The Devil's Sanctuary
Page 36
Her mother would have so loved those walkways of white flowers, the foliage turning inky in the shadow of the beech trees. Mme. Préau would take her father there twice a week, pushing the wheelchair to a bench where, in the shade of a honeysuckle, she would sit, the invalid by her side. She would read the paper to her father, commenting passionately about the first measures put in place by the new government—measures that might give the French people optimism for the future.
“If he should fall victim to respiratory failure, we need your authorization—do you understand?”
The new government didn’t waste any time: raising minimum wage, increasing the payout for the old age pension and benefits for children, temporarily suspending the deportation of foreigners … And then there was that astonishing festival dreamed up by the Ministry for Culture, a national day dedicated to music! Mme. Préau asked suddenly:
“What is the date today?”
“The twenty-first of June.”
“Yes of course. Where is my head …”
“Mme. Préau, do you give us your consent so that we could let him go?”
At the junior high school today, they had celebrated the first day of summer in the schoolyard. Mme. Préau had arranged for the children to have songs and dancing at recess. A tiring day. They hadn’t heard shouts of joy like that since the last school fête. The headmistress was still smiling to herself with happiness.
“Mme. Préau, please, we need your consent.”
The ill man’s daughter turned to face the doctor and noticed her hostile expression. Pink and white scrubs moved back and forth behind her restlessly, sharpening their syringes.
“Tell me, Doctor,” whispered Mme. Préau, “this evening for the music festival, what if your devoted orderlies sang the latest hits to the patients just before they gave them the lethal injection?”
March 13, 1997
Audrette,
I am sorry to have to write you this letter, but you have given me no choice.
You cannot get away with this just because you’re my daughter-in-law. Refusing to let me see my grandson is enormously cruel. I do not see how his spending Wednesday afternoons with his granny poses such a problem for you. Bastien is a charming child, he’s very intelligent, and he’s my only grandchild. I’m also very concerned about his health; Bastien has lots of bruises. Does he have trouble with his balance? Does he fall often? If not, do you see any reason for his contusions?
I think that you are under a bad influence at the moment, one that is altering your perception of things. I have another hypothesis about your situation, but I would rather discuss it face-to-face. And I don’t see how keeping a goat and a baboon in my garden could possibly be harmful to my grandson. To the contrary; it has been proven that contact with animals is particularly beneficial to children. And besides, Bamboo never gets out of his cage.
I should warn you, however, that if you prevent me from seeing Bastien, I will be obliged to contact the judge at family court. I intend to exercise my visitation rights just like any other grandmother.
Kiss Bastien and Martin for me.
Elsa Préau
Chapter 6
The scrawny daisies had been pulled up by the roots. The dandelions too. Parched by the heat, the earth crumbled at the slightest touch.
“Are they for me, Bastien?” asked Mme. Préau.
“No, they’re for Mommy.”
The little boy held the makeshift bouquet tightly in his left hand. He walked with his head bobbing, one palm against his granny’s, which was damp with sweat. Not even the slightest breath of wind to chase the scorching heat away.
“I really like Captain Cousteau.”
“Me too, Bastien.”
“Why did he die?”
“Because the Good Lord needed him.”
“It’s not fair. Who’s going to take care of the whales now?”
“You, when you’re older.”
“Granny Elsa?”
“Yes, Bastien?”
“Why did you come to school to pick me up and not Mommy?”
“Because she had to work. She’ll come later.”
On the path, between two wisps of yellow grass that had grown up through the tarmac, a colony of fireflies had caught the child’s eye. He stopped for a moment to watch the insects mating happily.
“What kind of insects are these, Granny Elsa?”
Mme. Préau raised an eyebrow.
“Not God’s creatures, certainly.”
“Oh?”
“Come on, Bastien, let’s cross.”
“But that’s not the way home.”
“We’re not going home. We’re going to have a picnic in Courbet Park with our after-school snack.”
“Great!”
“I made chocolate cake.”
The little boy’s face lit up. He readjusted one of the straps of his schoolbag and pulled at the elastic of his shorts before stepping out onto the crosswalk.
Twenty minutes later, Mme. Préau and her grandson were picnicking on the grass in the shade of the big chestnut trees. Bastien made a face. He put what was left of his cake down on a paper napkin.
“I don’t feel good, Granny.”
He ran his hand through his hair.
“Did you eat too quickly?”
“No, I’m dizzy.”
She put a hand to his burning forehead.
“I told you not to stay on the swing for too long in the sun. Have some cordial.”
Bastien drank straight from the plastic bottle. Soon he was sleeping, his cheek pressed against his granny’s skirt, listening to a story about goblins.
“… they wore hats as tall as they were wide and big belts made of wolf skin across their black woolen coats. Everyone in the village was afraid of their nasty tricks. They were the ones who would drop things in the middle of the night, or crack the floorboards in people’s houses. They could open any door. No lock could keep them out. They were so ugly that when women saw them, they would faint from fright. Even the strongest men and the bravest children would take to their heels when they crossed paths with a goblin.”
Bastien’s grandmother brought the last piece of cake to her lips. Her arm was shaking gently, trailing crumbs across her blouse.
“They were very nasty goblins sent by the County Council. The same ones who spoke to your lovely mommy in her sleep, all the better to manipulate her, and to make her do very nasty things to her family, and most of all to you, my little Bastien.”
Nodding off, the grandmother closed her eyes too.
“But you, my dear, they’ll never have you. Your granny won’t let her grandson be part of anything wicked. No one will lay a finger on any blood of mine. Sleep, my Bastien, sleep tight. Granny Elsa is watching over you …”
Submerged in water in a cup propped up against his schoolbag, the flowers that the little boy had picked were wilting like a forgotten promise. Lulled by the children’s shouts echoing across the park, stretched out against each other, Bastien and his grandmother looked like they were sleeping.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Welcome
Epigraph
PART 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
PART 2
29
30
31
32
33
34
PART 3
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
PART 4
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
About the Author
Acclaim for The Devil’s Sanctuary
A Preview of The Stone Boy
Chapters 1-6
Don’t miss the international bestseller Dark Secrets, now available in America for the first time!
Newsletters
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Marie Hermanson
Translation copyright © 2013 by Neil Smith
Cover design: Roberto de Vicq
Cover photo: Marc Schlossman/Millennium Images
Cover © 2013 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Published by arrangement with Nordin Agency, Sweden.
First published in Sweden in 2011 as Himmelsdalen by Albert Bonniers Förlag.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Trapdoor.
Excerpt from The Stone Boy © 2011 by Sophie Loubière. Translated by Nora Mahony.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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ISBN 978-1-4555-2388-7