“Don’t take a tumble, now, little chief,” warns Vandeleur from below. “Wouldn’t want two Malegardes in the hospital, would we?”
From the top of the ladder, the gardener seems very far away. Linden asks for the sledgehammer, which Vandeleur hauls up to him, but try as he might, the tip of the mallet is still far from the blocked-up hole. He has to haul himself up higher to reach it. He can make out a sturdy, thick branch where he can place one foot, slowly pushing himself off the ladder with his right hand, the other holding the sledgehammer. It’s an easier maneuver than he thought, although he can’t look down anymore; it’s giving him vertigo. The sensation of being high up in the vast naked tree is elating. Linden wishes he had his camera with him. How is it he had never thought of taking pictures from up here? Above his head, the branches coil toward the sky, and he can feel the wind blowing through his hair. The air up here is crisp, pure; he could stand on this branch and breathe it in for ages. An astonished woodpecker peeks at him from a higher bough. Vandeleur yells. What the hell is little chief doing? He’s worse than his dad when it comes to admiring trees! Linden chuckles. Time to get on with it. The hole is accessible now, and he starts swinging the tool into it, doing his best to keep his balance. The old cement disintegrates quite easily, crumbling into a fine gray residue that coats his head and gets into his eyes. Vandeleur shouts that they don’t block gaps in trees like that anymore; they don’t use cement. The thing is, they need to stop bugs or birds from getting into the nooks, which could be dangerous for the tree. Linden coughs, wiping the powder off his lids. Vandeleur says he’ll get one of the other gardeners to close it up again the way they do it now, with a thin metal flap or screening. Linden scrapes away the last of the cement with his hand. The hole gapes open, about the size of a watermelon. He has to edge closer, inching along the branch, sledgehammer still in hand. Gingerly, he eases his fingers into the orifice, until Vandeleur bawls at him to use the gloves he put in his jacket pocket. No way should Linden put his bare hand in there! There could be a nasty surprise! Insects or birds or Lord knows what! Linden pauses, slips the gardening gloves on, balancing the sledgehammer on his thigh. Then he tries again, forcing his fist through the cavity. He feels a humid sponginess, like moss or weeds, and pushes his wrist right in, turning his hand around clockwise. Nothing resembling a box meets his fingers. Could his father be wrong? Is the box still here? Perhaps it has moved, with time, into the center of the tree? In that case, he will never get hold of it. Disappointment floods him; what is he going to tell Paul? Did he come all this way for nothing? He slides his arm in farther, marveling at the deep cranny within the tree, like a secret passage, and then he touches it, the sharp corner of a metallic object. He hollers out to Vandeleur that he’s got it; he can feel it. He just has to pry it out; it seems stuck. A fierce struggle ensues; his cheek is squashed against the coarse bark, his fingertips sliding powerlessly over the slippery edges of the box. It’s almost as if the tree won’t relinquish the box. Linden finds himself muttering to his namesake, talking to the tree as if it could hear him. “Come on, linden, don’t do this to me. Let go of it. Let me have it.” He has an idea. He slides the end of the sledgehammer right into the hole, straining the handle up against the corner of the box with all his might. He hears a faint squelch, and when he darts his hand in again, the box moves more easily now, like a loosened tooth. It takes further effort to pull it gently out toward him, bringing it to the light and the air, like a strange, outlandish birth, but all of a sudden, the box is in his hand, and he stares down at it in awe while Vandeleur crows with triumph. It is a small biscuit tin, covered with moss and crawling with ants, which he blows away. Gingerly, he makes his way down the tree, his head spinning. Vandeleur asks him for the sledgehammer, which he hands down, then for the box, so Linden can use both his hands, but he won’t let go of it. The ladder seems awfully far away. His legs feel weak. He lets Vandeleur’s voice direct him. Little chief needs to take it easy now; there’s no hurry. One step after another, that’s right. Once his trembling feet are on the ladder, Linden regains his strength and climbs down adroitly. Vandeleur peers at the box, asks Linden if he’s going to open it. His father didn’t say to open it, Linden points out: He just said to bring it to him, that it was very important. Vandeleur wants to know if it’s heavy; Linden places it into the worn-out old palms. The gardener lets out a whelp of surprise. It’s as light as a feather! He shakes the box, holds it to his ear, like a kid trying to hear the ocean in a seashell. Is it money? Linden says he has no idea. He is tempted to find out, but he doesn’t feel comfortable in front of Vandeleur. He’ll do it later, in the car, when he’s alone, on his way back to Paris. He promised to come back fast; he should be on his way.
