Chapter 7

Javert combed the crowd with a searching gaze. Against the heavy background of silence, one could hear the soft clinking sounds from behind the counter, where the invisible bartender was re-shelving bottles and glasses, and rustling of cloth as some men shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

"Sorry folks - no circus tonight," said Javert as he got up.

"Tsk, man, what is this? Where I come from a man must answer for that kind of talk!" exclaimed a swarthy southern type from a nearby table. Several men "yea'd" their assent.

"Talk from a drunk is no talk at all," said Javert decisively. "Besides, look - his lights already went out on their own."

Indeed, the man's head was on the table, or rather, on his plate. His companion leaned in and pinched his cheek. The man half-groaned half-snorted and turned his head, smearing leftover ragout all over the left side of his face, from his mouth to his ear.

"Incidentally," said Javert, his eyes still fixed on the drunk lying face down in his dish. "Since I appear to have all of your attention, the lottery has been drawn for the use of the dartboard."

"Why does the house always get to draw the lottery?" asked some fellow behind Valjean. "That is undemocratic. We ought to draw our own numbers."

"Those are the rules," muttered Javert as he leaned against the counter and extended his arm behind him. Valjean saw him snap his fingers twice to Michel, who immediately put a lined sheet in his hand. Valjean did not even have time to see where he got it. "You want democracy, go to one of the Republican taverns. Here, l'etat, c'est Mere Vauquer. You want to take it up with her directly? She'll show you democracy." Javert skimmed the sheet. "Besides, there's less cheating this way. Only as much as is necessary. Attention! the first use of the back room goes to tables two, seven, and thirteen. The time slots are the usual fifteen minutes, with one minute tie-breaker allowed upon request. Questions? No? Marvelous. Everyone may go back to enjoying your meals."

His functions as the Major Domo concluded, Javert turned back to Valjean. "Incidentally," he said and immediately fell silent. Valjean waited patiently. "Incidentally," repeated Javert, scratching at the back of his head as though picking at lice. "You are coming with me to the first rotation, naturally."

"Alright," agreed Valjean. "I'm not very good at darts, though."

"Trust me, darts will be the last thing we'll be playing at in there," murmured Javert. His slightly unfocused gaze seemed to be aimed at something to the immediate left of Valjean's shins. "I'm going out for a spell," he said suddenly. "Wait here. If I come back and find you gone, consider your whole person forfeit, down to the marrow of your bones. Do you read me?"

"I read you," said Valjean, who was already starting to get used to Javert's peculiar speech.

"Good. See you in a few." And with those words, Javert turned abruptly on his heel and dissolved into the smoke-saturated air, as if falling through a crack in the floor tiles.

For a while Valjean simply sat and waited. Occasionally, a waitress would approach the bar to pick up a bottle of wine or brandy, which the bartender would hand to her without getting up - a disjointed arm with a bottle would periodically shoot up from behind the counter, like a drunk's deranged salute to the poison killing him.

When Javert did not hurry to reappear, Valjean fished a notebook out of his coat pocket and spent some time playing "words." It was one of his favorite little amusements and it involved constructing as many short words as possible out of one long one. In the last few years, he and Cosette, who was now almost as well-read, used to while away long winter evenings scribbling away at their respective sheets in competition for crumpets. He never won a single round and couldn't have been happier for it.

After a few minutes of intermittently staring thoughtfully into space and silently mouthing various syllables, Valjean had three more words added to his list for "denouement." Javert was still absent. Valjean bit the end of the pencil, deliberating whether it would be cheating to write the feminine form of "dement" for more points, when a heavy palm landed onto his shoulder, clasping him firmly.