‘Why didn’t you tell me when we were kids? You avoided me after that day.’
‘I was frightened.’
‘So why didn’t you take it out on me directly then?’
Pascal’s eyes are almost closed. His wounds are bleeding profusely. There’s dried vomit hardening on his shirt.
‘I . . . Achilles, my head hurts . . . Where are we now?’
‘You went to Montpellier, didn’t you?’
‘Yes . . . When? I’ve been, but . . .’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know . . . Achilles, what’s wrong with my head? And my leg hurts . . . Where are we?’
‘It’s going to be fine, Pascal. I still have to understand a few more things. You followed me and found out where I was hiding my knife, gloves and shoes in the woods, didn’t you?’
‘The woods? Yes, I think so.’
‘I knew I was being followed, but you were pretty good at it, Pascal. It’s just too bad you underestimated me. No one survives meeting The Artist . . . You’re Hector. You’re my childhood friend, but now you’re my enemy.’
‘We were just children . . . That kitten . . .’
‘You went into the woods and then you went to Montpellier.’
‘Yes . . . The woods in Montpellier . . . Why am I bleeding . . . ?’
‘No! You went to the woods in Grasse and then you went to Montpellier!’
‘Yes. It hurts, Achilles . . . Please help me . . .’
‘I’ll help you all right, don’t you worry, my old friend. You’ve lost, Hector. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Achilles . . . The little kitten . . . No . . .’
‘You’re scared, Pascal. You don’t realise it because you’re walking on the edge of the precipice. One wrong step and you’ll fall down into the abyss, but you’re scared. I can smell it in the air. You’ll feel a sudden rush of fear. You’ll see it hurtling towards you and it’ll take you away. Go on – swim! Fight! Wait – move, and don’t fall asleep! Moan – or rather, don’t moan . . . shout! No, don’t even shout . . . scream! You’re slipping away, aren’t you? Refuse the inevitable and you’ll just exhaust yourself. Struggle against what awaits on the horizon and you’re going to get stuck. Stuck all on your own. You can’t accept your destiny, can you? Open your eyes, and let me open your veins. Look at me. Any last words? That’s right! Look at the final letters in front of your face: they spell out your “E”, “N”, “D”.’
19.
His end was deplorable. It was just so common . . . so ordinary.
I had dreamed of an illustrious enemy and Hector just wasn’t up to scratch; he never was. I’m starting to think Pascal managed to copy me not because of his inner rage or his cunning, but because he was lucky. He wasn’t a Hector who was worthy of me.
It took me three hours to bury him in the deserted mountains. Maybe a scavenger will come along and eat his bones. Whatever happens, I don’t care.
This story is coming to an end, my future canvas, and I’ll be leaving you soon. Watch out on street corners. Turn round and look behind you. If you see a fifty-year-old dressed in black with a distinguished air about him and a jovial look on his friendly face, beware, because it might just be me. Are you a fan of art?
I head back to Marrakech, but I’m in no rush. I arrive near the medina just as dawn is about to break. I need three or four coffees and then to find out about the next flights to Nice or Marseille, but first of all, I have to set in motion a false trail in case the authorities get too interested in this particular disappearance. I’d rather take care of it now than in two hours’ time when all of Marrakech will have woken up and the city will once more swarm with the incessant activity that animates its streets as if it were the very last day of existence.
After clearing the boot as best I can of any trace of blood that might incriminate me, I drop my vehicle off and then take a taxi, asking to be dropped off about a mile from Echouhada Avenue. The workers are already out and about on the morning shift, lugging coal around, but I’m so dirty and covered in dust that I look just like one of them. No one pays any attention to me.
I have Vermillon’s keys in my pocket. I plan to search his home for anything that might suggest the hatred of a third party upon whom suspicions might be directed.
I check several times that no one’s watching, and then enter the premises.
I’m still on the lookout for some last-minute boobytrap. Pascal Vermillon was able to fool every police force in the whole of France. He managed to follow me with such skill that I never caught him in the act, neither in Lille – if indeed he went there – nor in the woods where he saw me dig up my ritual objects. It’s quite possible that he wanted what just happened to take place in exactly the way it did.
