He convinced himself that Sanz could not have done them any harm, he had never attacked children. This whole time Sanz had been brooding about the discovery that he might have a son, and he seemed to have cast himself in the role of the misunderstood father. There was no end to his delusions. Vilar tried not to think about the boys, since there was nothing he could do. He gunned the engine, eager to get away from the Médoc as quickly as possible and leave all this behind him. He sped down the motorway, barrelled through the interchanges, crossed the suspension bridge over the river, oblivious to the city and its halo of light below.
I’m coming, little man, I’m coming, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.
His eyes filled with tears. He felt again the hard, bitter lump in his throat. He felt exhausted with grief, with rage, with loneliness. Vainly he tried to imagine what he would find when he got there. He knew only that he would get there at the darkest hour of night. Into the primordial abyss of all terrors.
Over and over he silently mouthed Pablo’s name simply so that he could give some meaning to the journey, so he could keep on driving rather than pull over onto the verge to sleep, or to die after putting a bullet in the belly of the man who had been mutilated by a terrified boy, who now lay sleeping on the back seat. But sometimes his invocation produced no effect, no answer, stripped of its magic by the silence.
Driving at more than 150 k.p.h., the twinkling headlights of the cars he passed were reflected in the rear-view mirror which he checked every now and then to see whether Sanz had woken or was sitting up. He took the bypass around Libourne, stuck behind a Spanish truck he could not overtake on the narrow two-way road, sped past Saint-Émilion, his hands clutching the steering wheel. As he approached Castillon he shouted to Sanz to wake up because they were nearly there. When the man did not reply, he thought about stopping and knocking him about a bit, but then saw him sit up, framed in the headlights of the cars behind, rubbing his eyes, clicking his tongue and complaining that he was thirsty.
25
The tide drove him onward.
His panic subsided as the jetty retreated into the distance and the details blurred into a dark mess of shadows quivering against the light. Reeling from the pain, the man had staggered back in the water, thrashing his blood-drenched body and his arms, and for a long time the boy could hear his howls and his threats above the roar of the river. Then suddenly the figure disappeared, and Victor did not know if he had fallen into the water or made it back to the riverbank.
He tried to see if Julien had got to his feet again, but before long all he could make out was the silhouette of the dock jutting out into the water. The current had carried him into the middle of the estuary, and he was helpless against this power, this inexorable slowness. The banks were now no more than hazy lines weighed down by a sky that seemed about to push them underwater and drown them. Twisted leafless branches drifted alongside him, sometimes rolling so that their severed limbs ploughed the water like blind fingers trying to catch something in the rushing torrent.
Victor wondered which of the boat or the dead tree would better survive the whims of the raging current. He kept his mind busy with such thoughts, staving off the mounting panic that gripped him, adrift as he was on this roaring vastness that surged around him in its relentless power. Never had he felt so far from everything.
The sun was setting in swirls of dazzling flame and for a moment the boy was confused, lost in a blaze of phosphorus beyond which he could see nothing. He sat in the back of the boat clutching the bag to avoid this brightness that threatened to consume him, reduce him to ashes, to an inconsequential dust that would immediately be absorbed by the water. He laid a hand on the urn inside the bag and whispered to his mother, sharing his terrified thoughts.
“Manou.”
Then the flames guttered out, leaving nothing but a fading golden glow, and the blue of the eastern sky grew gradually deeper. Two waves whipped past over the swell. They lifted the boat gently and he watched as these ripples moved away into the distance until all their energy was dissolved.
He was moving upstream. He passed the village, recognised the steeple of the church, tried to make out the details of the bank, hoping against hope that Rebecca or Marilou might be there, might see him pass and wave to him, but he was too far out, too small in this vastness for anyone to see him or even think to look for him out here. There was a rustle of trees, a slight backwash, as with every passing minute the river became dark, impenetrable even as the tide surged forward, causing the boat to lurch and roll at times, carving out hollows in the water in front of the bow.
