Cemetery of Swallows

by Mallock;

  Europa Editions

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2012 by Jean-Denis BRUET-FERREOL

  Published by arrangement with Agence litteraire Piere Astier & Associés

  First publication 2013 by Europa Editions

  Translation by Steven Rendall

  Original Title: Le cimetière des hirondelles

  Translation copyright © 2013 by Europa Editions

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco

  www.mekkanografici.com

  ISBN 9781609452209

  Mallock

  THE CEMETERY OF SWALLOWS

  Translated from the French

  by Steven Rendall

  PROLOGUE

  The Dominican Republic, 1050 F. in the shade

  My name is Manuel Gemoni. That’s all I still know for sure. For the past three days I’ve been lying at the foot of the wall of a church, a few steps from a dead donkey. Like the donkey, I’m dirty and I stink. This morning, an emaciated cow came to join us. It licked the donkey’s nose and then lay down on a pile of straw between us. In the violet-colored shade of the church, the three of us looked like a desperate attempt at a crèche. If we can hang on until Christmas, maybe there’ll be other animals to complete the scene.

  This blazing square will soon be crossed by the ogre, the island’s monster, the abject old man. And I’ll kill him, with pleasure! One thing bothers me, though it does not weaken my resolution in the least. Of course, I hate him with all my heart. But I don’t know why.

  My pitiful adventure began five weeks ago. I’d gotten up at exactly 7 A.M. My wife Kiko and our baby were still asleep. We’d gone to bed late. Dinner with old friends. After I rose, I fired up the percolator, covering it with a towel to avoid waking my darlings. Then I switched on the TV and put in a cassette to watch a documentary a neighbor had recorded for me. It was about making cigars; cigars have always been one of my passions. Fate is bizarre sometimes. It was while I was peacefully sipping my coffee that I saw for the first time, on the flat screen, the face of the old man who was going to change the course of my life. As soon as I saw his face, I knew I had to kill him. Worse yet, I was dying to do it. Without knowing him, without even knowing who he was, I was already dreaming about putting out his eyes and cutting off his tongue. I, who got depressed when I found a mouse in a trap or a hedgehog run over on the road, all I could think of was killing my fellow man. In any case, that particular fucking fellow man, that horror on legs.

  I saw him, and everything I was, everything I believed, everything I thought my life was, turned upside down. Just as suddenly, I no longer felt at home among the people and the objects that a few seconds earlier I had still loved. I had to leave. My only “home” would be facing that man, my eyes burning with hatred, my nails lacerating his face, my teeth sinking into his nose, his eyelids, and his tongue, my hands tearing his heart out of his chest. My place was there, standing over the steaming guts of that dead old man, screeching in desperation because I couldn’t make him suffer anymore. There and nowhere else, covered with rage and blood, laughing as I devoured his heart.

  During the days to come, hate was going to be my new home, my companion, and my child, and it was good that way.

  I didn’t try to explain anything, either to my wife or to my friends. I had no hope whatever of being understood. And I was also afraid that they would try to keep me from going, argue me out of it. I was in danger of losing too much time laughing at their common sense, at the sound advice they wouldn’t fail to give the madman I had become. I preferred to do what I had to do rather than talk about it.

  First I found out where the documentary had been made. I spent two days and a night watching that awful cassette over and over, trying to note down all the details, place names, monuments. Thirty-six terrifying hours of ransacking geography books, atlases, and tourist brochures. As soon as I had identified the country I got on a plane without leaving a letter, without any feelings other than impatience and a malign excitement, seething with rage. A one-way tourist-class ticket for the Dominican Republic.

  Once I got there, nothing was easy. I had all kinds of problems. “Stranger” comes from “strange.” It was only after wandering around the island for two weeks that I began to get my bearings. Then I finally discovered the place where I was going to be able to cross paths with the atrocious face I’d come there to kill. The old man now left his property only to go to a little cigar factory in Carabello. He was often seen crossing the village square.

  So it was there that I was going to try my luck and put an end to his.

  With the last of my money I bought an old military revolver with five somewhat rusty bullets and went to Carabello. Each day is more liquid and burning than the one before. I have gradually been taken over by exhaustion and despair. Only hatred sustains me. For a week now, I’ve been waiting for him, leaning against the church wall.

  A sweaty wreck next to my donkey, I no longer have any doubt or desire, only the obsessive dream of killing that old man. My personal tragedy, my destiny from now on, bears the name of that absurd old man, that monster: “Darbier,” seven letters that have brought me here to Carabello, to this square under the murderous sun. My sister Julie, Kiko, my daughter, all my former loves no longer exist. I’m waiting for the arrival of the sublime moment when my revolver will emerge intoxicated from my pocket and point its mouth toward the ogre so that I, Manuel Gemoni, can finally bellow my hatred at him. If that scum doesn’t come here, I’ll know what to do with one of these rusty bullets. I won’t go home bearing such a burden . . .

