The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘Pierre!’ Her voice is startled.

  There is no need for that tone of surprise. It is hardly the first time that Maryla has come to my bed, though perhaps it is now longer than I remember.

  Her lips are warm and slightly bitter with coffee. I like the bitterness, like the warmth more. It is there in the fingers she curves round my neck, there in the cleavage her dress leaves bare. I unbutton it and find her small breasts. They are warm, too, and as I put my face to them I can hear the rapid beat of her heart. I kiss the life of her, lick at it, trace the heat to its source and pray that it can warm both of us.

  Afterwards Maryla is happy. She doesn’t instantly spring up to scrub herself clean in a way that I have long guessed is a prelude to the confession she will make the next day. Latterly the confessions have been to my brother, which may be one of the many reasons our love-making faltered.

  No, today she lies peacefully in the crook of my arm. I am grateful to her for that, grateful too for her warmth and the caress of her fingers on my chest which remind me that I may still be alive.

  ‘Perhaps now that…’ she begins and I put a stilling finger to her lips.

  I know she is going to say that now that Madeleine is dead there may be hope for the two of us. I don’t want her to say it. I don’t want her to tell me again that she loves me, that she loves my goodness and my beauty and my dark eyes and darker hair. That I am the best man apart from Jerzy she has ever been fortunate enough to meet. I know she is mistaken and I kiss her to ensure her silence.

  From a distance I hear Madeleine’s laughter gathering again and with all my being, I wish her here.

  Both act and wish make me feel like a criminal.

  3

  ______

  ‘Pierre Rousseau?’

  The man at the door wears a trimly-belted soft grey coat which squares his shoulders to perfection and an elegant matching hat. Sitting incongruously beneath it is a boxer’s face, complete with a mash of a nose and a stubborn jaw. His steel-dark eyes protrude slightly and are on a level with my own. They examine me with sullen curiosity.

  ‘Pierre Rousseau?’ he repeats. His stance has a hint of belligerence, despite the hands casually hidden in the recess of his pockets.

  I hesitate. The morning has already brought two phone calls from curious acquaintances and three from journalists. I am not prepared to confront another in person, certainly one whose feet are so solidly planted on the ground.

  The man brings a wallet out from the depths of his pocket and flashes it open for me.

  ‘Detective Contini. Sûreté du Québec.’

  I stand back to let him in. Mayor Desforges has pulled in his contacts. But for the Provincial Police to take over, the circumstances of death have to be suspicious.

  ‘Your Police Chief, Emile Gagnon, recommended that I see you early in our investigation. You were one of the first on the scene of Madeleine Blais’ death… And he thought you might be able to help me. Orient me in Ste-Anne as well. You come highly recommended.’

  His voice is smooth and he throws me a complicit smile as I take his hat and coat and usher him into the living room.

  ‘So the matter is no longer in local hands?’

  ‘Let’s say we’re all working together. Big name. Big pressure. Too bad they didn’t get us in here on day one, eh?’

  He gauges my reaction on some unknown scale of civic loyalty, then looks round the room with an appreciative murmur and settles into the sofa. There are newspapers scattered on the table. The Montréal papers. All of them featuring Madeleine’s death on the front page. I wish now that I had tucked them away.

  He gestures at the papers. ‘You can see why.’

  ‘Yes, I guess I can. And the autopsy?’

  He doesn’t answer. He is staring at me. ‘We know each other by the way. You may not remember…’

  I study his face and he laughs, points to his nose, to receeding hair and solid girth. ‘Before all this.’

  ‘Oh?’ I cannot place the features.

  ‘You haven’t fared so badly. Look much the same in fact, bar a few lines. Jean Brébeuf, it was. You were a couple of years ahead of me and I didn’t stay the course. The parental money ran out.’ He grimaces. ‘Nor was I really cut out for all that classical education.’

  The smile is back on his face, tugging at full lips. He is waiting for me to remember, teasing, as if it were some kind of test.

  ‘Richard Contini,’ he prods.

  ‘Can I get you some coffee?’ I point at the flask. ‘Should still be hot.’

