Hannibal Rising Page 0,63

his hand.

Lady Murasaki was standing.

" Hannibal, I need to hear your heart," she said. "Robert's heart went silent. Your heart stopped in my dreams." She went to him and put her ear against his chest. "You smell of smoke and blood."

"You smell of jasmine and green tea. You smell of peace."

"Do you have wounds?"

"No."

Her face was against the scorched dog tags hanging around Hannibal 's neck. She took them out of his shirt.

"Did you take these from the dead?"

"What dead would that be?"

"The Soviet police know who you are. Inspector Popil came to see me. If you go directly to him he will help you."

"These men are not dead. They are very much alive."

"Are they in France? Then give them to Inspector Popil."

"Give them to the French police? Why?" He shook his head. "Tomorrow is Sunday-do I have that right?"

"Yes, Sunday."

"Come with me tomorrow. I'll pick you up. I want you to look at a beast with me and tell me he should fear the French police."

"Inspector Popil-"

"When you see Inspector Popil, tell him I have some mail for him."

Hannibal 's head was nodding.

"Where do you bathe?"

"The hazard shower in the lab," he said. "I'm going down there now."

"Would you like some food?"

"No, thank you."

"Then sleep," she said. "I will go with you tomorrow. And the days after that."

48

HANNIBAL LECTER'S motorcycle was a BMW boxer twin left behind by the retreating German army. It was re-sprayed flat black and had low handlebars and a pillion seat. Lady Murasaki rode behind him, her headband and boots giving her a touch of Paris Apache. She held on to Hannibal, her hands lightly on his ribs.

Rain had fallen in the night and the pavement now was clean and dry in the sunny morning, grippy when they leaned into the curves on the road through the forest of Fontainebleau, flashing through the stripes of tree shadow and sunlight across the road, the air hanging cool in the dips, then warm in their faces as they crossed the open glades.

The angle of a lean on a motorcycle feels exaggerated on the pillion, and Hannibal felt her behind him trying to correct it for the first few miles, but then she got the feel of it, the last five degrees being on faith, and her weight became one with his as they sped through the forest. They passed a hedge full of honeysuckle and the air was sweet enough to taste on her lips. Hot tar and honeysuckle.

The Cafe de L'Este is on the west bank of the Seine about a half-mile from the village of Fontainebleau, with a pleasant prospect of woods across the river. The motorcycle went silent, and began to tick as it cooled. Near the entrance to the cafe terrace is an aviary and the birds in it are ortolans, a sub-rosa specialty of the cafe. Ordinances against the serving ofortolans came and went. They were listed on the menu as larks. Theortolan is a good singer, and these were enjoying the sunshine.

Hannibal and Lady Murasaki paused to look at them.

"So small, so beautiful," she said, her blood still up from the ride.

Hannibal rested his forehead against the cage. The little birds turned their heads to look at him using one eye at a time. Their songs were the Baltic dialect he heard in the woods at home. "They're just like us," he said. "They can smell the others cooking, and still they try to sing. Come."

Three quarters of the terrace tables were taken, a mixture of country and town in Sunday clothes, eating an early lunch. The waiter found a place for them.

A table of men next to them had orderedortolans all around. When the little roasted birds arrived, they bent low over their plates and tented their napkins over their heads to keep all the aroma in.

Hannibal sniffed their wine from the next table and determined it was corked. He watched without expression as, oblivious, they drank it anyway.

"Would you like an ice cream sundae?"

"Perfect."

Hannibal went inside the restaurant. He paused before the specials chalked on the blackboard while he read the restaurant license posted near the cash register.

In the corridor was a door marked Prive. The corridor was empty. The door was not locked. Hannibal opened it and went down the basement steps. In a partly opened crate was an American dishwasher. He bent to read the shipping label.

Hercule, the restaurant helper, came down the stairs carrying a basket of soiled napkins. "What are you doing down here, this