by Mallock;
Feeling sorry for her, he leaves her all the time she needs to regain her composure.
“We didn’t even find him, Superintendent. His family and I would have so much liked to give him a decent burial, but that was not possible.”
She then takes out a microscopic handkerchief to dry her eyes. This tiny bit of lace, delicately folded into a triangle, is gently placed to drink up the little lake that has formed on the inside of her eyelid.
Mallock, unflinchingly assuming the thankless role of the big workhorse, perseveres:
“A well in the middle of a clearing, or the forest of Biellanie, do those mean anything to you?”
“No, nothing at all, but why do you ask me that?”
“It’s much too complicated for me to bore you with that story. Let’s just say that I, too, would have liked to find Jean-François’s body.”
“After such a long time? You know,” she went on, “no matter what your reasons or your means, you won’t find it. We tried everything at the time. Despite all our persistence, we received no response from his superiors. As for his companions in arms, Lucien de Marsac, his second-in-command, and the youngest of the group, Gaston Wrochet, called Gavroche, they both disappeared at the same time he did. For our misfortune, their mission was classified as secret and it long remained so once the war was over. We ran into a twofold wall, that of the administration and that of the military.”
Something strikes Mallock’s attention, but it’s too furtive and he can’t quite tell exactly what it is. At the same moment, a jet plane passes overhead, making the windows vibrate.
“There’s a military base four miles from the village,” Marie explains.
She conscientiously smoothes out her dress with her hands before going on:
“According to what I understood at the time, the French battalion’s mission was considered a failure. Especially the intelligence-gathering phase, as well as the non-destruction of an important strategic objective. But whatever anyone says, it was an act of bravery, nothing of which the army could be ashamed. However, they decided to erase it from the official history. And I’ve never been able to get Jean-François’s body back, or any of his effects. I have had only my own heart to remind me of him.”
Looking around him, Mallock notes that except for the photos and a lock of hair, there is no object that belonged to her fiancé. If that had been the case she would have put it in a velvet case or protected it under a glass globe.
“It was only in 1951,” Marie continues, “that we were finally officially notified of Jean-François’s death, along with that of all his men. By persevering, we finally learned that they’d parachuted onto French territory in late May, 1944, but we were told nothing more except that their mission was to gather intelligence and probably organize acts of sabotage. As for my fiancé’s body, according to them there were only two possibilities. Either Jean is buried somewhere on the French soil he loved so much, or he was deported to Germany and died in a prisoner of war camp. I’d so much like to know! But I no longer have any illusions.”
Mallock, aware that it’s pointless to continue to torture the old lady, turns off his recorder.
But after having discreetly blown her nose, Marie Dutin picks up the thread of her memories, this time in a confidential tone:
“I remember everything, the smallest moment I spent with him. Every morning and every night. One day in particular, for many reasons. It was the day before he left for London, and then . . . ”
Marie blushed like a young girl.
In reality, Mallock sensed the blush more than he saw it. There was too much powder on the old maid’s face.
“We’d gone to spend the day in Normandy, in a little village at the seaside, Saint-Aubin.”
Mallock jumped. Was that a coincidence? That village on the Côte de Nacre was very much in fashion at the time. Whence the fine dike and the city’s gas system. Who had not spent a summer, at least once in his life, at Saint-Aubin-sur-Mer?
“My Jean-François had a little three-year-old sister, Marguérite, whom he carried lovingly in his arms. I had my dog, Icarus, with me. On that day there was, I don’t know why, a parade on the dike, a whole crowd of young people dressed up as Romans riding on pasteboard chariots. The weather was wonderful. It was a last moment of happiness for me, and for so many others . . . But we didn’t know it then.”
A stupefied silence, on Mallock’s part.
Stunned.
He stares into space, wondering if he’s dreaming or if he has really heard it. Especially these four words: Marguérite, Icarus, chariots, Romans? Words that sank into the wall like nails to attach a mysterious cross to it. Was it the cross from the well?
How the devil could Manu have known about that? His voice and his words resound in Amédée’s bewildered brain: “There’s blond silk in front of my eyes. It’s the hair of a little girl in my arms. She’s sucking on a strawberry candy. She’s wearing a red dress with a big daisy embroidered on it . . . In front of us, there’s a parade of soldiers and Roman chariots. Everyone’s smiling . . . Icarus is barking.”
Mallock is still sitting there with his mouth open, frowning.
The ticking of a clock punctuates the silence.
Marie’s index finger, extended under the white handkerchief, touches the inner corner of her right eye. The tears take refuge in it and make it transparent.
After a discreet little sniff, Marie goes on:
“I believe one should never complain. We just have to take what life gives us and put up with what it makes us endure. On that day, it brought me a great deal. Everything, in fact. All at once. What a marvelous day.”
How many times had Marie relived that day?
“In the late afternoon, we found ourselves all alone on the cliff. We had even succeeded in getting away from Gavroche . . . ”
She laughed.
“I was beginning to get cold. Jean-François wrapped his white scarf around my neck and told me that he loved me. That was when I noticed the scar from his wound.”
