“Because I’m the one who killed her, Thomas.”
Fanny
Nicolas de Staël student residence, Saturday, December 19, 1992
Utterly exhausted, I stifle yawn after yawn. Pages and pages of my notes on molecular biology dance before my eyes, but my brain refuses to take them in. I’m fighting sleep. The cold is the worst, cutting me to the bone. The battered heater is about to give up the ghost, and right now it’s barely breathing dusty lukewarm air. I’ve put music on to keep myself awake. “Disintegration,” “Plainsong,” “Last Dance”…the speakers pour out the exquisite melancholy of the Cure. A perfect mirror of my forlorn soul.
I wipe condensation from the dorm-room window with my sleeve. Outside, the landscape looks surreal. The campus is silent and deserted, frozen beneath an opalescent carapace. For a moment, I gaze into the distance, beyond the pearl-gray sky from which snow is still falling.
My stomach is rumbling and beginning to cramp. I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday. The cupboards and the fridge are empty. I know I should face the fact that I need to sleep a little, stop setting my alarm clock for four thirty a.m., but I feel so guilty that I can’t. I think about the crazy study schedule I drew up for this two-week vacation. I think about the brutal first year of pre-med that will chew up and spit out two-thirds of the students in my class. And I wonder whether there is any point. Or, rather, I wonder whether there is any point for me. Do I really want to be a doctor? What will my life be like if I don’t get into medical school? Every time I imagine my future, all I see is a bleak, dreary landscape. Not a wintry plain, but a boundless expanse of gray, the gray of concrete and tower blocks, of highways and getting up at five a.m. The gray of hospital rooms, of the metallic taste in your mouth when you wake up, sweating, next to the wrong person. I know that this is what awaits me, because I have never had that lightness, that carefree spirit, that optimism so many students at the lycée wear like a badge of honor. Every time I imagine my future, I see fear, weariness, emptiness, pain.
And then suddenly I see you, Thomas! Looking out my window, I see your silhouette hunched against the wind, framed against the milky whiteness of the winter afternoon. And as it always does, my heart leaps in my chest and I feel calmer. Suddenly I no longer feel tired. Suddenly, I want to live, to forge ahead. Because only with you could my life ever be carefree, filled with possibilities and plans, with journeys, sunshine, and laughing children. I can sense that there exists a narrow path to happiness, but I can take it only with you by my side. I don’t know by what magic the pain, the grime, the blackness that I have carried with me since childhood seems to vanish when we’re together. But I know that, without you, I will always be alone.
But the illusion vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared, and I realize that you are not coming to see me. I hear your footsteps on the stairs, hear you go into her room. You never come to see me anymore. You come for her. Always for her.
I know Vinca better than you do. I know she has that way about her, that look in her eyes, the way she moves or pushes a lock of hair behind her ear or parts her lips in that smile that is not a smile. And I know that it is not simply toxic—it is lethal. My mother had it too, that sort of maleficent aura that drives men wild. I never told you, but when she walked out on us, my father tried to commit suicide. He impaled himself on a rusty bar. Because of the insurance, we had to pretend it was an accident, but he was trying to kill himself. After everything that my mother had put him through, he thought he couldn’t live without her and was prepared to leave behind three young children.
You’re different, Thomas, but you have to shake off this hold she has on you before it destroys you. Before it makes you do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.
* * *
You knock on my door and I open it.
“Hey, Thomas,” I say, taking off my glasses.
“Hey, Fanny, I need a hand.”
You explain that Vinca is not feeling well, that she needs someone to talk to, and she needs some paracetamol. You ask me to look in my medicine cabinet and make Vinca some tea. Like an idiot, all I can think to say is I’m on it. And because I don’t have any tea left, I have to fish a teabag out of the trash.
Obviously, that’s all I’m good for, taking care of Vinca, the poor little wounded bird. Who do you think I am? We were happy before she came along and ruined our lives. Look what she makes us do. Look what you make me do in order to get your attention, to try to make you jealous. It’s because of you that I throw myself at every guy I meet. It’s because of you that I hurt myself.
I wipe away the tears before stepping out into the corridor. As you race past, you bump into me, and then, without a word, without an apology, you hurtle down the stairs.
* * *
So here I am in Vinca’s room and I feel stupid, standing there with my cup of tea. I didn’t hear what she said to you, but I assume she played the same old charade. She is an expert by now, pulling the strings in her little puppet show, with her in the role of hapless victim.
I set the mug of tea on the nightstand and stare at Vinca, who has already fallen asleep. A part of me understands the passion she inspires. A part of me wants to lie down beside her, stroke her delicate skin, taste her red lips and her delicately rimmed ears, kiss her long, curved lashes. But another part of me despises her. For a split second, I see my mother’s face superimposed over Vinca’s and I recoil.
* * *
I should get back to work, but something holds me here in this room. There is a half-full vodka bottle on the windowsill. I pick it up and swig straight from it. Then I rummage around, leaf through the papers on Vinca’s desk, flick through her diary. I open the wardrobes, try on some of her clothes. I discover the contents of her bathroom cabinet. I am not really surprised to find it stuffed with sleeping pills and tranquilizers.