When Vandeleur has gone, and when Linden has locked the front door, it is approaching eleven o’clock. He takes a few quick photographs of the house and the valley with his Leica. Just before he left, he called Mistral, Lauren, and Tilia from the landline to say he had the box and was on his way. He couldn’t get through to any of them. He wondered if it was to do with the flood and the mobile coverage not functioning. He tried Sacha’s cell phone and the home number as well, and got voice mail each time. Linden takes to the road with somber thoughts, stopping at Montbrison for gas. The sun is rising higher into the sky. The box sits on the seat next to him; he looks at it from time to time. Heading north to Montélimar, to the highway, he passes Grignan, the town where his parents met, with the castle high on its stony promontory. The roads are clear; he can drive fast and smoothly. He turns on the radio and discovers, to his dismay, there has been a night of terror in Paris. Marauding gangs attacked shops after nightfall, starting with the Champs-Élysées and neighboring avenue Victor-Hugo, causing thousands of euros of damage to a capital enfeebled by the flood. Hundreds of hooded looters then stormed through the dark streets of Montparnasse, poorly lit because of electricity outages, smashing windows and stealing everything they could get their hands on, from electrical items to clothing. The mobs came from outlying districts, determined to engage in lawless mayhem and to clash with the police. Horror-struck, Linden listens. Boutiques on rue de Rennes were ransacked in a matter of minutes, one after the other. The supermarket near the corner of boulevard Saint-Germain was emptied and set on fire. Police, bombarded all night long with bottles and bricks, admitted being overwhelmed by the scale of the attacks, because many officers were already busy guarding flooded areas. Firefighters struggled with blazes for hours. Hundreds of people were arrested; fifty or more were injured. A tearful old lady says she has never seen anything like this since the student insurrection of May 1968. Linden reaches for his phone, meaning to call his family to check if they are all safe, but he is unable to locate it. He pulls over at the next rest area to hunt for it, looks under the seat, in the back, in his bag, and realizes with dread he forgot it, left it plugged into the socket in the bedroom. He feels lost and helpless without it. He knows none of his family’s numbers by heart, let alone Sacha’s. He bemoans the fact he has no address book, not even a slip of paper with important numbers jotted down. How could he have been so reckless? He does have backup in his iPad, but he left that at the hotel. Cursing, he takes off again, going faster than he should be, a dull foreboding in the pit of his stomach.
The news on the radio does little to alleviate Linden’s disposition. The level of the Seine has started to recede ever so gradually, but the water still annexes half of the city, and it can’t really be called water anymore, declares the journalist deprecatingly, more like vast stagnant pools of oily slush reeking of cesspools. Chaos. There is no other word for what is going on in Paris. Pumps are unable to suck up the muck, as it is too thick and gritty. Stinking rubbish both piling up and floating about is another major sanitary problem. Exasperated inhabitants have decided to burn trash wherever they can, fashioning wild bonfires on every available street corner, another hazard. Linden can hardly believe his ears. Can it get any worse? Will Paris ever pull through? The vo
ices on the radio continue their unsettling litany. Should he turn it off or find music to listen to? On the other hand, he tells himself he needs to know what’s going on, what he’s returning to. He learns the Red Cross is launching a larger disaster response, and that more donations are needed to allow their workers to assist thousands of freezing, homeless Parisians with food, shelter, and emotional support. Clearly in the grip of an unparalleled crisis, Paris seems beset by ancient class, racial, and political divisions; the recent upheavals are not encouraging acts of solidarity and altruism. The lack of coordination between governmental officials, relief organizations, and the military are making headlines worldwide. The person being blamed in the press appears to be the president, who is being accused of not being able to rally his troops to deal with the disaster. The president’s major opponents have not stopped condemning him, judging his administration lethargic and incapable of meeting the needs of all those affected by the flooding. But on social media, the young president is revered by the majority of Parisians, who are convinced he is doing everything he can in a dramatic and unprecedented situation.
