This is why she phoned me. This is her revenge for the letters. Madeleine wants me to see. To bite into the bitter core of my suffering. I don’t want to see and yet I cannot move. The cold creeps into my bones, but the fires of that old familiar jealousy have leapt and kindled and burn through me. Is it jealousy of a stranger or of a lost self that I feel? In fury, I lob my key plaque at the window. I want her to know that I am here. But Madeleine doesn’t turn from her kiss. I want to throw the plaque again, but in the darkness I cannot find it.
Do I wait then? Wait for Madeleine to come down? Do I go home?
The images whirl and disintegrate and reshape themselves with kaleidoscopic frenzy. Only Contini’s mesmeric voice provides a pattern. Is it a pattern I have lived? I need to find out.
***
Gisèle Desnos lives on Ridgewood, a winding road which slips up and over the mountain behind the gargantuan dome of the Oratoire St Joseph, where in my childhood, the pilgrims still used to climb the 1000 or so steps to the shrine of the beatified Brother André on their bloodied knees.
The area is a wealthy one and offers spectacular views of the city, but the picturesque is not what concerns me now.
For the entire length of the drive here, I have been snuffling through my memory like a boar in search of truffles, trying to remember, trying to recover the scene to which I so willingly confessed, lulled by Contini’s voice and scenario. Lulled by my own wishes, too, perhaps. For I know I am guilty. I have done so much wrong. Yet I can’t remember. Like a strip of film beyond which I cannot see, Contini’s words usurp the space of my memory. Am I crazy? How and where will I find the truth? For my own sanity, I need to unearth the truth before the chains of what Contini calls evidence ensnare me irrevocably.
A young woman opens the door to me, takes my coat with the polite aplomb of hired help and waves me into a house which is all sheer angles and glass and split levels. I make my way up and down stairs towards the distant tinkle of glasses and laughter and soft music and find myself in a large beech-parqueted room perched on a sheer precipice. Gowned women and suited men cluster in small groups against a great gleaming pond of night.
‘Pierre, I’m so glad.’ Gisèle glides towards me and plants a scented kiss on either cheek. She is regal in an off the shoulder gown of vibrant blue. Her arm is firm through mine as she guides me through the crowd. I can feel the eyes on me, curious, apprehensive, the little uncomfortable pockets of air that open at our passage.
A crystal cup of champagne finds its way into my hand.
‘Doesn’t Mme Tremblay look wonderful in my dress. We had such fun trying things on. I think it cheered her a little.’
Gisèle points me towards a corner sofa where I almost fail to recognize Mme Tremblay, so different does she look from the woman I last saw lying on a hospital bed. A pearl clasp adorns her hair. There is a matching choker at her neck. The long dress is darkly severe, but gleams subtly where the light falls on it. Only her eyes still have that trace of vagueness. They fail quite to focus on the silver-haired man perched at her side. But they focus on me.
‘Pierre.’ She puts out her hand to me.
‘No, please, don’t get up.’ The man beside her rises to give me his place.
‘Do sit down, Rousseau,’ he says and I recognize him as a former diplomat in Trudeau’s last government.
‘Thanks.’
Mme Tremblay squeezes my hand as Gisèle walks away with her guest.
‘Gisèle insisted that I come down, but now that you’re here, I think she’ll let me retire.’
She forces herself from the sofa and I catch her before the weight of gravity defies her. Slowly, I help her through the crowd and up the stairs. They take all her concentration. She doesn’t speak again until she is propped against the pillows in her room.
‘I’m sorry, Pierre. Sorry for all the trouble I caused. It just took me over.’
‘No trouble. And I understand. Understand altogether.’
‘Yes.’ Her pale eyes scrutinize me and she gives me a twist of a smile. ‘I believe you do. That was why you came back to Ste-Anne, wasn’t it Pierre? So you could be certain of seeing Madeleine. Be as close to her as it was possible to be. Yes.’
I intrude on the vagueness which has taken over her eyes again.
‘How do you feel now?’
‘Better for Gisèle’s company. She’s told me so many interesting things about Madeleine.’