  ‘Sure. Black. You were Père Levesque’s favourite. Our great historian, remember? He had you help out with us slower ones. On one occasion, I recall, you read out what he told us was a model paper, all about the Parti des Patriotes and the grievances which led to the rebellion of 1837 against the Brits.’

  He gives me a smirk, as if he has just triumphantly recited a piece of homework.

  ‘Ya. It was full of calls for real democracy and independence for the French. And gory details about British reprisals. Villages burning. Women and children thrust out into the cold. Deportations. Executions. Hangings…’

  He pauses dramatically. The coffee I am pouring spills over the edge of the cup.

  ‘Yes, I do remember that.’ I banish Madeleine’s body and compose myself. ‘Towards the end of that term, Père Levesque took us out on a separatist demo. Queen Victoria Day, 1964. It was the first time I saw the Union Jack burned. We were marching towards the Monument des Patriotes where the hangings had taken place. There were police everywhere.’ I look at him pointedly. ‘On foot, motorbikes, horses.’

  He coughs. ‘Yes, well that day I was right beside you. You were supposed to make sure I didn’t get into trouble.’

  I stare at him. A little boy’s face comes into focus, dark eyes gazing up at me in fearful respect, a tuft of light brown hair, a hand clinging to my jacket.

  ‘Riccardo Contini,’ I murmur.

  ‘That’s me. But let’s get back to the present. Madeleine Blais. You knew her well apparently?’

  I nod without meeting his eyes. He has reached into the bowl of walnuts on the table and is cracking two of them against each other in the palm of his hand. The gesture seems unconscious, but the crack is loud, brutal. With an air of surprise, he looks at the mangle of innards and shells, then starts to pick at them delicately.

  ‘Had she talked of suicide?’

  My ‘no’ wavers, a visible hesitation. ‘Maybe once or twice. In the way that everyone does.’

  He looks at me sceptically. ‘You don’t seem too sure.’

  ‘I didn’t see her all that much. Of late.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ He takes a notebook from his pocket and waits for my answer.

  ‘So you’re treating it as suicide?’

  ‘We have an open mind. Despite these.’ He points contemptuously at the papers and I gather them up, place them to the side of the hearth.

  ‘When did you last see her? What kind of shape was she in?’

  I keep my tone even and tell him about how troubled Madeleine was over the killings at the Université de Montréal. ‘She was afraid. Men hate women, she told me.’

  ‘Nothing more specific?’

  I shake my head. ‘She was depressed.’

  ‘So who isn’t?’ he grumbles.

  From his pocket, he takes out a pack of du Maurier and a square gold lighter, flicks it over and over on the table in a series of slow somersaults.

  ‘Nasty affair that. Got a lot of people down. But hardly enough of a motive. On its own.’

  ‘Madeleine took it very hard.’

  He nods sagely, lights up and inhales with visible pleasure. ‘What about other things? Her personal life. Love affairs? Career? Last reviews weren’t wonderful.’

  ‘Did you see the play?’ I ask with too much disbelief.

  ‘Hedda Gabler?’ His look is judicious and I wonder whether he is about to lie. Then he grins and his face become
s wholly amiable. ‘No. To tell you the truth, I have no stomach for theatre. Too much out there.’ He waves dramatically towards the window where there is only the gloom of gathering clouds. ‘Still, my wife keeps me in touch. And I know it’s about a woman who kills herself.’

  He sips his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve seen Mlle Blais in a film or two over the years. A beautiful woman. But let’s get back to the present. So she was depressed. Love affairs not going well, either, I imagine?’

  I shrug.

  ‘No, why should she tell you, eh? Still, there was that man with the pony-tail. We’ll have to check on him. He left lots of prints. In the bedroom. They’re dusting for them now.’

  ‘You’ve been to see Mme Tremblay?’

  He laughs. ‘I’m not twelve years old anymore. I know my job.’

  His hands are busy with the walnuts again. That casual cracking, like a threat.

  ‘And the lab reports?’

  ‘All in due course. Short staffed over the holidays. It’s the car we need to find.’