When Linden reaches Lyon, two hours later, he stops in a self-service cafeteria for gas and a snack. He makes calls using his credit card from a run-down pay phone that looks like it hasn’t been used for years. It is practically impossible to get any information without the Internet, he realizes. He finally obtains directory assistance and asks for the number of Cochin Hospital and has a panic-stricken moment finding a pen and a piece of paper. A woman standing nearby drinking coffee proffers both. The hospital takes ages to answer, and when he does get through, the jaded person on the other end of the line does not react well to his impatience. Professor Magerant’s direct line rings and rings into thin air. Why is no one responding? Where is his secretary? The woman who lent him pen and notepaper takes pity on him. Doesn’t he have a cell phone? Linden ruefully admits he forgot it. She hands him hers with a smile. How kind! How unexpected! Using it, he goes online to find the hotel number, dials it, and is told his family is out. He assumes they are at the hospital. He uses the lady’s phone again to scavenge for another number online for the hospital, manages to find the nurses’ office on his father’s ward. Again, the endless ringing tone. Finally, a female voice responds; the woman sounds as if she’s in a hurry. She says she can’t hear him. Can he please speak louder? He says he is the son of Paul Malegarde, who’s in room 17. He just wants to tell his family he’s on his way. He’ll be there as fast as he can, in under four hours if the traffic is good. She says she still can’t hear him correctly. Can he repeat the message? A sort of rage comes over Linden. He wants to shout, to insult her, to use the nastiest possible words. Instead, he hangs up, riled, giving the mobile back to its owner. He has no more time to waste. The lady asks him if everything is okay; she has a pleasant, honest face. He nods briefly, thanks her, and sprints back to the car. He knows he’s driving too fast, that he should be careful, but he can’t help speeding ahead, hands gripped on the wheel, the ominous sensation churning within him. The highway becomes more and more congested as he nears Paris, and when he reaches Nemours, only an hour away, he finds he has to halt in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. As he sits immobilized in an interminable queue of stationary cars, fury sweeps over him again, red-hot, like a scorching blaze. Minutes tick by and still the line is not moving forward. He feels like bashing his head against the steering wheel, imagines blood trickling from his battered forehead. He tries calming down, breathing gently, emptying his mind.
The box glimmers in the fading daylight, as if it were calling out to him. He stares at it. His father didn’t tell Dominique not to open it, did he? Linden reaches out for it, cradling the cold metal in his hand. A solitary ant crawls over his palm; he flicks it away. He could open it now. Perhaps this traffic jam is fate’s way of telling him to do so. Stranded, stuck, without his phone, what else is there for him to do? He clasps it between his fingers, trying to pry the top up. He fiddles with it for a while, maddened; the lid feels like it has been glued on. He remembers the ballpoint pen the lady lent him and that he forgot to give back. It’s still in his jacket pocket. He fishes it out hastily; bends the clip on its side all the way back. With the point of the clip, he presses hard on the corner of the box. It clicks open. Linden lifts the lid off carefully. The inside is surprisingly intact. No bugs, little humidity. He discovers an unsealed envelope, peers inside. There are several pages of paper, neatly folded, and two short yellowed articles from a newspaper. The date on the first one is August 5, 1952. “The body of a young girl found at a private property at Vénozan, near Sévral, on August 3 has been identified as that of Suzanne Vallette, sixteen, from Solérieux. The police suspect foul play.” The second article dates back to August 10, 1952. “A man connected to the rape and murder of Suzanne Vallette is in custody at Nyons. He is a 35-year-old shepherd from Orelle with a criminal record.” Who is Suzanne Vallette? What had she got to do with Paul? Mystified, Linden unfolds the sheets of paper. A loud honk from behind makes his heart race; the column of cars is moving again. Nervously, he drives onward, the papers spread out on his knees. The traffic is slow-moving, but not slow enough for him to read safely, and it drags on all the way to Paris, where the rain has stopped at last. A dark blue sky glows above the highway. When he reaches porte d’Orléans, Linden is hastily able to decipher the opening paragraph of the first page at a red light. He recognizes his father’s familiar handwriting. There is no date.