Imagine a guy at the end of his tether, convinced that his life is a nightmare because a fifteen-year-old boy traumatised him by killing a stray kitten in front of his eyes. All his life, he’s been so obsessed with what happened that he’s wanted only one thing: to die. Instead of hanging himself or taking an overdose of barbiturates, he seeks revenge in the most malicious way possible: he discovers that the man who caused all his torments is a killer. He copies one of his crimes in order to provoke him and then allows himself to be killed by him when the criminal uncovers the truth, but he’s left one perfect gift for the killer.
So what then – a bomb? A letter? A video?
I’m still disturbed by the fact of Pascal’s disconcerting lack of response when I presented him with the facts.
Yes – it could be a bomb. When I open the front door, everything’s going to explode.
I open the door. Nothing happens. No – a bomb would lack panache.
The hallway before me is narrow. On a small wooden table sits an old dial telephone alongside a pile of pornographic magazines. The magazines look well thumbed.
It’s bleak. The decor of a single man wandering around in a century-old slum. The furniture is dull, the carpets are dull, even the dishes I find in a cupboard are dull. Everything is poor quality, worn out, ugly and outdated. I couldn’t live here without my heart breaking.
This is where my friend lived? It’s not a real home. It’s a refuge. Vermillon didn’t live here as such, he merely haunted it. He was waiting for death.
Was it really I who sowed the seeds of fear that led to this man’s demise? Did a butchered kitten really lead to this? Is that all it took? Of course, we were still so young when I ‘played’ with that little stray back in Collioure, but we weren’t exactly toddlers either. I find it hard to believe that a person’s entire life could have been so shaken by an event of such triviality.
I linger in each room for a while and soak up the atmosphere. It’s like a foul perfume that forces its way into the nostrils. No matter how much I close my eyes and screw up my face, the smell is still there.
I go up to Pascal’s room and start rooting through the drawers. In the bedside table, I find a diary.
I’m a little shocked. I thought this kind of secret notebook was for young pubescent girls. I can’t imagine a mature man entrusting all his sorrows and joys to the objective and soulless pages of a diary.
I open it and uncover thirty pages of scribbled nonsense written in an uncertain hand. The sentences are poorly constructed and the spelling mistakes legion. In short, I can hereby confirm that I definitely prefer Anne Frank.
After a few soporific pages, I read the following:
Dear diary, I thought that writing down what I feel might help me . . . so here I am . . . writing.
I’m unhappy. I don’t like my life and I’m bored. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I hate this country. The Arabs are only interested in my money, and I don’t have much of that.
I keep having nightmares and don’t know how to stop them. I’ve been told to see a psychiatrist, but I haven’t lost my mind and psychiatrists are for people with mental problems. Why should I bother going?
I tried to get married, but I still can’t sleep wit
h a woman. Here in Morocco, if you’re a Frenchman, it’s easy to find an Arab girl to marry. Even though I don’t like them, and think most of them are thieves and don’t wash properly, I almost got married to one once, but was worried I wouldn’t be able to have sex with her after the wedding and since the girls here don’t want any funny business beforehand, I called it off.
The next two pages are in similar vein. I have a furious desire to take up a pen and correct what any primary-age child could spot, but manage to stop myself.
Vermillon complains constantly and about everything, but never questions his own actions and attitudes. He’s still a virgin at fifty years old and apparently it’s all women’s fault – they make him uncomfortable. The reason he has no friends is because people are selfish and no one cares about him. He doesn’t earn enough because his bosses only think about their own wealth and don’t appreciate his valuable skills.
I don’t like this kind of man, and anyway, these pages reveal nothing of the truth behind the episode at the creek.
