Henninger took a moment to pull on his joint, narrowing his eyes and focusing on Servaz. The superman image was seriously damaged. Servaz noted that the two ‘incidents’ had involved both men and women: in both cases, there had been jealousy, harassment and sexual greed.
‘Did the … did the incident with Fontaine also involve a woman?’
‘A woman?’ The little man looked at Servaz. ‘Yes, it did indeed.’
‘When?’
‘In 2008. In Russia. At Star City.’
Servaz felt a shiver go down his spine.
‘What happened?’
‘The European Space Agency had sent Fontaine and a young French-Russian female astronaut to train at Star City, then spend some time on board the International Space Station as part of a Soyuz mission. The mission was cancelled at the last minute. When he came back from Russia, Fontaine wasn’t himself any more. I think that when he was there the Russian police had accused him of harassment and violent behaviour with regard to the young female astronaut. Something like that. I don’t know all the details. The European Space Agency hushed up the affair in order not to tarnish the image of one of its most famous heroes, and the Russians did the same, so as not to tarnish the image of Star City. Whatever the case may be, Fontaine was never invited again to participate in any other programmes. Since then the Space Agency has just used him for media events, public relations … He has become the number one VIP, the agency’s Tom Cruise. But as far as being an astronaut is concerned, he’s toast.’
‘Do you know the identity of the young woman?’
Henninger nodded.
‘Of course. I even met her. But she refused to go into detail. It was…’ He took time choosing his words. ‘Bizarre. On the one hand, I felt she was afraid to say too much; on the other hand, she was aching to relieve herself of a burden. I remember asking her whether it was true he had assaulted her, and she nodded, but when I asked her what exactly had happened, she refused to say.’
Servaz shuddered: perhaps he’d found his man.
‘Are you sure about this?’ he asked. ‘It hardly seems believable that a guy like him could be a manipulative pervert.’
‘Not all that unbelievable if you take into account what happened in 1999: Judith Lapierre was almost raped, and two astronauts almost killed each other … And if you remember the Nowak affair in 2007 … Why should astronauts be any different from other people, Commandant? Why shouldn’t they too have their weaknesses, their black sheep? People want to have a certain image of them. But that’s not real life.’
Servaz took the time to digest Henninger’s words. He felt as if he had torn open part of the curtain and that a starry night was waiting for him on the other side. A night whose depths he had not yet finished exploring.
‘Would it be possible to have the woman’s address and telephone number?’ he asked.
Henninger stood up.
‘Yes. No problem. I’ll get it for you.’
The journalist went out of the room and Servaz took a moment to make some rapid calculations. Had Célia been beaten or raped in addition to being harassed? He was clearly dealing with a repeat offender: in this case, there might be other victims … Henninger came back with a Post-it. Servaz read:
Mila Bolsanski
Route de la Métairie Neuve
‘Mila is a Slavic name,’ he said.
‘Yes. I told you: she has dual French-Russian nationality. That was the whole problem.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, as a rule, at Star City the Russian cosmonauts do not behave towards their Russian female crewmates in the same way as they do towards the female astronauts from other countries. Take Claudie Haigneré: she has always sung the praises of her Russian partners – “they’re so jolly”, “they’re so kind” and so on – and she always said that everyone danced attendance on her at Star City – even good old General Alexey Leonov, who was her “sweetie”. The same Leonov who, in 1975, when he was commander of Soyuz 19 as part of the first joint Soviet-American mission, explained to journalists that the Russian space endeavour did not need women on board. Russian female cosmonauts have often denounced the way they’re treated as if they are second-rank cosmonauts, of minimal importance … And so it would seem that at Star City, because of her dual nationality, Mila was treated as a Russian rather than as a Frenchwoman.’
He leaned back abruptly in his armchair.
‘But if you want to know more, I suggest you get in touch with her directly.’ He studied Servaz. ‘It’s my turn to ask you a few questions. Why is a policeman from the crime brigade suddenly taking an interest in Léonard Fontaine?’
‘Well, it’s not an official investigation.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let’s just say that … well, I’m conducting my own investigation.’
For a moment, the two men observed each other in silence.
‘Hmm. And this investigation has something to do with Léonard Fontaine?’
Servaz nodded.
‘More rape business?’
He shook his head.
‘Harassment?’
He nodded.
‘Well Christ, that comes as no surprise! Those guys are always at it. Can’t you tell me any more?’
‘It’s too soon.’
‘Damn, give me your word that if you solve this investigation, I’ll be the first to know!’
‘You have my word.’
‘This woman,’ asked Henninger, ‘did the same thing happen to her as to Mila Bolsanski?’
‘No. She died.’
This time, the metallic eyes of the man sitting opposite him lit up with curiosity.
‘What do you mean, she died? A murder?’
‘Suicide.’
27
Diva
At a quarter to four in the afternoon, he was back on the road beneath a darkening sky. The snow had started gently falling again. The mountains were veiled in clouds, challenging him to cross them before nightfall.