I will start with the tree. Because everything begins, and ends, with the tree. The tree is the tallest one. It was planted way before the others. I’m not sure how old it is, exactly. Perhaps three or four hundred years old. It is ancient and powerful. It has weathered terrible storms, braced against unbridled winds. It is not afraid.
Linden wonders what the rest of the papers contain. What will he discover? Why are they so important to Paul? Will he have time to read them before he gets to the hospital? Probably not. He must drop off the car at the Montparnasse station. Shouldn’t he drive straight to Cochin Hospital? But where would he park around there? Should he return the car and then dash to the hospital? While he dithers, horns blare behind him again. He decides to drive to the hospital; he’ll return the car later. A sort of desperation mounts within him. He turns right into rue du Père-Corentin, not expecting the blockage awaiting him there. For twenty minutes, he sits in the car, fuming. He sees, as he draws slowly nearer, that a unit of policemen is stopping all cars heading into rue de la Tombe-Issoire. As Linden rolls the window down, the icy night air rushes in, nauseating with pungent smoke. No more rain, but a putrid rotten-egg stench that makes him to want to retch. Where is he going? a policeman asks. To the nearby hospital to see his father, Linden says. He is asked to show his identity card and the vehicle registration documents. Is he a tourist? Is he aware that driving through the city is not recommended, due to the flood and the recent rampaging? He says he’s not a tourist; he’s French and he is here with his family. Can they please let him through? His father is waiting for him at Cochin Hospital. His father is very ill. These men look drawn; they have dark circles under their eyes. They must have had a tough night. He feels sorry for them. The policeman takes his time, glancing from the card to his face. Finally, he lets Linden pass. He warns him that he’ll find it hard to park. He is right. Linden spends another interminable moment or two looking for a free space around the hospital, tension rising within him. He loses his temper, swearing at the top of his voice, sounding like Tilia, hitting the wheel with furious hands. At his wits’ end, he leaves the car on the pavement on rue Méchain, knowing he’ll get a fine. There’s no other solution. The freezing, foul-smelling city around him seems inimical and alien. He runs as fast as he can to the principal entrance on rue Saint-Jacques, the box tucked in his pocket. It takes him another minute to reach the building where his father is.
The inside lights glare at him, hurting his eyes. Linden feels out of breath as he waits for the elevator, mouth
dry, heart pounding. Why this anguish? Paul will be upstairs in room 17; Mistral, Tilia, and Lauren are there, expecting him; perhaps Dominique is with them as well. He’ll hand over the box to his father jubilantly. He’ll make Paul chuckle by telling him about how he and Vandeleur carried the ladder, how it didn’t reach high enough, how the box was stuck deep in the tree, and what a struggle it had been to pull it out, and that a surprised woodpecker had gawked at him all the while. He’ll tell Paul about the loveliness of the land, the light, the air, how he had wanted to stay up in the tree and feast his eyes on everything the valley had to offer. He had seen the beauty of Paul’s world. He belonged to that world, too. All this, he will tell his father.
The Rain Watcher Page 23