Pascal walked away and for about ten minutes we both launched our stones, studiously ignoring each other, while discreetly watching which one of us had made the best throws.
‘Achilles, I have a handkerchief – do you want me to pass it to you so you can wipe your knees?’
‘If you want.’
This proposal was a truce, a way to bury the hatchet without either of us losing face. I took the piece of fabric, hardened with dried snot, and pretended to dab at my wounds.
I liked Pascal. He was like me: ostracised and set apart from the rest of the crowd. I was too often dismissive of him.
On the hillside at the end of the creek, I spotted a cat. There were always lots of stray cats at the north of the village, hanging around waiting for fish to jump out of the shallow waters.
‘Pascal, do you see the cat over there?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Should we catch him?’
Pascal smiled. He took the path to the right and I snuck over to the other side. If the cat ran for it, we wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘Let’s go slowly,’ I said in a low voice. ‘Like we want to stroke him, OK?’
It was Pascal who managed to pick up the frightened little creature. It was a kitten, only a few months old, a little bigger than the one I’d killed two years earlier – the first in the series.
I took the poor thing in my arms ‘Do you want to see something funny?’
‘Yeah! Don’t you think we should get him something to eat? He’s really thin.’
‘Forget it. I’ve got something better.’
I approached a small hillock to avoid any prying eyes from above, and got down on my knees. I had a little trouble when they came in contact with the rough ground, but my mind was on other matters.
I took out my knife. Pascal laughed.
‘You’ll see,’ I said. ‘Hold him tight or he’ll scratch me.’
‘What are you going to do to him?’
I placed the blade on his neck, just an inch or so below his ear. I wasn’t shaking, not even a little. I pushed down hard, just the once. One time when I was less sure of myself, I had merely grazed the cat’s skin – some wild little thing I’d found on the street. He went for me and ripped my left arm open and I swore I’d never get caught out like that again.
The cat let out a whimper and then went floppy. Pascal took several fast steps backwards. He’d only gone half a dozen metres or so before he noticed the puddle of crimson blood soaking into the stones around the kitten.
‘Shit!’
Pascal looked shocked. I wasn’t surprised by his reaction in the least. I’d been just the same once upon a time.
I moved towards the body and picked it up. ‘Come and look, Pascal . . .’
Pascal didn’t budge. I walked over and forced him to bend down and see by pressing firmly on his left shoulder. Once we were both squatting down, I placed the carcass of the animal between us. With the blade, I started scraping at the skin to remove the fur.
‘You’ll see, Pascal. We can’t see a lot right now because of the fur, but just wait and then try to guess what it is I’m drawing. You’ll see – you’ll like it, and if you like, I can show you how I do it.’
‘But . . . you . . . you killed it?’
‘Yeah. What did you think I was doing? Look. Watch me. Let me do it.’
I pressed the tip of the penknife into the kitten’s abdomen and drew a horizontal line about five centimetres in length, careful not to pierce the skin completely. I just cut it.
Pascal stood up in one swift, violent movement, jumped back, spun around, leaned over and threw up. I stopped drawing and lightly touched his arm.
‘Hey, Pascal, are you all right?’
‘You killed it!’
‘Oh, it’s not that big a deal, is it? It’s only a cat.’
‘You killed it!’
His reaction seemed rather over the top to me. The animal was a stray, for goodness’ sake. No one wanted him. In the villages around us, as soon as there were fewer rats around, the local women used to poison cats to regulate the population.
‘You killed it!’
‘OK, OK! Are you stuck on a loop? It’s just a fucking cat!’
‘You . . . you’ve done this before, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, a few times. Come on. Come and see the drawing. It looks really good!’
‘But . . .’
‘What?’
‘But . . . you killed it!’
I sighed deeply, and turned to pick up the dead kitten with the intention of showing Pascal that there was nothing dramatic about it, but then I heard a scream and when I turned back, I saw him climbing up the side of the hill next to the creek.
‘Pascal!’
He didn’t stop.
A little later on, I went to his house and threw a few pebbles at his bedroom window. I wanted him to come and explain himself, but he refused to show his face. It was his father who came to the door, huffing and puffing, and I ran away.
In the days that followed, Pascal did everything he could to avoid me. When I managed to bump into him in the corridor at school, he pretended to be in a hurry. He could never stop and talk.
We’d been close, but it was over. In life, one friend comes along, while another moves away, but it’s rarely ever as painful a split as this break-up with the only true friend I ever had.
It was almost a year before my father decided to move to Paris to open a small ironmongery in the 10th arrondissement. Pascal didn’t speak to me once during that whole period, but every time I looked into his eyes, in the playground or in the queue for our school dinners, I could see something chilling: horror.
I knew about terror. We had just gone through some very tough years, and fear was still floating in the air and in the discussions of those who had survived the madness. But it was a dull and unique anguish I saw in those people. It made the eyelashes tremble, it darted around the pupil, it coloured the iris with the tint of despair.
In the eyes of the traumatised Pascal shone the ultimate level of fear.
When I was older and able to step back from my actions, I thought of that troubled boy and how those few minutes in the creek had changed his life.