Driving with his headlights on, although it was still more or less day, and with the wipers going, he wondered how Fontaine chose his prey. In the case of Mila Bolsanski, chance and the Space Agency had set her in his path, and the encounter with Célia was also by chance – as with so many encounters that did not lead to harassment and violence, he thought. Had there been other victims? Was Fontaine watching them? Was he getting to know their habits? Or, on the contrary, were they always women whom destiny – that great celestial lottery – set down before him?
Servaz found himself stuck behind a coach during the long climb to Andorra. Every time he tried to go round, he would find himself face to face with a car speeding down towards him. Finally, just beyond the tollbooth for the border police, he pulled over and took out his phone to call Mila.
She replied after the second ring – her voice cautious, timid. He had read that for victims like her, the memory of physical violence eventually faded, whereas the humiliation and insults they had endured left indelible traces.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘My name is Martin Servaz, I’m a police commandant. I need to speak to you. A journalist, a Monsieur Henninger, gave me your number.’
‘What do you want with me?’
‘It’s about Léonard Fontaine.’
She took so long to answer that he had time to count four cars and three articulated lorries passing by.
‘I don’t want to talk about him.’
‘I know that you withdrew your complaint at the time, and Monsieur Henninger told me how reluctant you were to speak about the … episode. But there is something new.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’d rather talk to you in person, if you don’t mind.’
There was the sudden, momentary blast of a horn.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘as far as I’m concerned, it’s finished business. I don’t want to bring it all up again. I’m sorry.’
‘I understand, Madame Bolsanski.’
‘Mad
emoiselle—’
‘Mademoiselle Bolsanski, what if I told you that there are other women who have been through what you went through, and that Léonard Fontaine has blood on his hands?’
Another silence.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I think I can.’
‘Are you going to arrest him?’
‘Unfortunately we haven’t reached that point yet.’
‘I see. Thank you, Commandant, but I’d rather stay out of it.’
‘I understand.’
‘Back then they obliged to me to withdraw my complaint. I was under enormous pressure. Why should it be any different now?’
‘Because I’m not them.’
‘Well … I don’t doubt your good faith, or your good will, but…’
‘All I ask is five minutes of your time. As I told you, it would seem that other women experienced the same thing you did. If I manage to connect their experiences and yours in some way, then perhaps I’ll be able to nail him.’
He counted four cars and two more lorries before she came back on the line.
‘Fine. I’ll be expecting you.’
* * *
Night had fallen by the time he drove up the long straight road lined with plane trees. The big house was all the way at the end, in the meadow – almost square, with two storeys and windows that were all identical. Perhaps it was an old farm. A lamp was burning above the entrance. Other than that, all the windows were dark. He slammed the car door in the silence and looked all around: other than a faint little light perhaps half a mile away, the place was completely deserted.
He thought it was a brave choice for a woman who had gone through what Mila Bolsanski had gone through. But he had also read that women who had been victims of repeated violence might eventually shut themselves away, convinced that the outside world was hostile towards them. Years later, they might still fear the smallest event that could re-immerse them in the past. He knew that by coming here he was going to arouse painful memories – if Mila did not throw him out before that.
He could not see her car, but he thought he could make out a corrugated metal garage in the darkness, a dozen or so metres away. The door opened while he was walking towards it.
The woman who stood on the threshold was tall and slim; as the light came from deep within the house behind her, her features remained in shadow. She did not say a single word until he had approached the steps.
‘Come in,’ she said, her voice sounding firmer than on the telephone.
She went ahead of him down a corridor as endless as the gallery of a mine, a corridor plunged into semi-darkness. The only light came from the room at the end, and her shadow trailed behind her like the black veil of a recently widowed bride. He studied her. Clearly she kept herself fit; her shoulders were broad and she had a long graceful neck. He noticed two old radiators and some even older paintings in the gloom. The room at the back was a large, well-appointed kitchen, brightly lit by two spotlights on the ceiling.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not hear a sound. Given the number of steps they had taken to come this far, and the two storeys above, he figured the house must have at least thirty rooms.
‘Do you live here on your own?’
‘No. There is Thomas.’ She gave him a faint smile. ‘My son.’
The light from the spotlights now lit up her face and he thought she must be thirty-five or thirty-six. Brown hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones and a few wrinkles at the corner of her eyes, but a handsome face with a wide, firmly drawn mouth, olive skin and a square jaw. A face full of character. But what made it remarkable was her gaze. A gaze that was penetrating and understanding, with a glow that was both serious and compassionate, as if she had considered all human baseness and pettiness from every angle and decided once and for all to forgive. There could be no doubt that the person standing before him was highly intelligent. She was wearing a thick woollen turtleneck jumper and jeans.
‘Coffee? I’m sorry, but there’s no alcohol here.’
‘Coffee will be fine.’