  Manuel Gemoni looks pensively at the little square. He has come to the end of his journey. His weariness is mauve and green, queasy like the paint on the houses. Today, three peasants came to see about the donkey. Manuel looked at them without really seeing them, then closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, to recover a semblance of strength for a semblance of life. At that precise moment, under the sunny stippling of the acacia leaves, two men appear. One of them is old and wears a light, verbena-colored suit, a silk shirt, and a beige Panama hat. His brown leather shoes shine despite the dust. At his side, his bodyguard is sweeping the square with his eyes. The old man walks with slow but regular steps, without the limp that his great age ought to imply.

  An orange dog pisses on the corpse of a motorcycle.

  Leaving the shade of the trees, the elegant patriarch is now walking in the full sun. His skin is the color of a glazed chestnut, with wrinkles and fissures that are almost black, and pale blotches like dried sugar. His shoulders sway mechanically, as if driving his whole body.

  Had he awakened at that moment, Manuel could have seen, glowing under the brim of the Panama hat, the old man’s terrifying, yellowish eyes with golden irises. Then he would have been sure that he had chosen the right nightmare, the right man. There is no doubt that this skeleton about to come around the corner of the church is the detested being he came to find. The guy whose photos he has tucked into the hip pocket of his pants.

  The dog, lying next to the motorcycle, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, watches the old man go by. But he doesn’t bark to warn Manuel. The man will soon leave the square. It will be too late. Three pink and black pigs cross the other side of the square, stopping to explore a mud puddle. Manuel doesn’t wake up. A few more steps. The two men are now out of sight behind the church.


  Manuel hasn’t budged.

  It’s over! He doesn’t know it yet, because he’s sleeping, but his journey to the other side of the world has led to nothing. How many days can he hang on before using his own revolver to leave the island?

  An hour goes by. The dog has joined Manuel in the land of dreams. The quiet of the square is now disturbed only by the cheerful grunts of the little pigs. The cracked bell is trying to announce that it’s noon. Manuel opens one eye, coughs, and goes back to sleep. Before going to lunch, the three peasants return to deal with the donkey. Tomorrow is Sunday, there will be a mass. The animal’s stench could spoil the celebration. As for the gringo, they’ll ask him to move on. They pick up the beast’s carcass and stumble off, the strongest man taking the front legs, the other two the hind legs.

  Suddenly they drop the donkey’s cadaver and swear. Manu wakes and sits up. The sight is disgusting. A swarming liquid is escaping from the animal’s underside. Without worrying about this detail, one of the bearers spits on his hands and seizes the donkey by its ears. The two others grab the tail. The donkey has to die in order to be carried in its turn by man. That’s how it is.

  Manu sighs and finally looks in the other direction. On his left, a few yards away from him, he sees Darbier!

  He is returning from the cigar factory to his lair. Contrary to his habits, today he has decided to go the same way. Has fate finally decided to put an end to the ogre’s insolent luck?

  Despite his drowsiness, Manuel tries to rise and get hold of his revolver. But the bodyguard is already upon him. He has sensed the danger and is rushing with all his bulk toward the young man. Luckily, the guard has hesitated to drop the precious boxes of cigars that his boss has just lovingly selected. Eleven boxes he’s holding. And that’s what saves Manuel. Thanks to that extra second, he’s able to dodge the attack and get out his revolver. Without quite knowing what he’s doing, he points the weapon toward the guard’s crimson face. He hears a crack and sees the man fall, holding his right temple. The boxes burst open and the cigars roll across the sand.

  Darbier, who hasn’t moved during the attack, lurches toward him as well. His lips are open in a grimace of hatred. Manuel lifts the barrel of his revolver and tries to fire. But the old man grabs the end of his weapon and directs it toward the ground. The young man pulls the trigger nonetheless.

  The revolver shots ring through the square.

  The first bullet pierces the old man’s left palm and with a spurt of blood tears off three of his fingers. The second explodes his big toe. Darbier’s torn flesh is covered with sand and dirt. He falls backward, screaming with rage.

  Manuel is surprised that a man so old still has such red blood; it’s almost fluorescent. He’d have imagined it would be black, like his soul, or white, like a kind of pus.

  Darbier sits up and shouts at him in French:

  “But you’re . . . It’s impossible!”

  Terrified, he adds:

  “Don’t kill me, I can pay you . . . I can compensate you!”

  Then, seeing Manuel’s face, he knows that his proposal is useless.

  So don’t move, keep quiet.

  Time stops, seconds rub their black paws together. Above the two adversaries, the sky is a definitive blue. Manuel, his legs spread in his dirty clothes, looks down on his target, his two arms outstretched. His revolver, hammer cocked, is aimed at his victim’s forehead. On the ground, Darbier tries to protect himself by putting his wounded hand in front of his face. How can he still be so attached to life?

  He breaks the silence, imploring and swearing at the same time:

  “Don’t kill me, you little piece of shit!”

  For some old men, living a hundred years is not enough.

  Instead of running away, the people of the village are gathering around. They are gravely watching the scene. Manuel suddenly feels like the executioner at a public execution that a tortured people has long awaited.

  What could he have done to them?

