FOUR KINGS: A Novel

by M. D. Elster

  “Well, I’m afraid hanging’s off the table,” Mr. Duval answers. “Since your stepfather lived, it isn’t murder, only attempted murder. But don’t you worry. If he ever gets out, he’ll be nothing but a shriveled up old man. And that is if he ever gets out.” He looks at me and flinches to see my expression. “You look pale. Don’t think about any of that right now, Anaïs. Just focus on the matter at hand. In fact, there are only two categories of things to think about: My questions, your answers. It’s my day to call witnesses; I’ll call you first thing and we’ll get this over with, nice and easy. If the defense attorney gets rough with you, go ahead and cry.”

  The courtroom is already full when we walk in. It smells of dust and mildew and wood-polish. The view outside the large, arched windows reveals an overcast day, and where there would normally be eastern sunshine there is only a cool gloom sliding in sideways. Mr. Duval walks me down the aisle and secures a seat for me in the gallery pews, just behind the prosecution’s table. My stepfather and Colette arrive. He rides in a wheelchair pushed by an orderly. The orderly parks the wheelchair in the front row, beside me. My stepfather immediately reaches for my hand.

  “Anaïs,” he says, “It gives me such strength just to see you.”

  I smile and nod, but say nothing. My attention is drawn away by a side door opening behind the bar, near the jury box. Jules comes into the room, escorted by a thick-necked bailiff. Their entry prompts a noticeable escalation in chatter and hushed whisperings. The bailiff walks with him to the table assigned to the defense, and waits nearby. I watch as Jules twists around in his seat, searching for something. When his eyes land upon me, he stops. His eyes are heavy and sad; my heart gives a lurch. Quickly, I glance away.

  Next, the jury members emerge from the same door as Jules. They file into the jury box, all of them white, tromping with dutiful expressions on their faces. The judge emerges from his chambers, and a second bailiff barks out, “ALL RISE!!”

  Everyone stands. Everyone save for my stepfather, of course, who remains seated in his wheelchair.

  “Hear ye, hear ye! District Court for the Parish of Orleans is now in session! Honorable Judge Francis Lefebvre presiding,” the bailiff calls out.

  The judge strikes his gavel. “You may all be seated.” He puts on a pair of wire-rim glasses, hooks them around the backs of his ears, and examines a piece of paper in front of him, which I can only assume is the court docket. “Mr. Duval… you will be calling witnesses today. I presume this is your witness list I see before me?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Your Honor, I’d like to call Anaïs Reynard to the stand.”

  The air around me stirs as all heads in the courtroom turn in my direction. I stand and awkwardly shuffle out of the pew. My stepfather grabs my hand and gives it another squeeze. I stare down at my shoes, take a breath, and push my way through the swinging gate of the bar. My knees feel like gelatin, my stomach twists. I pass the defense’s table and my eyes flick involuntarily to Jules again, but then as self-consciousness overtakes me, they flick away, up to the men and women seated in the jury box.

  When I reach the witness stand, the bailiff who announced the judge’s entry holds out a black leather Bible.

  “Do you so solemnly swear by Almighty God and by penalty of perjury to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” the Bailiff demands in a grave voice.

  “I do,” I answer.

  “You make take the stand.”

  I step up and take a seat.

  “Mr. Duval?” Judge Lefebvre prompts.

  “Good morning, Anaïs,” Mr. Duval says in a pleasant, cheerful voice. It is as if we have not spent the last hour together. He has me state my name and spell my surname aloud for the court. “And what is your relationship to the victim, Mr. Léon Jean-Jacques Reynard?”

  “I am his adopted daughter,” I say, and then add, “He is my sole guardian, the only parent I have left in this world.”

  A tiny smile creeps into Mr. Duval’s lips. He is pleased. “Ah yes… would you please summarize for the court your stepfather’s heroic actions in arranging for your passage to America during the war?”

  I oblige, giving a quick account of our escape from Paris to London, and later, a description of my stepfather’s efforts to book passage from London to New York.

  “And would you please state for the court your racial heritage?” Mr. Duval asks.

  This is not one of the questions we practiced. I look at him, puzzled.

  “I was born in Belgium,” I say. “I grew up in a wooded area known as the Hallerbos.”

  “And born into a Christian family?”

  “Oh — no. I have taken my stepfather’s faith, Catholicism. But my parents were Jewish.”

  “Practicing Jews?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was the community in which you lived aware your family was Jewish?”

  “We were practicing Jews, so… yes.”

  “What has become of your childhood home?”

  “I don’t know. We weren’t there when Germany invaded. By then we had fled to Paris. But of course, Germany invaded there, too.”

  “And would you say, as a Jew under threat of death from Germany and from Hitler, that your stepfather saved your life by removing you from Occupied France, from transporting you safely to America?”

  I lift my head and look across the room at my stepfather, where he sits now in his wheelchair. A full minute passes as I stare at him, my jaw clenching.

  “Yes,” I say. “That is accurate to say. He saved my life. I am grateful for that.”

  Mr. Duval waits a few beats, ensuring my words have sunken in with the jury.

  “Let’s change the subject a bit. Are you familiar with the defendant?”

  “Yes,” I say, glancing at Jules.

  “Can you point to him, and state his name as you know it to be?”

  I lift my arm and point my forefinger. “Jules Martin.”

  “And his occupation?”

  “He is a stagehand in my stepfather’s nightclub down on Toulouse Street.”

  “Other witnesses have stated that Mr. Martin and your father had a contentious relationship, would you agree?”

  “Yes.”

  “You agree that the two of them did not like each other?”

  “They were not friendly,” I say. “That is true. They butted heads.”

  “Stagehands and musicians reported that you and Mr. Martin were sometimes seen talking to each other — would you say you were friendly with the defendant?”

