The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘You don’t believe me.’ Abruptly she flings the blanket I have covered her legs with to the floor and starts to pace. ‘My girl wouldn’t do that. Not my Madeleine. You should understand that. You of all people. Not suicide. Never suicide.’ Her voice scratches at me, taut with anger.

  I have never seen her so angry. And I feel I am somehow to blame. To blame for everything. ‘But Mme Tremblay…’ I stop myself. I understand that the notion of suicide may be anathema to her.

  ‘Let me get you another drink,’ I say lamely. ‘It will do you good.’

  ‘Nothing will ever do me any good. Not now. Not again.’

  Her eyes are savage, then suddenly blank and listless. She crumples into a chair.

  The crunch of tires on the drive together with the renewed barking of the dogs is a relief.

  ‘The police at last,’ I murmur.

  ‘You tell them. Tell them what I said. Then bring them in here to talk to me.’

  Two pink-cheeked constables stare up at me when I open the door. They look young enough to have their mothers scrub their faces.

  The smaller, plumper one addresses me politely. ‘M. Rousseau?’

  I nod. I think I recognize him. He must be one of the Miron sons. Jean-François, perhaps.

  ‘Venez, c’est par ici.’ I lead them towards the barn. The dogs sniff at their heels, then run ahead of us. They have barked themselves into silence.

  Snow has begun to leave a thin coating on the ground. But in the air it is just an icy moistness. It wets my hot face like the tears I haven’t yet found.

  Inside, I can barely bring my eyes to gaze on Madeleine. Maybe if I don’t look, she won’t be there. But the splutter of the taller policeman tells me otherwise.

  ‘Mauditcriss de tabarnak!’ he curses by Christ and tabernacle beneath his breath and runs his hand through a tight mesh of dark curls. ‘Et c’est Noël…’

  ‘Qu’est qu’on va faire?’ The other is at a loss.

  ‘Rien. Faut téléphoner.’

  They shrug their shoulders at me, order me not to touch anything, order me out in fact, since they want nothing more than to get out themselves.

  I still my trembling hands and force myself to look up at Madeleine’s face. Her expression hasn’t changed, but now I notice a certain wistfulness in it. The rope around her throat is heavy and too coarse. Not a necklace she would have chosen. I think of her grandmother’s words and then notice that under her coat, Madeleine is wearing only the briefest of blue nighties. She looks so frail. Frail and beautiful. I touch her hand. It is cold and waxy and the pressure of my fingers seems to leave an imprint.

  ‘Heh…’ Young Miron urges me on and I turn away with a shiver.

  ‘We’re going to have to ring headquarters. Don’t know who we’ll be able to get out here today. The photographer’s on holiday. Doctor Bertrand’s probably gorging himself at…’ He clamps his lips shut. ‘I’ll just get some tape from the car. We can rope off the area at least.’ He says this as if struck by divine inspiration and then chides me, ‘No one’s to go near there, you understand?’

  We’ve reached their car and I hear the curly-headed one muttering into the phone. He throws his hands up in the air as he clambers out of the car. ‘No one. Only Lucie. She’s going to ring round.’

  ‘I know where I might reach Dr Bertrand,’ I offer.

  ‘Ya?’ They glance at me with momentary suspicion, then follow me to the house. Miron changes his mind after a moment. ‘I’ll do the cordon,’ he says self-importantly.

  Mme Tremblay is in the kitchen when we come in. She has composed herself. Without a word, she pours out two steaming cups of tea and hands them to us. She won’t meet my eyes as I ask her for a telephone directory.

  The mayor’s home number has flown out of my head, but it is there, clearly listed, as befits an apparently unblemished civic official. It takes at least ten rings for a voice to answer and then it is muffled by a dozen others in the background.

  ‘Mme Desforges?’ I apologise for disturbing her Christmas gathering, but make it clear that I need to speak to her husband.

  The mayor chides me as soon as he comes on the line. He rebukes me for not offering my Christmas greetings in person.

  I can see him, glass in hand, swaying slightly, his face beaming, then tightening in irritation as, tersely, I explain my business.

  ‘Madeleine Blais! Ah non. What a drama.’ He is imagining the headlines, wondering if they can be deflected, making a quick calculation of how the episode might be turned to the town’s advantage.