He wondered what they were all doing now, trying to picture Marilou’s dark eyes, trying to feel again Rebecca’s kisses on his lips. He smiled in spite of everything. Then he thought about Julien and he felt a shudder in his chest that made him turn to look back into the gloom. He pictured again the brutal punch, heard once more the dull, blunt thud, saw the little body fall backwards like a lump of wood. Surely noone could die from a single punch. Lots of punches, maybe. And besides, the kid had taken his fair share of beatings in the past, the kind of beatings that left him sprawled on the ground while he was punched and kicked anywhere it might hurt. He had told Victor about it one night when they were on the terrace staring at the stars, picking out the constellations that Julien could never seem to recognise. Staring up at the sky, Julien had talked about it in a neutral tone, pretending not to care about the thick leather strap, talking about his mother screaming, huddled under the table to avoid the blows, about his father laying into him, talked about the terrifying sight he had discovered coming home from school – his father’s body lying in the bath, the head half blown away, brains splattered on the bathroom tiles.
The kid had said all this then suddenly fallen silent, heaving a sigh, bowing his head, and had stayed motionless for a long time while Victor tried to think of something to say – grisly images of blood and human remains flitting through his mind, corpses sprawled in impossible poses – wondering how he would have reacted had he seen his mother so horribly mutilated. He had tried to share in the horror that still terrified Julien, but his own horrors quickly engulfed him again, keeping him at a distance from the other boy’s tragedy. They had sat in silence, each with their own ghosts.
Victor suddenly wanted to see them all again. He wanted to feel their presence. Wanted to hear their chatter and their laughter. He wanted to feel Marilou’s furtive eyes on him, to see Julien’s scrawny frame dangling precariously between two garden chairs. He tried to use his crude plank to steer towards the bank. He grunted with the effort, slashed at the water with his makeshift oar to subdue the rising tide, to break the back of this monster. He managed to turn the bow of the boat towards the bank, but now the swell lashed the side of the boat, threatening to capsize it. He struggled on for some minutes more, tossed on the current, then fell back into the boat and howled in frustration. He lapsed into a sort of tired stupor.
He could see the wharfs of the old Pauillac refinery coming towards him. The beacons were lit now. Further upriver, a red marker buoy bobbed on the water. He did not know what time it was, but he knew it was late. Nine o’clock possibly. A lighthouse appeared in front of him and he quickly made out the dark mass of the island, bristling with tall trees whose tops still flickered in the setting sun. The estuary was narrowing, and along the banks lights gradually appeared, some blinking, others steady. Victor watched the night draw in, expanding and settling into the crevices of the shore, then spreading to erase the contours of the landscape, obliterating colours until that instant when the blue in the west faded completely from the starless sky. He waited for the moment when everything is in darkness, when eyes grow wide to drink in the dense shadows to make out the faintest trace of light on things.
The boat moved so close to the island that he could hear the last of the birds chirrup as they went to sleep. He picked up his paddle again and steered towards a clump of trees that seemed to dip into the water. The cu
rrent was clearly weaker now, because he was able to draw alongside, grasp a low branch and wedge the boat against a tree stump and tie it up.
Night had now enveloped everything. The river lapped and sang against the boat. From time to time, a light from the far bank trembled on the water. In the distance, he could see the wharfs at Pauillac, the lights of the marina. The headlights of passing cars. Other people going about their ordinary lives while he was so far from everything, so alone, happy perhaps, for the first time since she died. He knew that it would be possible to feel that wholeness again. There would be other moments like this, simple and mysterious. The darkness and the murmur of things. He felt strong and sure as though in some impregnable refuge.
He took the urn out of the bag and hugged it to him.
Manou. Look how beautiful it is, and here we are sitting peacefully. Look, over there. And sometimes the fish jump out of the water. Can you hear them?
He felt himself suffocating and, with something like a whimper, sucked air into his lungs.
