“It’s still something, a dolmen. It is with this banal remark that On the slab,1twelfth novel by Fred Vargas, which sends Commissioner Adamsberg to a small Breton town on the trail of a serial killer. And incidentally on that of a lame ghost, a case clarified very early on by the “cloud shoveler”, a nickname given to the commissioner by a Quebec colleague in Downwind of Neptune (Viviane Hamy, 2004) — novel punctuated by disastrous dialogues in our language.
Drawing from the medieval charms of Brittany, atmospheres that are alternately hushed and icy, the ex-archaeologist who became the author of “rompols”, according to her expression, is also inspired by the remains of the Neolithic era to accentuate the mystery. Adamsberg will thus stretch out on the slab of a dolmen in the hope that the memory of this funerary monument of four millennia will bring his vague ideas to the surface. After all, the action takes place in the country of the author of the Memories from beyond the grave.
In Louviec, far from the erudite Commandant Danglard, Adamsberg teamed up with Commissioner Matthieu, a pragmatic and rational man of action, whom he disconcerted more than once: “Again this ‘I don’t know’, a recurring formula of ‘Adamsberg which, in Matthew’s eyes, covered many thoughts. In order to ensure the humor component, Fred Vargas brings on stage endearing and colorful characters, including the suave Josselin de Chateaubriand, who cultivates his resemblance to his illustrious ancestor at the request of the mayor in order to lure tourists, and the good-natured owner of the Auberge des Deux Écus.
“Johan brought the plates and dishes, he had enough to feed twenty people. The buffet he had prepared was royal and the agents pounced on it. Mercadet asked for a double coffee. “We eat so much and so well in On the slabwhere cider and chouchen flow freely, one has to wonder if Fred Vargas is an avid reader of our crime ladies Chrystine Brouillet and Louise Penny, who have the gift of making our mouths water between two spinning mills, or the adventures of Asterix, where we like to feast.
And women ? As often with Vargas, they are few in number, but remarkable. Of course, Retancourt, goddess of the Brigade, will be there. Let’s also note the Serpentine, a gossip fighting against the shadow “tramplers” in order to protect the souls of the villagers. Yes, the novelist had to sprinkle folkloric elements and old beliefs on this dark story of revenge where corpses covered with fleas are sown. “Christmas, surely you haven’t forgotten the time when we were working on the plague?” » — a nod to go quickly and come back late (Viviane Hamy, 2001).
Rich in false leads and fascinating digressions, the story runs out of steam in the last third as searches, arrests and interrogations follow one another to the rhythm of a well-oiled mechanism that soon becomes tiresome. As for the outcome, patiently explained by Adamsberg, it turns out to be bland and predictable. Despite everything, as the other would say, it is all the same something, a Vargas.