We exchange a look and in it I realise again the extent to which Mme Tremblay and I are kin. Like two fanatics engaged in a cult, we judge everything by a single measure. The only difference is that I would prefer my adherence to be secret, while she wears hers like a badge of honour.
‘Better too, strangely, because of the barn burning. They’re holding someone, aren’t they?’
‘So you know.’
‘Gisèle told me. She thought it best that I find out from a friend.’ She lets out a sound which is not quite a laugh. ‘It proves my first intuition was right. Madeleine did not take her own life. The police definitely recognize that now, don’t they?’
I don’t want to think about what Contini does or does not recognize. ‘Yes,’ I say too loudly.
‘Tell me about the man they’re holding.’
Her hand grips my arm and I cover it with mine.
‘I’m afraid there was … an accident. He died.’ I rush on before I lose my nerve. ‘Detective Contini would like you to come to Headquarters Tuesday and … and see if you can identify him as the man who was with Madeleine that night.’
For a long moment, she is silent.’There’s more Pierre. There’s something you’re not telling me.’
I take a deep breath. ‘Contini is not certain he was Madeleine’s…’
She cuts me off. ‘You’ll have to help them Pierre. I don’t altogether trust that Contini to find the right man. Imagine thinking I had anything to do with Madeleine’s death!’
I wish I could share Mme Tremblay’s sense of outraged innocence. I change the subject. I tell her about Monique, her wish to stay at the house. For my brother’s sake, I add that she seems a little lost, despairing. I tell Mme Tremblay that she will do her daughter good.
She doesn’t answer for a moment. She fingers the choker at her neck. At last she says, ‘Will I? I never quite managed to before. But I guess it’s only right. She is Guy Tremblay’s child. She is my daughter - even if we didn’t always see eye to eye.’ Her gaze is troubled. ‘Go now, Pierre. Leave me. I need to sleep.’
I want to put to her one of the many questions that has been plaguing me. I want to ask her about Madeleine’s child. But I can’t now. If she doesn’t know, It might prove too much of a shock. Instead, I find the young woman who opened the door to me and ask her to bring Mme Tremblay a hot drink and make sure she can undress herself. Then I force myself towards the crowd.
In the far corner of the room, couples are dancing. They sway across the floor with easy languor, move to the very edge of the dark precipice, oblivious to its danger. Madeleine would have liked it here. Must have liked it here, I correct myself. Gisèle was her friend. I need to speak to Gisèle.
I see her standing in front of a long buffet table. There is a striking black woman at her side in a sequined thirties dress. In her hand she holds a large copper gong. The spectacled man I met in the restaurant with Gisèle raises a sparkling hammer. Gisèle is calling for quiet.
‘It’s time for the countdown,’ she announces, her hand aloft. ‘Ten…nine…’ Voices join her. The gong sets up a clatter. Corks pop and everywhere there are kisses and cries of ‘Happy New Year’.
I plant what I hope has the semblance of a smile on my face and mingle with the crowd. The music has grown loud, and I can return the embraces of friends and acquaintances without pausing for impossible conversation. I find Gisèle to the corner of the buffet. She is urging everyone to dig in.
‘Shall we talk when you have a moment?’
She nods. ‘Give me five. And join me in
the study. Up a few stairs on the right.’
I wait in a room which is a smaller version of its neighbour. There are books and a wall lined with fine costume drawings, a wave of a coral sofa and a large glass topped desk which looks out on the night.
Gisèle is with me promptly. She closes the door behind her. ‘Happy New Year,’ she says with a bittersweet smile.
‘And to you. Thank-you for taking such good care of Mme Tremblay.’
She shrugs and points me towards the sofa. ‘I like her.’ She paces for a moment. ‘What’s the latest on the man the police are holding?’
With a dismal sense of what I can’t say, I catch her up on events.
‘That means they’re more or less back to point zero.’ She gets up restlessly. ‘Ecoute, Pierre. I want Mme Tremblay to stay here for a few more days. It may not be safe for her in Ste-Anne. Who know what might happen next?’ She throws her hands up in the air. ‘If she’s stubborn and insists on going back, you’ll have to convince the police she needs protection. If there’s a murderer and an arsonist running round…’
Gisèle’s words shake me. They bring home a sense of danger I have been peculiarly immune to. Why?
