When the police did at last question her, they had to repeat themselves over and over before she fathomed their meaning. Yes, she had worked with the deceased. Yes, he had precious jewels and gold in his possession. And finally: Yes, she might have left the door ajar when she left the evening before. It was possible that she’d forgotten to lock it.
Claire began to hyperventilate then. She grew dizzy and needed to sit down. Anyone would have thought that in a room full of doctors someone might have offered her a paper bag to breathe into, perhaps a Valium. Instead, one of the grandsons brought Claire a glass of vodka, which she gratefully drank.
“Anything else?” the grandson asked. It was Philippe, the one who had carried Shiloh down the stairs. He now had the crow in a cage. When it began to squawk, he tossed a napkin over it and it quieted down.
Claire shook her head no.
When she left, Philippe called after her. She didn’t seem to hear, so he followed her down the twisting stairs. In fact, she had heard and had chosen to ignore him. Now she was annoyed. All she wanted was to be left alone. When she turned, Philippe stumbled, then threw up his hands to prove he had no ill intentions. “I thought you might need help getting home.”
“Do I look like I need help?”
Philippe had chosen a specialty in oncology, a field many doctors avoided. He was six feet tall, a workaholic. One thing he knew for certain: A diagnosis was always difficult. You could never judge by the first set of presenting facts. “Looks are deceiving,” he said.
“I killed him. Can you tell that from looking at me? It’s all my fault.”
Claire went out and sat in the square across from the building. Being alone felt like something sharp, something that could make a person bleed. She watched the ambulance arrive. Monsieur Cohen was carried out, and then the ambulance and the grandsons set off separately. At last the police dispersed. Sitting there under the darkening sky, Claire was bruised, inconsolable. Nothing could protect the people she loved. She saw a man walking toward her. He had a birdcage under one arm.
“Just go,” Claire said.
“I can’t. My grandmother insisted I take you home.” Philippe Cohen sat down beside her. “And don’t be an idiot, Claire. You didn’t kill him. He had a stroke caused by a blood clot. Uncle Samuel had been eating badly for ninety years, and he could barely move for the last ten of those years. He had hardening of the arteries. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“So he would have died today even if I hadn’t left the door open?”
“You know as well as I do, he was the sort of man who checked his door. He had a case of paranoia, really. I can’t imagine he’d go to bed without doing so, and if he did, well, at least he’s out of his misery.”
Claire winced. “Is everything so easy for you to explain?”
“No. I can’t explain why I took this crow. I hate birds. Come on. You don’t even have to thank me for the lift home.”
He pointed out his car, which was parked nearby. It was a Saab that was rusted and in need of washing. Philippe took care of some things, but not others. They both got up and walked toward it. Claire felt unsettled over the fact that he seemed to think he knew her, when he didn’t know the first thing about her. “Thank you,” she grumbled, without much gratitude, just to prove him wrong since he clearly thought her an ungrateful, spoiled brat.
“You’re welcome.” He spoke in English to be polite, even though being polite wasn’t especially easy for him. He was very blunt and matter-of-fact. That was his nature. It was probably why he didn’t mind Claire’s bad manners. When they were children, she had once called him a nincompoop at his grandmother’s shop, and he’d spent weeks trying to figure out what she’d meant. He still wasn’t exactly sure. She was usually so standoffish, he was surprised she let him drive her home.
“Don’t bother to get out of the car,” she said when he pulled over.
“I didn’t intend to,” he told her.
“Why? Because your grandmother didn’t tell you to?”
“Because one of my assigned patients is dying and I have to go check on him.”
“Oh,” Claire said, embarrassed. “Well.”
“Don’t feel bad. We’re all dying, but my patient is probably going to do it this afternoon or maybe tomorrow. I may be late to my uncle’s funeral.”
Claire herself was there early. She asked if she could see Monsieur Cohen one last time before the service. He looked calm, peaceful, far from the world’s misery, as Philippe had said. She brought the heart scarab with her, which she tucked beneath his jacket.
The cemetery was small and old with lilacs growing along a stone wall. There wasn’t much space, and mourners were forced to edge over graves in order to get to the service, which was held at the grave site. As Monsieur Cohen hadn’t left his apartment for more than ten years, he would have been surprised to see how many people attended his funeral and how many tears were shed. Even Monsieur Abetan, who had never met Monsieur Cohen in person, came to pay his respects. Claire’s grandmother fainted before the service had begun; it was such a sad day, and there was such a crowd, but there were doctors enough around and she was soon revived with smelling salts and a glass of cold water. Claire went to Natalia and knelt before her. She wanted to tell her she had been responsible for Monsieur Cohen’s death, that she had left the door open, but all she said was “I’m so sorry, Ama.” Natalia stroked her head. “He was a pleasure for me at the end of our lives. I could never have regrets. And you were like a daughter to him,” she said. “Whatever he taught you will stay with you forever.”