  Desforges is a shrewd man. He keeps up with things. He has even managed to make an advantage of Ste-Anne’s being off the map. Concessions have been granted to antique shops along the old highway, picturesque now that the through traffic from Montréal is concentrated on the autoroute. Artists and artisans have been courted, wooed away from the city with the promise of space and country quiet. With a display of nationalist fervour, he has wheedled provincial funds and had an old barn converted into a plush exhibition hall. Like a little de Gaulle, a president whose name is often on his lips, Desforges understands the importance of culture, even if he is blind and deaf to art.

  ‘Yes, Bertrand is here,’ he says to me after a pause. ‘I’ll send him over. And I’ll rouse our beloved Chief of Police.’ Old Gagnon is not his favourite official. ‘He should just about manage to find a camera. But listen, Pierre,’ he says after another hesitation. ‘This is too big for us. Madeleine Blais’ home address is in Montréal now, isn’t it? I think I’ll just make a call to the metropolis.’ He chuckles, then offers as an afterthought, ‘Terrible business. Heartbreaking. Give my condolences to Mme Tremblay.’

  Two hours later and the area round the barn looks like the parking lot for an open air spectacle. Dr Bertrand has arrived, growling with ill humour or indigestion, manoeuvring his belly with less dexterity than his black bag. Old Gagnon, the chief of police is here, with some kind of assistant yielding a note book. The two constables hover round them waiting for orders. Another man carries a metal ladder which glints at every camera flash.

  A lean, tousle-haired photographer clicks away at Gagnon’s instructions. As I watch him, I have the distinct impression that he is in fact the new man our local paper has hired. There is a woman at his side. She may be a girlfriend, but she displays all the avid curiosity of a budding journalist.

  The ambulance is here, too, its light still flashing. Thickening snowflakes turn blue, then white and blue again, as it traps and releases them into the gathering dusk. The uniformed paramedics stand to the side and stamp their feet on the ground while they wait impatiently for the order to carry Madeleine away. Even Mayor Desforges has just turned up in his new municipal Mercedes.

  He takes Mme Tremblay’s hand in a perfect semblance of mourning. She averts her face and he turns towards me. ‘Tragic,’ he murmurs. ‘She was so young. So talented.’

  I nod. I cannot speak or make myself believe in the reality of all this.

  The photographer’s sidekick has no such difficulty. She approaches us with a smile and a shake of long hair. ‘What do you think of all this, M. le Maire?’ she asks obsequiously. A notebook appears magically from her bag.

  Never one to alienate journalists, Desforges clears his throat in preparation for a suitable statement.

  Mme Tremblay interrupts with sudden force. ‘I need to speak to the police chief. Right now. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Desforges is solicitous. ‘He’ll be with you in a moment, I’m sure.’

  ‘And you are…?’ the girl asks sweetly.

  ‘Nevermind who I am.’ Mme Tremblay gives her a withering look. She stomps off in the direction of the barn, the dogs trailing her.

  I run after her. I am afraid for her.

  ‘I’ll make sure Gagnon talks to you as soon as he’s finished in there.’

  She stares at me as if she has forgotten who I am.

  ‘Look, he’s coming out now. Why don’
t you go back to the house? Keep warm. I’ll bring him to you.’

  ‘No, I’m staying right here. Then I’m going with them,’ she says. She has already seen Gagnon gesture to the ambulance men. ‘Going with Madeleine.’

  I catch old Gagnon’s eye and wave him over. He walks with a kind of careful belligerence. He is not a man who likes being outdoors. An old protegée of my father’s, he prefers paperwork and hides his craftiness behind a sullen indolence.

  ‘C’est Mme Tremblay,’ I introduce them. ‘Madeleine Blais’s grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ He assesses her from watery eyes, then bows his head in respect.

  Before either of us can say anything more, Mme Tremblay blurts out, ‘It’s not suicide. Madeleine didn’t do it.’

  ‘But Mme…all the signs.’

  ‘I don’t care about the signs.’ Her voice rises, shrill now, so that everyone turns. ‘She didn’t, I tell you.’

  ‘The autopsy will…’

  ‘Nevermind the autopsy. She was happy last night. She was laughing.’ Her face twists. Her eyes wander.