‘You’re right. Of course. I’ll do that.’
She offers me a cigarette and lights up herself with a long shaky puff. ‘Yes. You know I talked to Marthe just after I saw you. That’s the woman who plays Thea Elvsted. She got close to Madeleine during the run of the play. Anyhow, she told me that Madeleine was certain she was being followed. Stalked.’ She shivers.
‘I think there were only letters,’ I murmur.
She gives me a surprised look. ‘No. Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything about letters. These were telephone calls. Heavy breathing ones. They started during the rehearsal period I think. Or just before. And Madeleine was certain there was sometimes someone at the stage door. Waiting. All bundled up. Leering. And in a car. She started taking taxis home instead of driving herself. This was all before the massacre at the university. Marthe believed her too. She didn’t think she was imagining it. She spent a few nights at Madeleine’s place and twice she heard the nuisance calls. Madeleine was very depressed about it. Scared too. She thought of going to the police or hiring a private detective, but she told herself she would be off soon enough. Then it would stop.’
I feel very cold. I want to bang my head against the wall to clear the noise in it.
‘I told Detective Contini all this, but his partner had already had it from Marthe. You should meet her. She’s next door.’
‘Gisèle,’ my voice sounds odd. ‘What do you know about a Fernando Ruiz?’
‘You mean the Portuguese? Madeleine’s friend. I identified his voice on the answering machine for Contini. I’d spoken to him a couple of times when he was trying to get hold of Madeleine and his accent is pretty distinctive. But I’ve never met him.’
My heart is making more noise than Gisèle’s New Year gong. Like sniper-fire, the things I don’t know about Madeleine assault me continually and from unexpected directions. Why then, does the sense that I know her best nonetheless persist?
‘Was he a close friend?’
Gisèle looks at me queerly. ‘He was meant to be flying over for Christmas.’
‘I see.’ I don’t see.
She stubs out her cigarette. ‘Let’s go back to the party. Come and meet Marthe.’
I nod and then stop her at the door. ‘One more thing, Gisèle. Do you know anything…have you heard any rumours about a child of Madeleine’s?’
‘A child?’ she echoes. ‘No. Nothing.’
‘Contini thinks there was one.’
She shrugs. ‘A termination, maybe…’
We look at each other for a moment and then she wraps her arm through mine. ‘You know what I’ve done? I’ve started the ball rolling. The Cinéma du Parc is going to run a big retrospective of Madeleine’s films. I think the CBC will too. You’ll be pleased about that, won’t you? A fitting memorial…’
Marthe Ducharme has wavy copper hair, a smattering of freckles and a wide, sinuous mouth, which seems to speak without the necessity of words. What it says now, as Gisèle introduces us and we move towards a quieter corner of the room, is that she’s sorry, but she doesn’t trust me, though she’ll speak to me because Gisèle insists.
‘You and Madeleine grew very close during the run of Hedda Gabler,’ I begin, my tone a little brusque, bullying, and oddly like Contini’s. I clear my throat. ‘You were wonderful as Thea Elvsted, by the way.’
She nods a formal thank-you. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asks abruptly.
‘I… I’m trying to help the police with their inquiries. You see, I knew Madeleine well and…’
‘Did you?’ She cuts me off. Her eyes are all defiance. ‘Yet you didn’t believe her, did you? Men!’ She spits it out at me.
In the set of her face, I am suddenly aware that I am speaking to someone who has fallen under Madeleine’s spell. Marthe idolizes her, is devastated by her death.
I don’t let the thought that has suddenly leapt into my mind about a possible liaison between the two women deflect me. ‘It was stupid of me,’ I murmur. ‘Very stupid. But tell me about the stalker. Maybe… maybe it will help.’
‘I told the police everything there was to tell.’
‘I did know Madeleine a little better than them. There might be some leads…’
Marthe can’t refute the sense of that. ‘Let’s go next door,’ she murmurs.