She has everything for the discerning junkie: Rohypnol, Xanax, lorazepam. Although the last two boxes are almost empty, the bottle of Rohypnol is full. I wonder how she managed to get hold of these drugs. Under the boxes, I find a prescription signed by a Dr. Frédéric Rubens in Cannes. He obviously doles these things out like sweets.
I’m familiar with the properties of Rohypnol, the brand name for the drug flunitrazepam. It’s used to treat severe insomnia, but since it’s habit-forming and has a long half-life, it is prescribed for only short periods. It’s not a drug to be taken lightly or for prolonged periods. I know that some people take it with booze or even morphine to get high. I’ve never done it, but I’ve heard that the effects can be devastating: loss of control, erratic behavior, amnesia. One of our teachers, a specialist in emergency medicine, told us that there has been an increasing number of overdose cases and that rapists have been known to use the drug to break down a victim’s defenses and ensure she has no memory of the attack. There is even an urban legend making the rounds, something about a rave somewhere near Grasse and a girl who took too much and set herself on fire before jumping off a cliff.
I’m so exhausted that I can’t think straight. Suddenly, without knowing where the idea came from, I’m toying with the notion of dissolving the tablets in her tea. I don’t want to kill Vinca; I just want her out of my life and yours. I often dream about her being hit by a car, about her committing suicide. I don’t want to kill her, but still I tip some tablets out into my hand and then from my hand into the mug of hot tea. It takes only a few seconds, during which it’s as though I am in two places at once, as though I am on the outside watching someone else.
I close the door and go back to my own room. I can hardly stand. Exhaustion overwhelms me, and I lie down on the bed, taking my folders and my notes. I have to study, I have to concentrate, but already my eyes are closing and I am being dragged down into sleep.
* * *
When I wake up again, it’s pitch-dark. I’m soaked with sweat, as though I’m running a fever. The clock radio reads half past midnight. I can’t believe that I’ve slept for eight hours strai
ght. I have no idea whether you’ve been back in the meantime, Thomas. And I’ve no idea how Vinca is.
Panicked and terrified, I go and knock on her door. When there’s no answer, I let myself into the room. The mug on the nightstand is empty. Vinca is still asleep, still in the same position as when I left. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself, but when I bend down, I realize her body is cold and she’s not breathing. My heart stops; I feel a shock wave blast through me. I collapse onto the floor.
Perhaps this is how it was written. Perhaps, from the beginning, things were fated to end this way, in fear and death. And I already know the next step: End it all. Put an end once and for all to the insidious pain that for too long has been like a second skin. I throw open the window of Vinca’s room. The bitter cold pulls at me, claws at me, devours me. I climb onto the window ledge to jump, but I cannot see it through. As though night, having scented me, has decided it does not want me. As though death itself did not have time to waste on someone as insignificant as me.
* * *
Completely distraught, I stumble across the campus like a zombie, past the lake, the place des Marronniers, the administration buildings. Everything is dark, drab, lifeless. Everything except your mother’s office, and she is the person I’m looking for. I see her through the window, and as I come closer, I realize she is talking to Francis Biancardini. The moment she spots me, she can tell that something terrible has happened. She and Francis run toward me. My legs are barely holding me up. I collapse into their arms and blurt out the whole story in garbled sentences punctuated by sobs. Before calling the emergency services, they hurry over to Vinca’s room. It is Francis who goes over to inspect the body. When they come back, with a shake of his head, Francis confirms that it is too late to call an ambulance.
It is at this point that I pass out.
* * *
When I come to, I am lying on the couch in your mother’s office with a blanket draped over me.
Annabelle is sitting next to me. I’m surprised but reassured by how calm she is. I like your mother. She has always been kind and generous to me. She has always helped me when I needed it. It was thanks to her that I got a room on campus. She was the one who gave me the confidence to study medicine, and she was the one who consoled me when you became distant.
She asks whether I’m feeling better, then insists that I tell her exactly what happened. “Don’t leave out a single detail.”
As I tell her, I am forced to relive the terrible sequence of events that led to Vinca’s death. My jealousy, the moment of madness, the Rohypnol. When I try to justify what I did, she presses a finger to my lips.
“All the regrets in the world won’t bring her back. Has anyone other than you seen Vinca’s body?”
“Maybe Thomas, but I don’t think so. Vinca and I were the only students in the building who didn’t go home for Christmas.”
She lays a hand on my arm, looks me in the eye, and says gravely, “This is the most important moment of your life, Fanny. Not only will you have to make a difficult decision, but you will have to make it quickly.
“There are two possibilities. The first is that we call the police and tell them everything. By tonight, you’ll be sleeping in a cell. When the trial comes, the prosecutor and the court of public opinion will rip your life to shreds. The media will be gripped by the case. You’ll be painted as the evil, jealous bitch, the monster who cold-bloodedly killed her best friend, a girl everyone in school adored. Since you are over eighteen, you will be given a long sentence.”