  The men are carrying the stretcher out of the barn. On it there is a bleak zipped sack.

  My knees don’t feel right. There is a sudden pressure inside my head so that my skull grows too tight. I take a deep shuddering breath. Before I can move, Mme Tremblay has launched herself towards the ambulance, propelled herself through the open doors. The collies are barking again. One of them leaps in after her.

  ‘Ah non!’ Gagnon exclaims. He lumbers towards the car. I half see him talking to her, gesticulating. But my eyes are on that sack. I put my hand out as it passes close to me. There is something silky and firm beneath the thick polythene covering. Yet it resists my touch. Madeleine behind a screen, I think. A screen filled only with shadows.

  A high pitched cry comes from the ambulance.

  ‘Pierre, viens ici,’ Gagnon orders me out of my dream. ‘Explain to her. Tell her she can’t go along. Tell her we’ll take good care of the body. Of her granddaughter,’ he corrects himself. ‘Tell her in English.’

  ‘I’ll give her a sedative,’ Dr Bertrand has come up beside us. With an effort, he hoists himself into the ambulance. ‘You know me, Mme Tremblay.’ He whispers something to her and after a few moments, she emerges from the car. Bertrand is right behind her.

  Gagnon’s relief is palpable. ‘I’ll remember what you said, Mme Tremblay.’

  She gives him a cold stare. ‘It was that man. That man who came with her.’ Suddenly she spits. The gesture is so out of character, that we are all transfixed.

  ‘A man?’ Gagnon finally mumbles.

  ‘Yes. With a pony-tail. And a black leather jacket.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘That’s just it. I can’t remember. It was so late. I didn’t think… I didn’t pay attention… I didn’t know…’

  Her face is so white that I fear she may faint. I put my arm round her.

  The stretcher-bearers make a detour round us and lift the body into the ambulance.

  ‘Paul or Pierre or --’ She glances at me. ‘No, something foreign.’

  ‘Tomorrow. You’ll remember tomorrow.’ Gagnon has stopped paying attention. His constable is at his side, carrying a large bag. His hands are milky sheathes of transparent plastic.

  ‘That’s all the clothes, the rope, everything you said.’ he murmurs.

  ‘Angelo or…’

  ‘You’ll have to stay with her, Pierre,’ Bertrand says. ‘Keep her warm. Make her eat something. Don’t leave her alone.’ He lowers his voice. ‘She’s a tough bird, but these things, eh, they take their toll.’ He shakes his puffy face. ‘You too. You look as if you could use a drop of that old firewater. What about it, Mme Tremblay?’ He fixes her with his pale blue eyes. ‘Have you got something to warm these tired bones?’

  His arm through hers, he edges her up the path towards the house, waves me along, but Gagnon holds me back.

  ‘Was Madeleine Blais ever mixed up with drugs?’ he asks in a lowered voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The question startles me.

  ‘Oh no. It’s nothing. Forget it.’ Gagnon ambles away just as Mayor Desforges arrives at my side.

  ‘I got rid of that pesky journalist.’ He licks pursed lips.

  ‘Heh, join us in a drink.’ Dr Bertrand calls over.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. A quick one. I’m colder than a stiff,’ Desforges announces, then quickly clamps his hand over his mouth.

  In the house, Mme Tremblay makes straight for the kitchen. With the clumsy movements of a robot, she puts out three glasses, fetches a bottle from next door, pours whisky, then looks about her at a loss.

  Her eyes alight on the counter. The uncooked turkey is sitting there, its stretched white flesh moist with thick slabs of bacon.

  Silently, she lifts the heavy oven tray. She gestures at me to open the door for her. She whistles for the dogs.

  With a great heave, she flings the pale dead bird out onto the snow.

  2

  ______

  A single lamp casts shadows over Mme Tremblay’s living room. From somewhere a wooden door clatters in the wind. It is the only sound to have punctuated the silence of all the hours we have sat here, apart from the ‘no’ she uttered when I made to stoke the fire. This has long since burnt to ash.