I fill her glass and we sit on the coral sofa. Marthe speaks quickly, as if she doesn’t really want me to hear or as if she can’t bear re-iterating out loud her conversations with Madeleine. Some of what she tells me, Gisèle has already said. Other episodes stand out, forbidding in their augury. Again I curse myself for being so blind to Madeleine’s needs.
A few days into the rehearsal period, Madeleine told Marthe that she had had the oddest experience the night before. She didn’t know quite why, but she had an uncanny sense that someone had been through her apartment in her absence. She had looked around, checked on jewellry and appliances and clothes, but nothing obvious seemed to be missing. She had talked to the superintendant about it, rung her cleaning lady, The first had seen nothing, and the second confirmed that she wasn’t due until the morning. Madeleine had roamed the apartment, unable to decipher what was wrong, some clothes out of place, perhaps, but she felt the difference - like an aroma of disturbance. She had laughed to Marthe, ‘With my clutter, it’s not exactly easy to spot if anything has been taken.’ But the laughter was jittery.
The following day she had come to the theatre visibly shaken. ‘There was someone,’ she told Marthe. ‘It’s not my imagination.’
On her dressing table she had found a small pair of tweezers, not her own. And the hairbrush, which usually lay there, was gone. Definitely gone. The night before she had presumed that she had simply misplaced it. It was as if the tweezers had been left as a token, a stand-in for the theft, as if the person wanted her to know he had been there. It spooked her. But she couldn’t very well report a stolen hairbrush to the police, nor, as she amplified later in the week, a camisole which bore the label of a shop called Madeleine. An over ardent fan, she determined. Perhaps the same one who sent her occasional anonymous letters. She changed her lock, added a new one.
The second episode Marthe recounts is even more ominous. On the day of the assassinations at the University, Madeleine was indeed there. She had gone to meet an Ibsen specialist. When she arrived, there was nothing amiss. After the meeting, the professor had walked her out of the building and a little way along one of the university roads. There they had confronted the tragedy, seen the commotion of ambulances and police and bodies brought out on stretchers from the engineering faculty.
In the midst of it all, Madeleine had dropped the bag she was holding. It contained a book the professor had given her - one of his own, a study of Ibsen.
When she got home late that night, the super
intendant had handed her the lost bag. She had thanked him, though in the midst of the day’s terror, she was barely aware of the loss. Marthe was with her at the time, had come back to the apartment to keep her company. When they got upstairs and opened the bag, they saw that the book it contained had been savaged. The picture of the professor on the back cover had had its eyes gouged out. His name had been obscured from the title pages with ink that looked not unlike blood as had the dedication to Madeleine. Pages were scrawled over.
‘Madeleine cried. Cried for hours,’ Marthe tells me. ‘It was dreadful. It was mostly over what had happened at the university, but the desecrated book somehow released her tears. The next day…,’ she pauses as if she is still trying to make sense of events, ‘Madeleine was unnaturally calm. She told me that the book was an omen. The play, Hedda, would not go well. I wasn’t to take any of the reviews to heart. There were times like that in life and we were being let off lightly. With that, she picked up the book, took my hand, and marched me down the hall. She had an odd look on her face, a smile that wasn’t really a smile. When we reached the incinerator door, she opened it and thrust the book down the chute. Then she clapped her hands. Like a little girl.’
The gesture is pure Madeleine. I can see it clearly. What I see less clearly is the questioning glance Marthe gives me.
‘I’m still not sure why she did that. I was sure she should take the book to the police.’
‘It was an offering to the gods,’ I murmur. ‘And a doubling of Hedda. You know, in character. Hedda, too, burns a crucial book which kills a man.’
The next morning Gisèle won’t let us go. She takes me aside and tells me again that Mme Tremblay is not yet ready to face Ste-Anne. It is exactly a week since the death, a terrible anniversary, she points out as if I needed to be reminded, as if I hadn’t spent the entire night trying to give flesh to leaping shadows. Another few days away from home and memories will do her good. She also tells me it won’t do me any harm.
The Dead of Winter Page 31