15.
Monday, 2 February 1987
Ending someone’s life is no trivial matter. Is it possible that Pascal Vermillon went on and repeatedly killed kittens himself to the point of going mad? And that he resented me for it?
OK, I’m a psychopath. There’s a confession for you. A psychopath is a solitary sheep who finds himself isolated from the rest of the flock and considers the lives of his fellow creatures to be without value. He turns into a wolf.
Of course, I have that extra artistic touch that makes me so distinct, but I genuinely don’t feel much for those around me. What’s that word again? The one that describes people who wallow in the misery of others? It’s very fashionable these days. Empathy, that’s it . . . This inane term has no meaning for me at all.
You are a simple being, my reader, my potential future canvas. I have no qualms when it comes to manipulating you and guiding you to where I want you to be. I’m a very real Norman Bates. Psychopaths are diagnosed by attributing to them the terms narcissism, absence of empathy – I’ve already told you, so don’t make me repeat it or I’ll lose patience – manipulation and power. Those all fit me quite well . . .
The researchers who have studied this question are unanimous: some triggering event causes the psychopathic tendencies to emerge and be activated. Some drama experienced in childhood is generally the cause of this disorder, which will develop and worsen with time.
Am I the one who lit the spark of madness in Pascal? Is he aware of what I did to him? How could he have deduced from that little scene down at the creek that I was The Artist? Is that why he’s set himself up against me?
I’ve never taken off my mask, except for that one time in front of Pascal. He saw my true face.
I’ve no idea how he link
ed the murders of these women to me in the first place, but I can all too well imagine how he’s followed me and now knows all my secrets.
Try to follow my reasoning here, my dear confidant: Pascal was traumatised by the death of that animal back in 1947. He witnessed this sacrifice and the seed of vice and perversion penetrated his heart and hid there, waiting patiently for the right moment. Frustration abounds, hatred grows, and the seed swells, growing and growing until finally he notices its presence. Is it ruining his life? Does he realise that I unintentionally plunged him into complete horror?
I imagine him as an ugly man. He’ll be small, puny and stupid, and he’ll want to find someone responsible for all his woes. Why not his childhood friend – that degenerate who scared him so much that when he wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering, sweating, tears sticky on his plump cheeks, it’s my face he sees in front of his reddened and terrified eyes.
He finds out that I live in Nice – that’s easy enough – and he starts to follow me. He’s a shadow with a purpose. I think I recognise him one day on Avenue Gallieni, shortly before my sixth masterpiece in Lille, but I haven’t seen him for so long that I soon forget all about it and move on to something else. Vermillon tails me brilliantly and notes that I’m in the same city as The Artist when Françoise is killed. He makes the connection. Maybe he even sees me leave the building after the crime. Instead of reporting me, which would give him little relief from his distress, he decides to play me at my own game. He comes up with a plan, considers everything. Finally, driven by an impulse that I’ll never be able to understand unless I enter the maze of his sick brain, he convinces himself to do as I do. He follows me some more and discovers where I hide Patroclus, my gloves and my shoes. He takes them, kills a woman in Montpellier and then waits.
And he’s still out there, waiting for me. He wants a reaction out of me. He wants a face-to-face.
Pascal Vermillon is Hector and he wants to fight me in battle.
Let’s engage with him then.
I’ve been sleeping badly for weeks. A storm has been brewing in my head. To know that one is cornered, to try to find a way out only to see your exit route collapse behind you, is torture worthy of that endured by Tantalus, but I’ve got through it. The not knowing could have driven me mad, and no, future canvas, don’t even bother saying I already was.
Everything has changed. My opponent is no longer invisible, and my chances of coming out on top have increased tenfold thanks to my recent deductions. Would I have identified Pascal Vermillon as Hector if the fleeting memory of his face had not alerted me?
Marrakech: that’s where he’s been living, but is he still there? I have to consider every possibility. Vermillon/Hector is probably thinking about me. Several options are now open to him.
He can choose to let me sink into an ocean of despair or he can persevere with his plan.
Let’s put ourselves in his shoes for a moment. Things are complicated for him too. He thinks he has the advantage, but he doesn’t know that I’m no longer blind as to his identity. He doesn’t know that I’ve found him out. He’s going to lose the upper hand. Maybe he’s even around here somewhere.
But I must also take into account the hypothesis that he’s spending his time quite peacefully in Morocco. If he’s as deceitful as I think he is, he’ll have anticipated my reaction. If he hasn’t told the police what he knows of me, then his intentions are clear. He wants to drive me mad.
I’m leaning towards the latter theory. Pascal is at home in Marrakech and he’s biding his time.
In a few months, he will come out of retirement to kill again according to The Artist’s modus operandi.
This means I need to locate him.