  It doesn’t matter! Manuel has come to avenge himself. He has suddenly understood the reason why, even if it makes no sense. If he wants to kill this man, this revolting old man, it’s because one day Darbier killed him, Manuel Gemoni, after having tortured him for hours. Manuel, without realizing the absurdity of what he has just discovered, and simply to put an end to his questions, pulls the trigger.

  The third bullet digs into the dust six inches from Darbier’s head. His yellowish skull is covered with gray earth. He utters a cry of anger that is cut short by the fourth bullet. Entering above his mouth, it shatters his teeth and the right side of his palate.

  Manuel stops firing to look at his enemy writhing and drowning in his own blood. It is grotesque, like his ridiculous groans and gurgling as he desperately tries to breathe and reposition his broken teeth. His legs begin to jerk. His bladder empties, making a large, dark-green stain between his legs. At the corner of his mouth, a mixture of saliva and blood forms a mass of pink bubbles that slowly slips down his chin to join the dusty aridity of the soil.

  Manuel fires his last bullet.

  The old man’s hair explodes and his brain begins to spill out, white and shining in the sun.

  Manuel doesn’t have time to allow satisfaction to fill his heart; he feels a sudden blow to his back. A projectile fired by the wounded bodyguard has just hit him. As he collapses, Manuel looks at the man who is approaching to finish him off. He says to himself that all things considered, this is the perfect end to an imperfect story. The sun has gone cold. He shivers and looks down at the ground, where everything is going to come to an end.

  A second explosion, a second pain.

  One doesn’t write his own life, neither its contours nor its limits, one doesn’t choose what bites him. Manuel and his last thoughts sink into the earth. The coolness of eternity. He has just enough time to think that now he has to die; his life depends on it!

  BOOK 1

  1.

  Monday, November 25, Air France Flight 380

  Mallock is alone, stretched out under a row of coconut trees with manicured leaves. Their curved trunks rise up, as survivors, from a disturbing, almost excessively white sand. They reach for the sky to find the wind. Beyond the beach is the tropical ocean, and his son who is swimming in it. Since he died, he hasn’t grown anymore. He’s still five years old and has his father’s absinthe-colored eyes, his pupils match the waves of the sea. Here is Thomas, his little Tom, his little fellow, in the lukewarm waters of the Atlantic sheltered by the reef, that amniotic mother. Here is Thomas Mallock among the blue crabs that run sideways, the sea horses and microscopic, silvery jellyfish. Look at him! In that sea, that’s Thomas you see. He’s flying, my little angel, on the glassy, limpid waves of the ocean.

  His father, a police superintendent, smiles, astonished to feel so well, here in the full sun, in his heavy suit striped by the shade of the palm trees . . .

  “Monsieur, your tray, please?”

  Mallock wakes up in a sweat. He says, “Excuse me,” and pulls down the gray plastic tray.

  “I’m really sorry to wake you, but we’re going to bring you something to eat soon.”

  The flight attendant has a little scar on her forehead and a nice smile.

  “It’s okay, you did the right thing,” Mallock replies, smiling back at her.

  In any case, as long as he lives, his son will remain dead.

  Superintendent Mallock is flying to the Dominican Republic. He has been assigned by Dublin, the head honcho at 36, Quai des Orfèvres, the criminal investigation department in Paris, to bring back Manuel Gemoni, a French citizen who has murdered an inhabitant of the island.

  Any normal person would have jumped for joy at the idea of leaving Paris and its gloomy, cold November weather. To escape from the gates of winter, cross the Atlantic, and return to summer, with beaches and palm trees.

&n
bsp; But not Mallock.

  Amédée Mallock, the king of homebodies, hates to travel. In his view, neither fauna nor flora nor historical stuff can justify the displeasure of going away, being deprived of all the little possessions with which civilized people surround their bodies and their minds to protect them from the inevitable collisions with the rest of the world.

  When he is forced to leave home, Amédée sulks like a frustrated schoolboy, resenting those who have forced him to perform an unnatural act: moving! He has been a hundred yards from Niagara Falls without deigning to look at them; in Egypt, he didn’t even glance at the pyramids; in India, he ignored the big white thing, and in Copenhagen, the little mermaid. Even in Paris, where he has lived for a long time, he has only recently gone up the Eiffel Tower, and not to see the view, or to admire the metallic monument, but to investigate a mass murder.

  Now, going off to be a stupid tourist on a remote island in the Antilles didn’t appeal to him at all. Normally, he would have taken sick leave. If he didn’t protest, it’s because he knows Manuel Gemoni personally. Especially his sister, who has worked for him ever since Fort Mallock—Mallock’s office within the criminal investigation department, known as “36”—was set up.

  *

  Six days before, Julie Gemoni, a captain in the police, came to see her boss. Outside, the caramel-colored Seine was awaiting winter. The capital was enjoying a classic Indian summer.

  Julie had come into his office with her lips tight and her chin jutting out aggressively. She asked for a special leave. Like most of the Fort’s staff, she had been on duty all through the case of the “massacre of the innocents.” She had a lot of overtime hours, loads of vacation time, and credit for all the weekly days off she hadn’t taken during the crisis. Some time ago, she had submitted the request for a combined leave, explaining that she wanted to go away for a month. She needed her superintendent’s permission.