I am already overwhelmed, but Annabelle drives home the final nail.
“By the time you get out of prison you will be thirty-five, and for the rest of your days you will be branded a murderer. In other words, your life is over before it has really begun. Tonight, you stepped into a hell from which you can never escape.”
I feel as though I am drowning, as though I’ve been knocked on the head and am underwater and cannot catch my breath. For a full minute, I am speechless, then finally I manage to stammer, “Wh-what’s the other possibility?”
“That you fight your way out of this hell. And I’m prepared to help you do that.”
“I don’t see how.”
Your mother gets up from her chair. “That’s something you don’t have to deal with directly. The first problem is to make Vinca’s body disappear. As for the rest, the less you know, the better.”
“It’s impossible to just make a body disappear,” I say.
Just then, Francis comes into the office and lays a passport and a credit card on the coffee table. He picks up the phone, dials a number, and puts the call on speaker.
“Hôtel Sainte-Clotilde, good evening.”
“Good evening. I was wondering if you might have a room for two people for tomorrow night.”
“We do, but it’s the last available room,” the receptionist says and informs him of the room rates.
Francis says that he’ll take it and makes the reservation in the name of Alexis Clément.
Your mother looks at me as if to say that the wheels are already turning and she is waiting only for my signal to continue.
“I’ll leave you to think for ten minutes,” she says.
“I don’t need time to choose between my life and that hell.”
In her eyes, I can see this is the answer she’s hoping for. She sits down next to me and takes me by the shoulders.
“You have to understand one thing. This will work only if you do exactly what I tell you. No questions, no looking for reasons or explanations. That’s my only condition, but it is nonnegotiable.”
I have no idea how such a plan could possibly work, but—unbelievably—I feel as though Annabelle and Francis have everything under control, that they’ll be able to repair the irreparable.
“The slightest mistake, and this is over,” Annabelle warns me. “Not only will you go to jail, but you’ll send Francis and me to jail too.”
I silently nod and ask what the plan is.
“Right now, the plan is for you to get a good night’s sleep so you’ll be fit and ready in the morning,” Annabelle says.
* * *
You know the craziest thing? That night, I slept like a baby. When your mother woke me the next morning, she was wearing jeans and a man’s jacket. She’d pinned her hair into a bun and hidden it under a cap—a German soccer cap. When she handed me the red wig and Vinca’s pink polka-dot sweater, I understood her plan. It was like the improv exercises we did in drama club when she’d tell us to slip into someone else’s skin. This was often how she set about casting a play. The difference was that, this time, the improvisation wouldn’t last five minutes, it would last a whole day, and I wouldn’t be playing for a role, I would be playing for my life.
I still remember how I felt as I put on Vinca’s clothes and the red wig. It was a feeling of fulfilment, of excitement, of consummation. I was Vinca. I had her lightness, her easy grace, her quick wit, that elegant indifference that was hers alone.
Your mother got behind the wheel of the Renault Alpine and we set off. I rolled down my window and waved to the caretaker as he raised the barrier; I waved to the two guys collecting garbage by the traffic circle. When we got to the Antibes train station, we discovered that, in order to make up for trains canceled the day before, the SNCF had added another fast train to Paris. Your mother bought the tickets. The journey to Paris passed like a breath. I wandered through every carriage so that I would be seen, so that passengers would remember me, but I never stayed in one place for long. When we arrived, your mother told me she’d chosen that hotel on the rue de Saint-Simon because she’d stayed there six months earlier and because the elderly night watchman was a little senile and would be easy to dupe. We got there at about ten o’clock and asked if we could pay for the room in advance, saying we needed to leave very early in the morning. We left just enough clues to make it seem as though Vinca had really been there. I was the one who came up with the idea of ordering Cherry Cok
e. Your mother had the idea of “forgetting” the toiletry bag with the hairbrush that had Vinca’s DNA on it.
And do you want to know what was really insane? That day—I had to drink two beers and take a Rohypnol to get to sleep—was probably the most exhilarating of my whole life.
* * *
The comedown was as brutal as the excitement had been thrilling. By the following morning, everything was once again bleak and terrifying. The moment I woke up, I nearly had a breakdown. I couldn’t imagine myself getting through another day dragging around this terrible weight of guilt and self-loathing. But I had promised your mother I would see it through. I’d already ruined my own life; I wasn’t going to bring her down with me.
We left the hotel at dawn and took the Métro, line 12 from rue du Bac to Concorde, then line 1 to the Gare de Lyon. Annabelle handed me my ticket back to Nice and told me she was heading to Montparnasse to take a later train to her sister’s in the Landes.
In a café outside the station, she warned me that there would be worse days ahead while I learned to live with what I had done and immediately added that she knew that I could do it because, like her, I was a fighter, and fighters were the only people she respected.
She told me that for women like us, women who came from nothing, life was one long battle and that we would always have to fight for everything. “The strong and the weak are not always who you think they are,” she said. “There are lots of people who wage private, painful wars.” The real task was learning to lie over the long term. And to lie to other people, you first have to learn to lie to yourself.
The Reunion Page 17