  I would like to put an end to our wordless vigil. She is waiting for me to leave and I know that I must stay, though I wish her in bed. Her anger and intensity have usurped my emotion. I cannot think in her presence, cannot feel what I want and need to feel - which is the state Madeleine was in during those last days or hours or minutes leading to her decision to take her own life. For of that I am as blindly convinced as Mme Tremblay is of the opposite. I don’t know why. The story she blurted out to Gagnon about a nameless man with a suspicious pony-tail and malevolent eyes makes no sense to me. But then nothing makes any sense. I need to be alone and prod that numbness which sits where feelings ought to be.

  Red and blue and grey threads weave through the arabesques in the worn carpet. I have memorized their pattern as I have now memorized the place and shape of all the objects in this familiar room - the silver framed photographs of Madeleine at different ages and in different roles, the blue and white china on the dresser, the animal etchings on the walls, horses and sheep and mallards and robins, the scratched and polished mahogany of the piano in the corner.

  The old clock in the hall chimes the half-hour. I glance at my watch and note that it is already twenty to twelve. I don’t know why the pills Bertrand gave her haven’t taken effect.

  ‘Perhaps you ought to eat something,’ I say. ‘I can make you a sandwich, a cup of tea. Then we really ought to go to bed.’

  Her eyes focus on me with difficulty. ‘You help yourself. There’s everything in the fridge. After that, you can go home.’

  ‘Dr Bertrand said…’

  ‘I know what he said.’ She shrugs and suddenly there are tears on her cheeks, luminous, silent. She wipes them away. ‘Pierre,’ she murmurs to me in a different tone, the tone she used to use when she still trusted me. ‘You don’t really believe it, do you? Madeleine wouldn’t. Not Madeleine. She loved life too much. She wasn’t like that.’

  Her voice breaks and she sobs aloud, once, a loud uncontrolled cry. It seems to surprise her, for she puts her hand to her lips.

  ‘Let me see you up,’ I say.

  She shakes her head. ‘You go. The guest room is made up. You know the one. Last door on the right.’

  ‘Please, Mme Tremblay. You need to rest. Rest for tomorrow.’

  At last she lets me take her arm. On the stairs I feel how much she needs its support. But at Madeleine’s room, she stops and pulls away from me with sudden surprising force. She throws the door open.

  ‘Stupid. How stupid of me!’

  Light glares over a bed so rumpled I can’t take my eyes from it even though I don’t want to see. A black dress in some soft angora wool seems just to
have landed on the bedpost. Its sleeve sways slightly. The fluffy white carpet is dotted with black - knickers, a lacy bra, stockings. The odour of sex lingers in the air.

  ‘Have you remembered the name of the man with the pony-tail?’ I hear myself ask, my voice unsteady.

  Mme Tremblay isn’t listening. Her attention is elsewhere. She is scouring the corner table, the desk, the chest of drawers. Objects move. Sheets of paper fly. Every item in Madeleine’s capacious handbag is flung out on the bed. She bends to Madeleine’s open case and heaves out trousers, skirts, sweaters, underwear, adding to the litter on the floor.

  ‘Nothing!’ she announces after a moment, an edge of triumph in her tone. ‘Nothing!’

  I know what she has been looking for. There is no point my saying that a suicide note could be anywhere - in the house or out of it, in the post, in Madeleine’s apartment.

  All I want is to get out of this room, but I find myself folding the garments Mme Tremblay has tossed out of Madeleine’s bag, replacing them one by one, gathering, touching, in a mute rite.

  Mme Tremblay is watching me, so I put back everything, even what wasn’t originally there. Even though I would like to steal something away with me, so that I can keep the scent of Madeleine’s skin close to my nostrils.

  The bed in the guestroom sways and sags in the middle and smells of lavender. It is impossible to lie in it without rolling downhill. Madeleine and I slept here together on occasion and laughed at the squeak of the springs and the dangerous incline. A long time ago.

  Outside, the old beech creaks in the wind. Snow fringes the outer window. Its pallor creates the illusion of dawn. Memories crowd in on me, preventing sleep. I want them. I need them. In her death, I need to separate the woman from the icon she became, all over again.

  When did I start to love Madeleine? Was it when I realised that with her days had the intensity of weeks, weeks of months or years? Did I already love her before I knew what love was?

  Easter 1964. I was fourteen years old and home for the holidays from the collège classique in Montréal where I boarded. Not that home was where I had left it.