Achilles appeared today. Just turned up out of the blue and it brought back all these memories. I remember him so well. I remember the creek too. He just went ahead and killed that kitten without any hesitation, and I didn’t know what to do. At first, I thought it was funny, but then I actually started fearing for my own life. It was disgusting, but what really scared me was the look in Achilles’ eyes. He looked like a madman. I think he might even have been drooling. He really enjoyed doing it. It was horrible. That night, after I got home, I weed in my pants like a baby. My father saw and I was mortified.
I had nightmares all the time after that. I did my best not to see Achilles again. It wasn’t easy. We were in the same school and in the same village, so we bumped into each other, but I think that after the creek thing, I was always afraid of him. I’ve never stopped being scared.
I wonder now whether all my problems in life stem from that point. Is it because of him that I’m like this and I’m so uncomfortable with myself? I want to forget all this, but just can’t get it out of my head. It’s in there all the time now and I’m sick of it. Frankly, if this keeps up, I think I’ll have to end it all.
I’m also going to stop writing in this diary because it’s pointless. I really don’t want to think about that boy and his knife and the kitten any more.
I remain cautious. There isn’t really much in there to help me understand who Pascal Vermillon was and why he took it upon himself to challenge me. And the spelling mistakes are incredible.
I return to the kitchen. I’m thirsty. In a dilapidated chest next to the stove, I find an old Moroccan-style manual coffeemaker. It looks like the Italian espresso makers my father used to sell in his ironmongery. I make myself about a litre of strong coffee and drink several cups.
The spite I feel is quite overwhelming. I’d like this story to finish on a bolder note with a more dramatic finale. But, my future canvas – and I’m sorry, believe me – we don’t get to choose the ending. It comes when you least expect it.
I wash the dishes I’ve used and go back upstairs. The clothes I find in his wardrobe only confirm that Vermillon had no taste at all. One thing is certain: fashion will survive his demise.
In the corridor leading to his room, I find a wobbly little desk trapped between a chest of drawers and a pile of taped-up cardboard boxes. I sit down and make myself comfortable.
In the left-hand drawer, I find another notebook. It’s an academic diary, starting in September.
I check to see if he’s written anything recently – a note perhaps about his dinner with me that would need to be destroyed, but there’s nothing.
Out of curiosity, I scroll back to November. On 5 November, the date of Caroline Berthier’s murder in Montpellier, two appointments are written down.
This comes as no surprise. I myself always make sure I have convincing alibis on the dates when I indulge in my little adventures. The problem is that what’s written here only adds to my confusion: ‘Construction site meeting – Town hall – 9 a.m. – Trik Boutouil’. That’s odd. An alibi wouldn’t normally be quite so detailed, as it wouldn’t be verifiable. Unless it’s real.
I continue searching through the desk. There are misfiled bills and a ton of official correspondence shoved into a torn folder.
I find a number of bank statements. From the transactions made on Pascal Vermillon’s credit card, it’s clear that following his meeting in the morning, he drove to Rabat and then spent two days there – the 5th and 6th of November 1986. He visited a hotel and two or three restaurants.
I keep searching through his papers and find copies of five bills stapled together for an expenses claim. I read the comments and then I understand.
On the evening of 5 November 1986, the day of Caroline Berthier’s death in Montpellier, Princess Lalla Asmae, the third child of the royal family, married a Moroccan businessman at the Royal Palace in Rabat. Pascal Vermillon was present as an SMB representative and there are photos to prove this.
PART THREE
Dust in a scarlet eye
20.
Wednesday, 1 July 1987
I’m floating around in search of Hector and can’t find him. I’m totally obsessed with it and have been paralysed for months. I can’t live in the same way that I used to. I just can’t switch off any longer.
Sometimes Pascal Vermillon’s face appears before my eyes, coming to taunt me. Who was Vermillon finally? Only collateral damage. I was wrong about him, but taking his life did at least put an end to his suffering. He’d thank me if he could. He was the kind of man who could never be happy but was too cowardly to finish it all himself. Ultimately I did him a favour.
For the last five months, every single second that has gone by has been torture. I still don’t know who Hector is and I’m losing my mind. Being insane in this way is hard work, believe me. I know, future canvas, that you imagine I’ve been out of my mind for a long time now, but you’re mistaken.
