m sorry, we have no one to show you around.”
“ Pas de problème. You won’t know I’m here.”
Now she had her foot in the door. She’d chat up a lab technician, and, if she was lucky, get a lead to Benoît’s puzzling murder and a link to Mireille.
“Give me fifteen minutes.” She smiled, glancing at an old fusebox with porcelain knobs hanging on the wall. She made a note with her kohl eye pencil on the envelope.
Fine powder-like dust settled on the wooden floor. Bone dust, she wondered?
The sweating man stuck his hand out. “I’m Lamartine, anatomy cataloguer.”
She shook it and saw that her hand was now smudged with dirt.
“We’ve got this crate to load.”
“I’d like to see the research lab,” she said. “To check the amount of light available, and the outlets.”
“Go through the gallery, then turn right. If you need help, come back and ask me.”
She nodded, slipping past a tight-lipped Fabrice and by a deep old-fashioned sink with a backsplash of cracked blue tile.
The spiral staircase in the gallery, a soaring elongated room, led to a high walkway ringing the space that provided access to ceiling-high wooden drawers upon drawers. Each drawer had a metal slot in which appeared yellowed inscriptions in Latin in fading black script with dates from the nineteenth century. Bleached animal skulls bearing horns lined the upper wainscoting. The air was musty; it was a library of bones.
She kept going, her steps raising fine dust.
In the next gallery, she saw small animal skeletons on long worktables covered with brown paper. There were scalpel-like instruments laid out next to them, but no technicians.
She turned the knob of an adjoining door to find gleaming stainless-steel counters and metal ducts venting to the ceiling. A modern “state of the art” lab, in contrast to the rest of the place.
Whirring sounds came from an autoclave on the counter. A larger, more industrial version of the sterilizer used in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré manicure salon she visited— considering her chipped red nails, not often enough.
A man in a blue work apron leaned over a microscope.
“ Pardonnez-moi, ” she said, taking a chance. She didn’t have much time. “Didn’t Professeur Benoît work here?”
“Aaah, the pigs. You want to see the pigs, non? ” The man straightened up from the lab table.
What was it with these pigs? Would he show her a pen filled with snorting hogs?
“Of course, but. . . .”
“Here.” The man gestured to the microscope. “You’re late, Mademoiselle. But I’m glad we can grab a few minutes so I can show you.”
She bit her lip. Late? Who did he take her for?
“Monsieur?”
“Assistant Professeur Huby. We spoke on the phone. Benoît was right,” he said. “Amazing. The article’s already been accepted for publication in the October Anatomy Journal. So you won’t be able to steal our thunder for the science department journal. That’s why I agreed to speak with you.”
He thought she had come from the ENS science department. If she didn’t go along with his mistake, she’d lose an opportunity. But how could she keep up this pretense? How long before the real person with an appointment appeared?
“After your call, I thought it better you see for yourself,” he said, his brow raised, gesturing to the microscope. “Benoît was on the verge of a breakthrough in his work on Haitian pigs.”
She played along. She took a breath and put her eye to the eyepiece. Through the microscope, she saw a pinkish-brown series of swirls with yellowish dots like nuclei in the center. A black line divided this half of the slide from a similar scene. A
The irritating Fabrice opened the door wider, revealing a sweating man in a long white coat. “Film people!” the new man panted. “ Alors, you run by a different clock. But I’m sorry, we have no one to show you around.”
“ Pas de problème. You won’t know I’m here.”
Now she had her foot in the door. She’d chat up a lab technician, and, if she was lucky, get a lead to Benoît’s puzzling murder and a link to Mireille.
“Give me fifteen minutes.” She smiled, glancing at an old fusebox with porcelain knobs hanging on the wall. She made a note with her kohl eye pencil on the envelope.
Fine powder-like dust settled on the wooden floor. Bone dust, she wondered?
The sweating man stuck his hand out. “I’m Lamartine, anatomy cataloguer.”
She shook it and saw that her hand was now smudged with dirt.
“We’ve got this crate to load.”
“I’d like to see the research lab,” she said. “To check the amount of light available, and the outlets.”
“Go through the gallery, then turn right. If you need help, come back and ask me.”
She nodded, slipping past a tight-lipped Fabrice and by a deep old-fashioned sink with a backsplash of cracked blue tile.
The spiral staircase in the gallery, a soaring elongated room, led to a high walkway ringing the space that provided access to ceiling-high wooden drawers upon drawers. Each drawer had a metal slot in which appeared yellowed inscriptions in Latin in fading black script with dates from the nineteenth century. Bleached animal skulls bearing horns lined the upper wainscoting. The air was musty; it was a library of bones.
She kept going, her steps raising fine dust.
In the next gallery, she saw small animal skeletons on long worktables covered with brown paper. There were scalpel-like instruments laid out next to them, but no technicians.
She turned the knob of an adjoining door to find gleaming stainless-steel counters and metal ducts venting to the ceiling. A modern “state of the art” lab, in contrast to the rest of the place.
Whirring sounds came from an autoclave on the counter. A larger, more industrial version of the sterilizer used in the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré manicure salon she visited— considering her chipped red nails, not often enough.
A man in a blue work apron leaned over a microscope.
“ Pardonnez-moi, ” she said, taking a chance. She didn’t have much time. “Didn’t Professeur Benoît work here?”
“Aaah, the pigs. You want to see the pigs, non? ” The man straightened up from the lab table.
What was it with these pigs? Would he show her a pen filled with snorting hogs?
“Of course, but. . . .”
“Here.” The man gestured to the microscope. “You’re late, Mademoiselle. But I’m glad we can grab a few minutes so I can show you.”
She bit her lip. Late? Who did he take her for?
“Monsieur?”
“Assistant Professeur Huby. We spoke on the phone. Benoît was right,” he said. “Amazing. The article’s already been accepted for publication in the October Anatomy Journal. So you won’t be able to steal our thunder for the science department journal. That’s why I agreed to speak with you.”
He thought she had come from the ENS science department. If she didn’t go along with his mistake, she’d lose an opportunity. But how could she keep up this pretense? How long before the real person with an appointment appeared?
“After your call, I thought it better you see for yourself,” he said, his brow raised, gesturing to the microscope. “Benoît was on the verge of a breakthrough in his work on Haitian pigs.”
She played along. She took a breath and put her eye to the eyepiece. Through the microscope, she saw a pinkish-brown series of swirls with yellowish dots like nuclei in the center. A black line divided this half of the slide from a similar scene. A
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