Jean-Claude Mourlevat - Winter's End

They had made rapid progress over the first few weeks. Ramses had learned to write his name and read easy words like taxi or bike. He could soon say over forty words, beginning with hello, thank you, eat, hunt, and Bombardone — although they became “L-l-o-o-o! . . . an-koo . . . e-e-e-eee . . . uuu-nt,” and “. . . aaardone!” Then Mills had tried to do more, and that was harder: teaching him to play cards, whistle a tune, make an omelette.

Those days were over now. It had been obvious for some time that Ramses wasn’t getting any further.

“Why do you keep him?” Pastor the dog-handler asked. “Take him back to the barracks. He’ll be happier with his own kind. Isn’t he bored, living with you?”

The chief of police couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth: he had become attached to his strange companion’s quiet presence and absolute loyalty. Sometimes he woke suddenly at night, a prey to uncontrollable fears, and eating didn’t help. Then he went to lie down beside Ramses on the living-room sofa and spent the rest of the night there, reassured by the dog-man’s regular breathing.

There was a light on in the barracks, on the second floor. They entered the building and went up a metal staircase. Pastor was waiting for them in his office, smoking a cigarette. He was a flabby, fat man with thick lips, and at present he had the untidy hair and reddened eyes of someone who has been hauled out of bed.

“Hi, Bombardone! Hi, Ramses! Couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it couldn’t wait,” Mills said. “Is the pack ready?”

“I picked the five best: Cheops, Amenophis, Chephren, Mykerinos, and Teti. I suppose you’re taking Ramses, so that makes six. OK? ”

“OK.”

“When do we leave?”

“Right away.”

Without further comment, Pastor rose to his feet, put on his heavy sheepskin-lined jacket, and picked up the knapsack hanging from a hook. He was obviously anticipating an immediate departure.

“Starting where?”

“Starting with the consolers. That’s where they were last seen.”

“Off we go then.”

Pastor liked his dogs but not manhunts. Chasing around the mountains for days and nights like an animal, shivering with cold under a blanket, going without food for days on end did not appeal to him. He had never had the predatory instinct of a man like Mills, who would put up with anything for the thrill of the chase.

The five dog-men were waiting in the dark near the barracks gate, rigid arms hanging by their sides. Two of them were smoking. They wore clothes and shoes, and from a distance might have been taken for factory workers waiting for a bus to pick them up at dawn. When Ramses joined them, they hardly looked at him.

Pastor crossed the yard, dragging his feet, a bunch of keys in his hand. He yawned, opened the gate, and whistled through his teeth — a short, sharp sound. The little troop set off behind him. Mills brought up the rear, glad not to have Ramses trailing along behind him anymore.

They reached the consolers’ village just before three in the morning. Mills stopped the pack outside the library, the last place the fugitives had been traced. He pushed the door open with his foot and glanced inside. The lighted lamp was on the table; a flame was still dancing behind the glass door of the stove. He went into the room on his own and gave it a brief inspection. The two young people had run away over a week ago, and he couldn’t expect to find any sign of them here now. Mills went over to the bookshelves and swept his forearm over the lower one, sending twenty or so books flying to the ground. He scattered them farther with a kick.

“Found anything?” asked Pastor, putting his head round the door.

“No, nothing,” said Mills, leaving the library. “We’d better give the dogs their things to get the scent.”

Pastor opened the travel bag and took one of the boots out of it. “I’ll give this to Cheops, Amenophis, and Teti. And we’ll let the other three have the girl’s scarf. That way we’ll know if our two birds parted company.”

“Good thinking, Pastor!” remarked Mills with sarcastic approval. “Brighter than you look, aren’t you?”

“I just want to get this over and done with quickly,” grunted the dog-handler, and he held the boot out to Cheops. “Here, Cheops, find! Find!”

The dog-man stuck his entire muzzle into the boot. He tilted his head to one side in a comical way and kept his eyes closed. When he had sniffed it at his leisure, he passed the boot to Teti, who did the same. Mills watched them out of the corner of his eye, observing the agitation that gradually came over them. He had always been fascinated by the moment when the dog-men shed their humanity and became all dog. Seeing them quiver with excitement and hearing them whine made him jealous. He too would have liked to be able to register his prey’s precise scent in the appropriate part of his brain and begin tracking it down, nose raised to the wind.

“Find, Ramses, find!” he said, holding the scarf out to his favorite.

“Uuu-nt,” said Ramses.

“Hunt, yes, that’s right,” Mills encouraged him.

Pastor’s opinion was that Mykerinos had the best nose in the pack, and as soon as he had smelled the scarf, he set off along the main road through the village. All the others followed. It was a strange sight to see the six hunched figures striding along in the pale moonlight like vampires after blood. When they reached the fountain, they didn’t hesitate for a moment but turned into a small, sloping road on their left. Halfway along it, they stopped in silence outside Number 49.

The dog-men never barked. All they ever did, at the height of their excitement, was to utter faint whines barely audible to the human ear. Nothing ever gave warning of their presence or their approach. If they were after you, you could expect to see them appear suddenly only a few feet away — by which time it was already too late.

The little house was sleeping. Mills didn’t bother to knock at the front door, which was just below street level, but stood in the road itself and threw a handful of gravel at the second-floor windows.

“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Police,” said Mills.

“What do you want?”

“Open up!”

The curtain at the window was drawn a little way to one side. The presence of the dog-men showed that this wasn’t some kind of joke. Whoever was inside the house could be heard grumbling for a moment and then coming slowly downstairs. The front door opened to reveal an enormous woman in dressing gown and slippers.

“You are Mrs. . . . ?” asked Mills.

“I’m known as Martha. What do you want?”

“You’re a consoler?”

“Would you believe me if I said no, I’m a professional cyclist?”

Having no sense of humor himself, Mills didn’t care for jokes. He had to make an effort to keep calm.

“And you are Miss Bach’s consoler?”

“I only know their first names.”

“Milena,” Mills said, and even in the mouth of such a brute, those three syllables were still surprisingly beautiful.

“I could be,” replied Martha.

“Yes or no?” asked Mills.

The large woman looked straight into his eyes without showing the slightest sign of fear. Mills felt his annoyance increasing.

“She came here last week,” he said, “with a young man, and they left together. Where did they go?”

“My dear sir,” whispered Martha, narrowing her eyes, “you know very well that no consoler will ever tell you about the visits a young person pays to her, still less what’s said on those occasions. We’re like priests, you see, like confessors. And if you don’t understand that, then let me put it in simpler terms for your benefit: it’s a trade secret.”