  ‘What car?’

  He looks at me in surprise. ‘Madeleine Blais’ car. It’s not where her grandmother claims she left it and your guys haven’t traced it yet. Apparently…’ he flicks pages in his notebook, ‘Mme Tremblay heard it revving and driving off at about two in the morning. Which proves nothing, of course. Still…’

  He tucks the notebook into his pocket and looks up at me candidly. ‘I’d like you to come with me. Give me a hand with things. In town.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, though I feel oddly reluctant. I don’t want to confront people, don’t want to hear them speculating about Madeleine. Yet at the same time I sense I have been blessed with an unparalleled opportunity. With Contini, I will be at the helm of the investigation. He will help me make sense of things. Put me in possession of facts.

  Somewhere in the midst of these facts and my knowledge, I will arrive at some kind of truth about Madeleine. Madeleine, the mistress of illusion.

  A north wind is blowing and the police tape flutters around the old barn like festive streamers at the launching of some ancient ship. A television crew is in attendance. At the side of the barn, a man points a camera through a window. People cluster round, chattering with animation and stamping their feet against the cold. A red rose has been tossed across the barrier. It lies like a gash of blood in the snow.

  ‘Damn!’ Detective Contini mutters. ‘Just what we don’t need.’ With loud authority, he urges the onlookers away, shouts at the cameraman.

  A man shoves a microphone towards his mouth.

  Contini pushes it aside. ‘There’ll be a press conference. Soon. You’ll be notified.’ He urges me under the tape.

  ‘Damn intruders! Fools, tramping everywhere. No sense. How am I supposed to reconstruct anything. And this confounded snow! Even if there was anything to find, we wouldn’t now.’

  He crosses his arms and pounds his shoulder with gloved hands. ‘Fucking cold. Heh, you know the joke? An old Québecois is asked what he does in summer and he takes off his toque, scratches his head, and answers, “On that day, I go fishing.” ’

  He guffaws. He is trying to put me at ease, but as we trudge into the barn, I can barely lift my eyes from the ground.

  ‘So, Mme Tremblay brought you in here and what did you see?’

  I start to fumble with words. I don’t want to remember. ‘Didn’t you look at the pictures?’

  ‘Sure, I saw the pictures. But pictures are selective. Like memory. Put the two together and I might get somewhere. So she was hanging here?’

  I nod.

  He is looking around, examining the assortment of broken chairs, the beams, the bits of hay, dispersed now, calibrating the height of the pony’s stall with his arms.

  ‘How tall would you say Madeleine Blais was?’

  ‘Five-foot six. A little over.’

  ‘She was wearing heels?’

  The lace-up boots spring into my mind and I shiver and nod.

  ‘Was she an acrobat?’

  I stare at him.

  ‘No, an actress.’ This is not the time for more jokes. ‘Oh, I see.’ I follow his upward gaze. The beam is high. I would have trouble reaching it. But I imagine Madeleine, her lightness, her feline grace. ‘Yes, she was agile. She was good at all that.’

  ‘Still. It’s pretty damned high.’ He looks up and then starts to scrabble round the barn.

  ‘How’d you get up to the loft bit?’

  Suddenly an image coalesces. Madeleine and I, children, shimmying up the two swinging ropes which hung from the thick beam and launching ourselves into hay. Was it one of these same ropes that Madeleine used? It is so long since I have been in the barn that I have no idea whether one of them was still in place. And now, there are no ropes at all.

  I say all this to Contini as he scours the space, prods open an old wooden chest.

  His response is grudging. ‘Possible. She must have been very determined.’

  ‘Despair is an odd motor,’ I hear myself saying.

  ‘Mmmn. Okay. Her lover’s run off in the middle of the night…’

  I grimace, but he carries on.

  ‘Abandonned her. So she’s depressed. She puts her coat on over her nightgown. Maybe she’s had a little too much to drink. She goes for a walk. Ends up here. Decides she’s had enough. Is that how you see it?’