“What wound?”
Manu had never mentioned it. Maybe here he had a detail that could confound him?
“He’d been shot under the jaw during the Phony War. The military doctors had not been able to extract the bullet because it was too close to his spinal column, between the first and second vertebrae . . . ”
“Atlas and axis,” Mallock murmurs, almost automatically.
The research he’d done in entomology had also led him to perfect his knowledge of the human body. And then he’d found the names pretty.
Undisturbed, Marie Dutin continues:
“He was supposed to be discharged because of that, but the armistice came. And then there was General de Gaulle’s appeal to the French. His friend Lucien who telephoned him just at the time when . . . Well! It was destiny, I suppose . . . ”
Marie Dutin heaves a deep sigh.
That’s the effect destiny has on people, Mallock thinks. It makes them sigh, often because they’re powerless. It suffocates them, wears them out. It blows over the human race, objects, and even the wind. An idiotic clown playing blindman’s bluff, it strikes at random, by chance, or even on the off-chance. Like a child pulling off an insect’s leg, destiny amputates human beings. Never maliciously, but often suddenly. A sudden blow in the solar plexus: the man pales, the woman collapses on the spot, a sad little heap of rags and skirts in tears.
But the old maid is like Mallock, she accepts sadness and melancholy, but not pity.
She smiles.
“In any case, on that day we made the most of being together. We made love to each other for the first time. It was marvelous. Before we separated, he gave me a little jewel he’d kept hidden in his pocket.”
Mallock held his breath. What was she talking about?
The old lady continued her story without saying wh
at the jewel was:
“In time, and by remembering these moments, the colors have faded but not the feelings, the wind and love, the little blue jewel box, the smell of the grass and his cologne, like a single material that enveloped us. I wish all people could have such an experience. That and the birth of a child, no doubt.”
Another flight of the handkerchief toward the old lady’s blue eyes.
Mallock wondered for an instant whether he really wanted to know what was in that box. He told himself that if Amédée didn’t absolutely insist on it, the superintendent, Mallock, had to ask the question.
“It was a heart made of gold that opened up,” she answered without realizing how much she was disturbing Mallock. “Inside were our two photos. And it was also a music box. It played a melody that was sad but adorable . . . ”
“A piece by Erik Satie?” Mallock asked, in spite of himself.
“The third Gnossienne,” the old maid said. “How did you know that?”
“A lucky guess,” Mallock stammered. ‘Sad but adorable’ made me think of it. Who else better deserves those two adjectives? But I suppose you still have it?”
“No, unfortunately, I’d so much love to have it. I often dream about it. I believe that it would console me more than anything. Well! You know that we . . . saw each other again, during the four years of the war. Six times in fact, on each of his missions in France. During our last meeting, I gave him back his gift as a talisman. He was supposed to give it back to me on his next visit. That was the last time that we would be separated, he was sure of that. He didn’t tell me about the landing but he made me understand it. I was very frightened. But after all this back and forth right in the middle of the war, I’d ended up thinking he was invincible, my Jean-François.”
Another point for Manu. And a huge one. How could he have guessed this romantic story? It’s almost eleven o’clock. Mallock doesn’t want to make the old lady late for Sunday mass, so he decides to wind up the interview:
“I’m going take the liberty of sending you a bailiff and one of my men to officially record your statement. Don’t hesitate to give them as many details as possible. They will take the opportunity to borrow a few samples of your fiancé’s hair. That is a lock of his hair that I see in the frame with the miniatures of the Croix de Guerre and Legion of Honor medal, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s his hair, from his childhood, to be exact. His mother gave it to me much later on. She took it out of a silver powder box and counted the strands out one by one. She wanted to give me half of it. Since there was an uneven number of hairs, she gave me one more. That was silly, but it’s the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, you know.”
Mallock understands very well, and he feels tears welling up in his eyes as he listens to her. He goes on:
“I have to warn you that we may not be able to return them all to you. The analyses and manipulations . . . ”
She hesitates, then smiles.
“Do the best you can. It’s very nice of you to concern yourself with this.”
“So he did receive honors, then?” Mallock asks as he gets up.
“In June, 1956. We waited twelve years. Well, better late than never, as people say. And they’re right. Never is terrible, you know.”
Mallock agreed.
He knew.
31.
Monday, December 16
Ever since the beginning of the investigation, and contrary to his habits, in order to balance things out when he was confronted by the irrationality of the situations and the surplus of fantastic facts, Mallock had taken the side of rationality. To make up for the excessive role played by the paranormal, he’d silenced the little magical chatter on which he usually relied. The magic that constituted all his charm, Margot would have said. It was a matter of balancing the vessel, the way one leans to port when the boat lists to starboard.
Only his dreams, by escaping the general censorship he had imposed on himself, had sent up their lucid bubbles here and there. In addition to them, since the beginning of the case there had also been the ayahuasca of Oba, the weeping flower, which had generated truly pertinent visions.