She turned her back to him and reached into a cupboard above the countertop. She set a cup down on a table big enough for ten and sat down on the other side, a good metre away from him.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,’ he said.
‘I will listen to what you have to say. But that doesn’t mean I’ll answer your questions.’
‘I understand.’
‘Go ahead, Commandant. Tell me what’s new.’
She had taken a deep breath before speaking, as if she were preparing to dive into a void. She had also remembered what he’d said on the telephone.
‘Have you ever heard of Célia Jablonka?’
‘No.’
‘Célia Jablonka was a young woman who committed suicide last year. Before that, she had an affair with Léonard Fontaine. I suspect he had something to do with her suicide.’
‘Why?’
‘You tell me.’
She had not taken her eyes off him. She did not look either intimidated or fearful. Then her bright gaze grew imperceptibly harder.
‘And that’s all? That’s all you have? A vague suspicion? Is that why you came here?’
Her voice was sharp, now. He could tell that if he did not act more convincingly, she would clam up. He took the magnetic key and photograph from his pocket, and leaned forward to slide them across the table.
‘What’s that?’ she said.
‘Did you send them to me?’
She looked at him, not understanding.
‘Someone sent me this key and this photograph through the mail. Do they mean anything to you?’
She spent a long time looking at the key, then put her finger on the photograph.
‘Of course it means something to me: this is the International Space Station. And what’s this?’ she asked, about the key.
‘The key to the hotel room where Célia Jablonka took her own life. Did you ever go to this hotel with Léonard Fontaine?’
She looked again at the plastic rectangle and shook her head.
‘Not with him or with anyone else.’
‘Someone who clearly does not wish to reveal their identity sent me first the key, then the photograph, along with messages pushing me to reopen the investigation into Célia Jablonka’s suicide. The only connection between these two things is Léonard Fontaine. He was Célia Jablonka’s lover. And he has been to the International Space Station.’
Silence fell. It was now that she could stop everything, refuse to open the door leading to the past. It was another door that opened. Servaz heard it creaking faintly to his right, and he turned his head. A corridor he had not noticed before was lit up. A shadow moved along the floor then a little boy wearing red and blue pyjamas appeared. Mila’s face changed instantly. She motioned to him to come closer, and the little boy climbed onto her lap and pressed his head between her breasts, his features drawn with the fatigue of a busy day. Mila kissed the top of his head through his fine hair.
‘Say hello, sweetie.’
‘Hello,’ said the boy in a sleepy voice, turning to Servaz, his thumb in his mouth and his eyelids heavy.
‘Hello, I’m Martin. What’s your name?’
‘Thomas.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Thomas.’
He must have been three or four years old. Servaz couldn’t identify the character on the front of his pyjamas. He was fair-haired, and had inherited his mother’s lovely brown eyes.
‘Mummy, will you tuck me in?’ he said.
‘Excuse me. I’ll only be a minute.’
She disappeared and Servaz heard the mother and child talking quietly, although he could not grasp what they were saying.
Something was bothering him. An alarm signal in his memory. Although they were still blurred by childhood, Thomas’s features reminded him of someone. A face he had seen recently either in the flesh or in a photograph. He searched, and then suddenly he knew. The revelation crept into his mi
nd: it threw up new ideas, although he could not yet gauge its full impact.
‘How old is he?’ he asked when she came back.
‘Three and a half.’
2008, he figured. She was staring at him, as if she had guessed what he was thinking.
‘Do you really think that woman committed suicide because of Léo?’ she asked.
‘I’m convinced. And I think there were others. The problem is that you can’t convict a person for someone else’s suicide, even if that person contributed significantly to their unhappiness. On the other hand, it might be possible to convict him of a crime that is a matter for the law – before the statute of limitations kicks in…’
She nodded.
‘What happened to you was in 2008,’ he continued slowly. ‘The statute of limitations is three years for an offence like assault and battery, or sexual assault excluding rape. But it is ten years for a serious crime. The question is whether one was committed.’
He stared at her. Once again she nodded, holding his gaze. It wasn’t an answer, but it signalled that she understood what he was getting at.
‘And if I knew exactly what happened to you it would allow me to determine where I should look for other victims, which services I should contact, which files I should go through.’
She remained silent and he did not press her. He let her ruminate on what he had just said.
‘I won’t talk about it,’ she insisted after a few seconds. ‘I cannot, I told you … it’s too much.’
‘I understand.’
‘Do you really think you can charge him?’
‘That will depend on what I find.’
She nodded her head for the third time, looking at him closely.
‘If I give you something, will you promise me you won’t show it to anyone?’
He nodded. ‘I promise, Mila.’
She got up and left the room. He heard the sound of her trainers padding along the floor behind him, and a door opened. A minute later, she set an object down in the light in front of him. He looked down. A book bound in leather and tied with a ribbon. He untied it and looked inside. Neat, feminine handwriting. And a date to begin with: a personal diary.
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