I know you’re here and I know I’ll never see you again. I talk to you, but you don’t answer anymore, but I know you’re listening.
He ate in the darkness, groping, unable to see his hands. He let his fingers feel their way, taking the knife, opening a tin, scooping mouthfuls that he chewed slowly, solemnly, savouring the moment as much as the food.
Then he lay down in the bottom of the boat on the fisherman’s blanket and studied the sky, waiting for a star to flicker on just for him, letting sleep wash over him, driving out his tiredness, and still he could see nothing in the heavens, no sign, nothing but that useless powdery light that was probably already dead.
26
They stopped in the car park of a hypermarket next to the petrol station outside Castillon. Vilar immediately got out of the car, slipped the pistol into his belt, stretched himself to shake off the stiffness in his shoulders. He opened the back door and cut Sanz free with the Stanley knife, but the man simply sat there, his head thrown back, his mouth half open. Vilar looked at him, realising he was in a bad way and wondered whether the blow to the head had been just too forceful. He found himself worrying that Sanz would die or lapse into a coma before all this was over. Always supposing it would soon be over, that it would ever be over. It seemed to him that Sanz’s dying would be one last dirty trick on his part.
He took a few steps, desperate for a cigarette, looked across the wide expanse of tarmac dotted with little shelters filled with shopping trolleys. It was depressing and ugly. The heat soaked up by the earth now rose in steady waves carrying the unpleasant smell of tar and motor oil. Behind him he heard the sound of voices and laughing. He turned and saw a guy who was filling up at the petrol station chatting to some people sitting in the car. Two or three heads bobbed; the people inside were larking around and the car bounced on its shock absorbers. He could hear them laughing. It was Friday night. A group of mates heading for a nightclub, Vilar thought. An arm appeared through an open window, offering the man holding the petrol pump a square bottle, gin possibly. The guy refused, suggesting his mate stick his dick in it and stop drinking. The car rocked with a roar of laughter.
They shot off in a screech of tyres, and then there was silence. Vilar went back to Sanz who was looking around, dazed.
“Right,” Vilar said, “what the hell do we do now? Are we supposed to wait until opening time? What time is your brother showing up?”
“He’ll come when we phone him. You do it. The number’s on a piece of paper in my right-hand trouser pocket.”
Vilar dug into the bloodstained pocket, found the paper and dialled the number. Pradeau answered immediately.
“We’re at the hypermarket car park. Next to the petrol station.”
“I’ll be there in three minutes.”
“What exactly is it that you found?”
“As I said, I’ll be right there. Is Éric with you?”
“Of course he’s here. I was hardly going to leave him behind. Not alive at any rate.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
They hung up simultaneously. Vilar walked away from the car, sucked air into his lungs to get rid of the weight that was pressing on his chest, gazed at the hypermarket, all its lights out. He could not think straight, could not come up with any plan, any idea. He saw pits filled with water and bodies dumped in them. He saw a figure running away, unreachable. He retraced his steps, watching the road so he would see Pradeau arrive. Sanz was smoking.
“Give me a cigarette.”
Sanz indicated the pack and the lighter on the seat next to him. The cigarette pack was smeared with blood.
“Don’t worry, the ciggies are dry.”
He coughed. The same cough he had as he choked and spluttered over his obscenities on the telephone.
The first puff made Vilar dizzy. He took another few steps. He could not picture the sort of place Pradeau would lead him to. He felt as though all his vital functions were suspended: his thoughts, his pulse, his breathing.
He scanned the car park beneath the useless glow of the street lights, and thought about Pablo appearing at the far end, his small frame, barely visible, caught between the darkness and the artificial light, still held back by the shadows, before suddenly breaking free and walking towards him, his footsteps slow and shaky. He focused every ounce of mental energy he could still muster on this vision, despite the breathless state he had been floating in since they arrived here, because sometimes he let himself go, sometimes he allowed himself to believe in the heart-rending illusion of a magical wish that might come true. He stared at a door and dreamed that it might open so that his son could step through; he listened to the hushed silence, expecting that his mobile would ring and he would hear his boy’s voice. He dreamed impossible things, telling himself that for as long as was at all possible, he would stay alive.