The yague, the death vine, was part of the potion the old shaman had made him drink. He suspected that it contained, in addition to harmaline, both ibogaine and peyote. All these psychotropic drugs had been used in the 1960s to produce “modified states of consciousness” that led to a re-evaluation of the subject’s spiritual quotient. Ayahuasca was a dangerous product that the shamans prepared only for selected persons, whom they supervised during the whole course of the ceremony. In the middle of “the devil’s space,” the name given the circle formed by the shamans, the initiates were monitored and aided. Ayahuasca of Oba was still more powerful. But it was not without risk, because the initiate could pass through phases in which death was imminent.
By means of this potion, Mallock had been able to catch a glimpse of the well, the swallows, and the dogs. He’d heard the music and smelled the odors of flesh. Dozens of details had then reappeared, here and there, in Manuel Gemoni’s insane narrative.
If he couldn’t transfer his . . . gift to Manu, he could at least give him the divinatory drug. For it was in fact a concentrate of ayahuasca that was in the little amber vial the old shaman had given him. Niyashiika had called it the vine of the dead, and had referred to lives, in the plural. If she had preferred to say nothing, that was no doubt because she knew Mallock wouldn’t have believed a word of what she said. She had to make him travel the royal road to prove its existence to him. On reflection, hadn’t she spoken to him about it while he was under the influence of the drug?
Now Amédée had enough motives, indeed motivations, to request a second excavation. He hoped to be able to find several things, or confirm their absence: the common grave in the middle of the clearing, the tortured bodies of Lieutenant Jean-François Lafitte’s men, and the gold chain that according to Manuel should be found at the edge of the well.
Even if he was not yet ready to acknowledge it, even if he did not understand how, after his visit to Marie Dutin, Mallock now believed in the authenticity of Manu’s stories. The day before, he’d been convinced of Julie’s brother’s honesty. Now he knew that what he was recounting during the sessions of hypnosis corresponded, if not to reality, at least to a truth. He was beginning to understand that Manu’s misadventure could take on meaning only if it was admitted that reincarnation could actually exist. And that was the real problem: by succeeding in proving Manu’s innocence, he would also be proving, in a way, the reality of metempsychosis. The two demonstrations now seemed to be intimately connected. And the stakes were becoming all the higher.
The implications were incalculable.
Thus he would need many more arguments, more incontestable facts, more unexplained but proven similarities to shake up the edifice of justice. If by a miracle he found all the bodies of the men in Lafitte’s unit, and if moreover he was able to recuperate that of Jean-François with a golden heart inside him, no one could any longer doubt that something totally extraordinary had happened to Manuel Gemoni, requiring an equally extraordinary judgment.
It was for this reason, seeking still more . . . coincidences and bolts from the blue, that he’d decided to encourage Manu to drink the ayahuasca given him by Niyashiika.
9:07 A.M.: when his computer system connected with the Fort, a rumble resounded, making his whole apartment vibrate.
A powerful lightning bolt. Thunder. A winter storm.
“There really are no seasons anymore!” Ken’s face said when it appeared at the top of his screen.
Behind him, Mallock spotted Jo, with a big, amused smile on her lips. It was he, helped by Jean-Claude’s and Vincent’s men, who had configured the various terminals so that they would be connected to the high-speed Wi-Fi network and could set up conference calls. Each member of the Fort—except Daranne, who was al
lergic to any kind of modernity—had not only a personal desktop computer but also a laptop with a built-in videocam that he carried along with him when he traveled.
On Mallock’s monitor, in conference mode, Jules’s and Julie’s faces appeared in turn.
“Hi, kids. To follow up on the good resolutions I made on Saturday, I’m going to give you a little talk about what I learned over the weekend.”
“Were you able to meet with the lieutenant’s fiancée?” Julie interrupted impatiently.
“Yes, and the result is very . . . upsetting.”
A second thunderclap made the light flicker.
“Okay, listen carefully, I’ve got two or three bits of information to give you and I want to ask your opinion.”
Mallock began his account. Thirty minutes later, after saying, “See you in a minute,” to Jules and Julie, he shut down his computer. Even though it was well-equipped with surge protectors, he mustn’t tempt fate too much. Without any respect for the status of the commander of the Fort, the thunderstorm could take his equipment as its target.
Two of Mallock’s lieutenants, who were in fact captains, consented to the use of the ayahuasca. Jo opposed it, without daring to insist too much:
“I’ve just arrived, but everything connected with drugs scares me.”
And Ken had declared himself incompetent:
“Sorry, I have no opinion.”
Another proof, if one were needed, of his intelligence.
Coffee break.
Mallock spent more than a quarter of an hour trying to reach Mordome and Léon Galène in order to propose a tele-conference meeting the next day at the same hour. As he hung up, he glanced worriedly at the clock. At 10 A.M. he had a meeting with Manu. Jules and Julie were supposed to meet them there. Julie had insisted on taking part in Manuel’s last interrogation, under the influence of the giant jungle vine Banisteriopsis caapi.
“I’m willing to proceed with Manu’s permission and not rush off to inform Kiko, but only if I’m present.”