Island of Point Nemo - Jean-Marie Blas de Robles

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that line the walls. Not at all like a striptease, since there is no trace of seduction here. This is the weary disrobing of young girls who have woken too late. The manager, for his part, sees nothing but panties rolling down thighs, an abundance of breasts, buttocks, pelvises, moist variations of liberated flesh under the fluorescent lighting. All of it excites him, even the lumps of fat that deform their hips and the magnifying effect of the flab on their rumps and knees. And finally—Charlotte. He expands the window to see her better. No one wriggles out of a slip the way she does, a trout freeing itself from a net. Her bosom bulges out, protruding and convex; seeing her squirm without losing her shape, he is sure that she would feel firm under his hands. Charlotte enters a shower stall between two white-tiled walls. She scrubs her hair, head thrown back, washes it, massages it. Flecks of suds fall on her breasts, hang from the fuzz on her crotch. To rinse, she turns around and bends down, presenting a breathtaking view of a worker’s backside. She turns again, washes between her legs, knees bent.

      Wang-li Wong has pulled out his penis; having jerked at himself for a few seconds, he discharges onto the screen of his tablet.

      Standing motionless by the door to his office, in his blind spot, the Director of Human Resources has not missed a single moment of the scene. A strange smile spreads across her face; it would be impossible to say whether it is one of complicity or scorn. Louise Le Galle silently retreats and disappears.

       III

       Talkative Soles

      “Pigeon shit,” said Holmes, attempting to scrape some dried droppings from his shoulder.

      “Seagull, actually,” corrected Canterel, while Miss Sherrington placed his container of opium in front of him.

      “A pipe made of stingray and shark vertebrae,” rhapsodized Holmes, his eyes shining. “And, if I’m not mistaken, a Yixing terracotta bowl? You don’t deny yourself anything, my dear fellow!”

      Canterel remained focused on the wad of chandoo speared on a long needle that he was heating over a lamp.

      “Where is she?”

      “Well, where do you think she is? In Scotland, of course, at Eilean Donan Castle. She’s waiting for us there.”

      “And the feet?”

      “The coroner is a good friend of hers, we will be at our leisure to examine them.”

      “Which means that you have not yet seen them?”

      “Correct. I didn’t want to skew your first impression . . .”

      “And, if I may,” said Grimod, “there is a train to Paris in two hours.”

      “We can do better than that,” replied Canterel, exhaling the smoke that he had been holding in his lungs for several seconds. “Do you know how to drive?”

      “Yes,” said Grimod.

      “Very good. You will be able to relieve Miss Sherrington at the wheel.”

      He turned to the housekeeper, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

      “It’s all ready,” she said. “The luggage is in the car. We can leave whenever you wish.”

      “I’m very lucky to have you with me, Miss Sherrington. You are an extraordinary woman.”

      “Thank you, Monsieur. I shall remind you of that on occasion.”

      What Martial Canterel called his “car” looked nothing like an automobile. It was a Cottin & Desgouttes coach, its motor modified by the brilliant Devonshire mechanic Harold Bates. When he bought it, Canterel had had its interior refurbished in a way that gave it the comfort of a small apartment in the style of Haussmann. Inside was a lounge hung with silk damask, a breccia fireplace with a brass fireback, Venetian mirrors, five medallion chairs of solid cherrywood—one of which turned toward the wheel to function as the driver’s seat—wide bay windows with embroidered tulle curtains, a functioning kitchen, perfectly soundproof toilets, a bathroom with portholes, a tiled Roman tub, a red copper water heater, and a mirrored scale; additionally, two bedrooms with foldaway double beds—which served as stylish work desks during the day—and a private space that allowed the driver to make use of the same commodities. From the outside, the vehicle had the appearance of a hearse fit for a circus giant, all the while giving an impression of luxury and power. Luxury, thanks to the Coromandel screens—signed by Liang P’ei Lan and dated 1693—that adorned the body of the car; as for power, this came from the stainless-steel pipes that escaped from the hood to join a pressure gauge toward the back of the coach, before connecting to a kind of flat tank that doubled as the vehicle’s roof.

      “My word!” exclaimed Holmes. “Where do you hide these things, Martial? What does this palace on wheels run on?”

      Canterel threw him a look that expressed his complete disinterest in the question.

      “Methane,” replied Miss Sherrington, whispering in Holmes’s ear. “There is a nozzle in the rear that can extract this gas from any manure; calf, cow, pig, chicken, anything. The methane is stored up there, then redistributed and converted by a special carburetor. We can go for two hundred kilometers, and refilling only takes half an hour . . .”

      “If I may,” said Holmes, concerned, “how do we fill up?”

      “We are in France, Monsieur, we are surrounded by shit.”

      They took a day to reach Calais, slept in the car, and embarked the next day on a ferry bound for Dover. Canterel did not say three words the whole voyage. He smoked more than usual, switching between periods of lethargy and long moments of scrutinizing the transparency of a strange photograph engraved in glass that seemed to fascinate him.

      Eilean Donan Castle did not appear until the end of the afternoon. Heavy purple clouds rested on the Cuillin Range and the solitary mountains of the Five Sisters of Kintail; through a patch of blue sky, light was still gilding the surface of Loch Duich, the crenellated walls, the massive keep standing on its islet eaten over with green mosses and heaths. In the shadows of evening, the castle was striking. Starting the car across the thin stone bridge that straddled the loch, Miss Sherrington shuddered in displeasure; she closed her right hand into a fist, thumb and pinkie out, to ward off evil.

      A wizened servant was waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the main doorway. He invited them in, then went ahead of them, showing them the way to a huge chamber, the ceiling of which revealed sturdy oak beams. Settling down in front of a monumental fireplace where a recently kindled fire was crackling, they curiously examined the colored coats of arms, the tall stained-glass windows whose pointed recesses formed many smaller rooms, the gallery containing portraits of kilted ancestors, the sabers over carved stone lintels—all of it bathed in the amber light of an enormous chandelier and the candles that were artfully placed around the room.

      A door slammed; Lady MacRae appeared, the nonchalance of her gait contrasting with the violence of the sound that had preceded it. She was wearing an ensemble of dark-red silk, the bodice trimmed with Spanish lace, obscuring but not concealing the advantages of a bosom that Martial had once been at his leisure to contemplate. Black roses had been stitched to the top of the waist of her pleated silk skirt, which sat low on her hips. Her bronze-colored hair was pulled up in a chignon. At forty-four years old, she was more beautiful than ever; her half-closed Kyrgyzstani eyes seemed dazzled by a low sun, her voice beguiled through a mixture of childlike softness and sudden, throaty derailments.

      “You are welcome, Messieurs,” she said, giving each of them her hand to kiss. “I hope that you have had a pleasant journey.”

      She took a seat on a couch beside Grimod.

      “We came as quickly as we could,” said Holmes. “Our friend’s automobile is very comfortable.”

      Lady MacRae addressed Canterel. “And so, you have

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