  I weigh the complexity and unpredictability which is Madeleine and say, ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So this thirty-seven-year-old woman wearing a heavy fur coat shimmies up a rope, launches herself into the loft, ties a perfect noose, places it round her neck and jumps. So what are the tumbled chairs doing beneath her?

  My mind is like a swamp of quicksand, refusing precision. But my fists are clenched. I would like to land one of them on Contini’s placid face. ‘Maybe the noose, the chairs, were already there,’ I mumble. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to ask Mme Tremblay.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he grunts sceptically. He doesn’t understand the mixture of impulsiveness and persistence which is Madeleine.

  He is darting round again, peering into corners with the agility of a far lighter man. He bends to pick something off the ground and drops it in his pocket. The flick of his wrist is oddly elegant.

  ‘You don’t trust our local police then?’

  ‘It’s not a question of trust.’ He meets my eyes in the gloom. I cannot read his. They are opaque.

  ‘What does Mme Tremblay use this place for?’

  ‘Not for much these days. In the summer there are chickens.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go. We’re going to drive into town. I want to find out if anyone noticed Mademoiselle Madeleine Blais on Christmas Eve.’

  On the way back to the car, I see two uniformed Sûreté officers combing the area. They bend to examine bare, craggy shrubs. They peer under firs. They run theirs boots over the ground, their necks stiff in concentration. Contini leaves me for a moment and goes off to exchange a few words with them. One of them digs into a bag and shows him something that glistens.

  When he comes back to me, he rubs the flattened arch of his nose. ‘You didn’t by any chance lose something out here, did you Rousseau?’

  His look makes me edgy. ‘No. Don’t think so. What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about it.’

  As his car’s tires turn uselessly for a moment in the soft snow, he swears again. ‘You know what Montreal spent last year on snow removal? Forty-seven million dollars! Forty-seven! Jeez! That’s the entire national revenue of Zambia!’

  The church of Ste-Anne straddles the centre of town like some slumbering dinosaur. On a bright day the gleam of its vast sheet metal roof blinds motorists within a twenty-five mile radius. Around it and dwarfing all neighbouring houses, stand the solid stone structures of seminary and school.

  This is my brother’s domain and in the normal course of things, I rarely set foot here anymore. But today is not like any other day. Detective Contini is urging me t
hrough the central door, his impatience with my halting steps evident in look and gesture.

  The smell of incense floats through the air. A mass is in progress. After a moment, the detective crosses himself. He has a slightly furtive air, as if he doesn’t want his friends finding him out, but the alternative of God finding him out poses a worse threat. Out of atavistic habit, I almost follow suit, then stop the hand that has raised itself to my brow.

  This is the church of my childhood. It was in these chairs that I strained to think of the sins I would blurt out in one of the confessionals on the left. The sins were sometimes real, as often imagined. My head bowed beneath the level of the grate in that oak cubicle, I would confess to anger aginst my father or my brother, to gluttonous chocolate excesses, and on occasion when led on by the softly sonorous, yet exacting voice of my confessor, to strange and exciting stirrings in my evidently not so very private parts. These last always exacted the greatest toll of Hail Marys which we had all learned to recite at such speed that the only discrete word in the entire litany was ‘entrailles’, ‘womb’, an audible crescendo whose meaning we didn’t altogether fathom.

  To be fair, confession was not always a burden. The priest’s probings could sometimes shed light on tangled feelings, on classroom tensions or playground visciousness, on the obscure fears and desires which parents and teachers were all too often willfully blind to.

  But they also instilled in us a habit of inquisitorial vigilance and a hovering shame. Only miraculaous somersaults of the personality or total white-out permit escape.

  The Detective and I perch on wooden chairs, well behind the small congregation. In the distance I see a gold-clad figure who can only be my brother raise the chalice above the altar. He is an iconic presence, I tell myself, not my brother at all, yet the throaty voice I hear echoing over the microphone is distinguishibly my brother’s and I don’t like the sound.

  It is not altogether clear to me why beneath our well-mastered surface civility my brother and I should still bear this rancour towards each other. After all, for many years our age difference meant that we hardly knew each other: by the time I was eight he had disappeared into the cloistered shadows of the Jesuit order.