I would like to act, but none of my plans would hold water. Rarely in my life have I experienced such a feeling of utter helplessness. After the unfortunate Vermillon episode, I took some time out to think. When I no longer have control, I lose my equilibrium. I hate it when my life lies in the hands of a capricious destiny. I like everything to be straightforward, with no bends or kinks in the road ahead.
Reading today’s newspaper, I see that yesterday Klaus Barbie was convicted of crimes against humanity. It’s life imprisonment for the Butcher of Lyon. He too was confronted with his Hector. Actually he had several: the journalist Ladislas de Hoyos, as well as Serge and Beate Klarsfeld. He’d been on the run for forty years before having to face justice.
I pour myself a second cup of coffee.
Who is Hector?
I’ve arrived at several conclusions over the weeks and months.
I know Hector has a problem with me. I know it’s personal. If he killed Caroline Berthier in Montpellier with Patroclus, wearing my gloves and shoes, and then didn’t report me to the police, it’s because he holds a grudge against me. He’s the cat and I am the mouse. Who is he? Who could possibly be so twisted? How do I reverse the roles?
I still firmly believe that the answer lies in my past. There is someone who knows that I’m The Artist but doesn’t want to see me rotting in a cell. He wants to torture and humiliate me.
I continue to read the article about Klaus Barbie and the manhunt that led to his arrest.
I remember the frenzy that Beate Klarsfeld caused in the early 1970s, when she identified a man as Klaus Barbie, living in Bolivia at the time under the name of Klaus Altmann. Then a little later, Ladislas de Hoyos tricked him into speaking French during a television interview. It was one of his former victims, Simone Lagrange, tortured towards the end of the war, who recognised him during the broadcast of the report and helped to bring him down.
And then all of a sudden, I get a flashback and can’t catch my breath. If I could see myself in a mirror, I know my skin would
look drained of all blood.
Oh, Achilles . . .
Images suddenly start to overlap in my mind.
I have my very own Simone Lagrange. I think back to that meaningful sentence I said to Vermillon just before I finished him: ‘No one survives meeting The Artist.’
No one survives meeting The Artist.
That’s not entirely true.
I perhaps haven’t given you quite every detail, but I think I did touch on it briefly – do you remember? Throughout my career as The Artist, I told you that everything has always gone perfectly. I’ve accomplished six masterpieces. I haven’t lied about any of that.
But I didn’t kill Viviane Destrien. She was also one of my victims, but I didn’t kill her. I have always considered the incident, which took place back in 1984, as a rather insignificant detail, but how can I be sure of that? I’ll just have to finish the job now, leave no trace behind. I’ll have to clean up my past from top to bottom. It was through my own negligence that I found myself in that mess with Pascal. I’m convinced of it.
Once. Only once have I been magnanimous. Only once have I started a piece of work without going through with it . . .
1984 . . . Viviane Destrien . . . My one and only living canvas . . .
21.
Monday, 26 November 1984
I was enjoying a break up in La Rochelle and the sun was still shining even though we were nearing the end of the year. That was three years ago now. Three years already . . .
It was an unexpectedly warm day and hordes of people were gathered on the quayside, their faces turned towards the rays of sunshine streaming down between the Tour Saint-Nicolas and the Tour de la Chaîne.
Despite this favourable weather, I took care to be as discreet as possible. I’ve always been careful, but that November, in France, being a killer was not the choicest of professions.
About a month earlier, on 16 October, a four-year-old boy named Gregory Villemin had been found drowned in the Vologne, in the department of Vosges. His feet and hands had been bound with rope. Nothing out of the ordinary really. There have always been murders and there will be more tomorrow – and I will contribute to their number – but a headline photograph of a fireman pulling the body out of the water shocked the general public, and the case was given blanket media coverage, which only increased when it was revealed that the murderer, whom the press called ‘The Crow’, had sent an anonymous letter to the victim’s father admitting to the crime.
A Killer's Game Page 14