In less than a day, with a few calls made to the other side of the Mediterranean, and thanks to a couple of careless switchboard operators, I’ve learned that Pascal Vermillon is an employee of a large construction company owned by a European pension fund. This company, SMB, employs hundreds of people in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia and sometimes Mauritius when the political situation allows it. Vermillon is a manager who deals with admin, overseeing schedules and sometimes visiting construction sites to ensure that deadlines are being met. He operates mainly on the coast between Rabat and Essaouira and in Marrakech itself. It’s not much, but it’s a start. Pascal is currently in Morocco. On the other end of the line, a somewhat dim employee swallowed my story and put my call through to Vermillon himself. I hung up without saying anything, of course, but I now know that my enemy isn’t in France.
I haven’t been to Morocco for years.
Come with me . . . That’s where we’re off to next.
I’ve just landed in Marrakech. I’m not sure if Vermillon lives here, but that doesn’t change the plan. Officially, I’m over here on business. That’s what I explained to the man who interviewed me at the passport office when I got off the plane. I’m going to look around for a wholesaler happy for me to import spices into France at a price that’s lower than the competition.
In fact, I already have in my portfolio the names of a few clients that correspond to this category of products, but I’m actually only here for Him.
I take the first taxi available and ask the driver to take me to La Mamounia, where a reservation has been made in my real name, Clazay. The staff at the facility are friendly and dedicated. I’m finally alone in my room. From the balcony, I overlook the huge swimming pool and the luxurious bars that surround it. Every detail screams luxury and glitz. It’s all very comforting because I simply haven’t been able to do without such things since I first discovered true splendour and abundance.
I want to sleep, but the call of this marvellous country is stronger than my fatigue.
I have always loved the African states with their folklore and picturesque landscapes. I’ve travelled to several countries over here with cultures so rich that I left more humbled than I could have imagined. Batiks from Burkina Faso, kangas from Zanzibar, Dogon masks from Mali, luscious cornmeal fritters in Togo, barkcloth from the Baganda tribe in Uganda . . . So many reasons never to go home again. If one day the police are anywhere close to catching me, I’ll leave and never come back. I could always take up my art as I made my way across the globe.
In Morocco, what I appreciate most is the pious resignation of its inhabitants. They have a much higher standard of living than most people on that continent, but they are exposed to tourism, and they see with their own eyes the opulence to which they are not entitled, and what do they do about it? They smile and shrug their shoulders.
Every time I spend a few days in Africa and return to Europe, I realise that I and my contemporaries – which includes you – are animated only by a relentless narcissism. Our egocentricity is such that we feel sorry for ourselves when we have a bad cold, without thinking that there are people out there struggling against malaria or river blindness.
In Niger, I saw children devoured by gangrene, smiling at me as if nothing was wrong. They know how to relativise over there.
I see a restaurant and its succulent dishes make my eyes gleam, but I want to head over and experience the special atmosphere of Place Jemaa el-Fnaa. I want to see the snake charmers and dancers and sit next to fat tourists in shorts, shining with sweat and grease, and red enough to make the lobsters they will devour later in the evening jealous. Don’t get me excited. I love this place despite my nature.
I spend two hours strolling around. I’ve learned what to say to street sellers so they don’t harass me. It’s the beginning of February and tourists are thin on the ground. There are a few Dutch and quite a lot of Germans, but the real crowds will arrive in about two months’ time. For now, everyone is still up on the ski slopes.
I return to La Mamounia around midnight, sip two cocktails at the hotel bar, repel the advances of a middle-aged prostitute – I’m far too worried to enjoy that side of life right now – and finally go to bed.
The next day, I find the SMB offices with ease. They’re located a
little way from the medina, near some broad, faded arcades. It’s not easy for a white man such as myself to stand still without attracting attention. I’d like to spot Pascal Vermillon before he sees me, then follow him and learn more about him.
There’s nowhere in the area where I can take refuge and keep a discreet lookout. Obviously my preference would be to wait in a café with a glass of chilled vintage champagne, but around here, there’s nothing but rubble.
Some local kids find me and within minutes I’m surrounded by a dozen or so, their clothes torn and covered with dust, reaching out with their calloused little hands. In countries like this, Nike and Adidas shamelessly sponsor these skinny, miserable little torsos.
I give up. If Hector comes out of the SMB offices and sees me, I’ll have lost my advantage.
I’m heading back to the hotel, you bastard.
I wait until late afternoon, then call SMB and ask to speak to Pascal Vermillon. A secretary tells me he’s just left the building. I ask what time he usually leaves work.
Vermillon finishes his day at 6.00 p.m.
A quarter of an hour and I’ll finally get to see him.
Unless he’s out on the job again. Anything’s possible. He’s some sort of managerial supervisor, as I understand it, which means he’s often out on a site.
To prevent the children circling me like they did yesterday, I arrive just before Vermillon finishes his day. I spent mine at La Mamounia sleeping, drinking sparkling water and watching international TV channels in my room. I don’t feel great. Physically, everything is fine, but I’m finding the thought of this imminent confrontation with Hector exhausting. If I’m to rise to the challenge, I need to motivate myself and regain some confidence.
The main door opens and a bunch of guys in suits emerge from the SMB building. I’m too far away to see their faces.
And let’s not forget that I haven’t seen Vermillon in forty years – except for that one time when I thought I saw him in the street in Nice (and it remains to be seen if it really was him).
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