The headlights glided towards him almost without a sound. He shuddered when he saw them. He slipped a hand into his pocket and touched the warm steel of the gun and felt miserable that simply touching the pistol reassured him.
Pradeau parked at a right angle to Vilar’s car. He opened the door, seemed to hesitate for a second and then stepped out. He glanced at Vilar and then went over to Sanz, leaned into the car and asked him what had happened, how he felt.
“My son hit me with a fucking pickaxe or something, I don’t know. Ripped my ear off, the little fucker.”
“Your son? What son?”
“Victor. Nadia’s kid.”
“We have to get you to a hospital. Are you in pain?”
“Some. But don’t worry about me, I’ve got painkillers. Anyway, I don’t give a shit. You have to take this guy where he has to go. Do what you need to do.”
Vilar stepped closer and listened.
“What the hell are we doing?” he said.
Pradeau waved at him vaguely, to wait or to shut up. He was still bent over his brother, trying to persuade him to let him take him to see a doctor. Sanz was swearing and telling Pradeau to leave him in peace. Their deep voices rumbled inside the car. Sanz was getting angry.
“Look, what does it matter, this is it. You said it yourself … I don’t know if I can carry on much further …”
Pradeau stood up again. For the first time since he arrived he looked at Vilar, stared into his eyes, and Vilar could finally see him properly. He was thinner, the skin on his face looked like crêpe paper. His eyes were both too wide or veiled by drooping eyelids. Vilar thought he must have taken something, or that he had been taking so many pills recently that he no longer knew what it meant to sleep. He spoke in a monotone, betraying no emotion, as though talking to a squad before a police operation.
“It’s ten minutes from here. I don’t know what we’ll find there. The guy who hangs out there is called Jean-Luc Lafon. It’s his house in the country. He started out as a chartered accountant and compliance officer in the ’70s. The sort of work that opens doors, means you’ve got files on everyone. He was well known
in business circles in the area. Heavy industry, wine-making, everyone swore by him. I’m guessing he’s still got a lot of dirty laundry he could wash in public. I did a bit of searching – it was easy, Morvan had done most of the groundwork. He gave up everything in ’95 to do business with Eastern European countries. I don’t know any more than that. Morvan had sent a memo requesting that a formal investigation be opened into Lafon’s dealings. He suspected the guy was involved in human trafficking: illegal workers, prostitutes and kids.”
“So, we contact Interpol, we send them Morvan’s paper.”
“I don’t think you get it. He’s the one who has photos of someone we think might be your son. We found more of them on Morvan’s hard drive. Lafon swapped files with a ton of people. I’ve brought a couple if you want to see them. Morvan found them and managed to trace them back to this guy. My brother sent them to you without telling me, there was nothing I could do to stop him, to stop this.”
Vilar felt his eyes fill with tears. He opened his mouth to suck in as much air as he could.
“Just as there was nothing you could do for Morvan, I suppose? Since you couldn’t stop this bastard from killing him, you thought you’d give him a hand, is that it?”
Pradeau looked at him without reacting, seeming not to understand what had been said. Then Vilar strode over to the car, grabbed Sanz by his blood-soaked collar and dragged him out. Sanz whined and flailed his arms weakly, collapsing on all fours on the tarmac.
“Pick up your shit before I drive over it. He’s getting blood everywhere. And anyway, I don’t want him dying in my car. I think I’d rather go alone. Just tell me where it is.”
Pradeau helped his brother to his feet and carried him to his own car where he had no alternative but to let him slump onto the back seat. He closed the car door carefully, as though not wanting to wake the injured man, before coming back to Vilar, standing closer to him than he had when he first arrived.
Talking to Ghosts Page 38