  “We talked from time to time.”

  “Did he ever confide in you, or tell you why he’d taken the job at your stepfather’s club?”

  “He said his life’s ambition was to become a jazz singer.”

  “To your knowledge, is your stepfather’s club well-known in the entertainment world?”

  “It is well-respected, to my knowledge. We have hosted some very famous headliners, especially in jazz.”

  “So it is not unreasonable that the defendant might arrive at the conclusion that appearing onstage would be beneficial to his career?”

  “No.”

  “So, then, what was holding him back from his much sought-after success?”

  “My stepfather.”

  “Please: Explain.”

  “My stepfather was holding him back,” I repeat. “He wouldn’t let him audition or fill-in, or even perform in a practice set with the various different bands that appeared at the club.”

  “And did the defendant ever express to you how that made him feel?”

  “Yes. He said it made him feel angry.”

  “And what did he say was the only way he would be likely to get a chance to sing on your stepfather’s stage?”

  “He said he’d have to put a gun to my stepfather’s head,” I say, avoiding looking across the room at Jules. A gasp goes up around the room, bu
t I don’t bat an eye. This is all as we practiced.

  “And was there any reason Mr. Martin might have been particularly angry as of late?”

  “My stepfather was preparing to fire him. He might have caught wind of that,” I answer.

  “Thank you, Anaïs,” Mr. Duval says. “And now let’s change the subject again. Where were you on the evening of September 26th, during the night of the hurricane?”

  “At home,” I say.

  “Was your stepfather there?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “And, to your knowledge, where was the defendant on the night in question?”

  “He turned up at our house.”

  “Did he ring the doorbell?”

  “No.”

  “So he entered the premises unlawfully and without the knowledge of you or your stepfather?”

  “Yes. I assume he came through the damaged wall in the sitting room.”

  “What had happened to that part of the house?”

  “Well, then an oak tree crashed through the roof of the main sitting room, and knocked out part of the exterior wall.”

  “So you had to take shelter in another part of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I had already gone to my stepfather’s study. He… he joined me there,” I say. The words are more difficult to come by; I am all too aware that we are coming to the end. Mr. Duval seems to sense as much, too.

  “And did Mr. Martin enter the room during the time you were in your stepfather’s office?”

  “He did.”

  “Now, the pistol your stepfather kept in his office at his nightclub — would someone other than your stepfather able to get his hands on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did the stagehands have access to it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Did you recognize this as the same pistol used against your stepfather?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, Anaïs, did you get a clear look at the individual who shot your stepfather?”

  “Yes,” is all I can reply. I glance at Colette. I can see a single tear already making its way down one cheek, but I don’t know why — whether this tear is for Jules, or… for someone else.

  “Can you point that individual out for the court?”

  “It would be rather difficult,” I say.

  Suddenly, Mr. Duval — who has been roaming freely around the courtroom, pacing back and forth in front of the jury box — freezes, and turns to cock his head at me. This was not part of our morning rehearsal.

  “I beg your pardon?” he says.

  “I said… It would be rather difficult to point out the individual who shot my stepfather.” I stand up, and turn to the jury. “That individual was me,” I say, as loudly as I can manage.

  “I shot my stepfather.”

  A gasp ripples throughout the courtroom and is quickly followed by a boisterous uproar. The judge begins banging his gavel. Mr. Duval is glaring at me. He looks fit to be tied; in that moment I think he would happily shoot me, just as I shot my stepfather.

  “I shot my stepfather,” I repeat.

  I turn to the judge, the jury — to anyone who will listen — and I begin reciting my stepfather’s many terrible deeds… all the things he did in the war… the night my mother died… everything, everything I can possibly think of.

  “ORDER, ORDER!” the judge repeats, banging his gavel. I attempt to exchange a look with Jules, but one of the bailiffs grabs him up and he is spirited away.

  “Jules!” I cry.

  I rise from the witness stand as though to run after him, but two or three steps into my pursuit, I find my own arms gripped and wrenched behind me. I become dimly cognizant of the fact that the other bailiff is restraining me. I struggle, and the bailiff winds up having to wrestle me to the ground.

  “Anaïs! Anaïs!” I hear Colette calling to me.

  I am lying with my cheek pressed to the courtroom floor, handcuffs around my wrists and a bailiff’s knee jabbing into my back. I can see Colette fighting the crush of bodies, trying to make her way to me in vain. My eyes shift from her to another familiar face: My stepfather’s. He is looking at me with that icy blue stare, that penetrating devil’s gaze. He looks at me, and shakes his head slowly, solemnly. In that very moment, I know: The hate between us is sealed for all time.

  And that is the last thing I remember before it all goes black.

  CHAPTER 38.

  It was my mother who had begun to piece things together. Years ago, first in Paris and later in London, she began to discover my stepfather’s secrets one by one. The premier secret to slip from his lips was a minor reference to the existence of a previous wife. My mother did not think much of it at the time; when she’d met him, my stepfather was nearing fifty — it was only natural he’d been married at one point in his life. She was vaguely intrigued, however, that he had not brought it up prior to their own nuptials, and thought it odd he spoke so little about the identity of this mystery woman with whom he’d once shared a bed. When she asked him, he said he’d never liked the word “widower”; it had a terrible ring to it. And it wasn’t healthy to live a life defined by loss, he explained. Especially not in these times. Best to look forward, and my mother agreed. She had, after all, buried her own husband, and with her own two hands, no less.

  But her intrigue deepened when she discovered he’d had not one but two previous wives. She found the names written on some stray documents, and, on impulse, scribbled them down for herself. Some time passed before she did anything about this discovery, but eventually, she found herself curious about these women. Her husband was a man of refined taste, descended from a marquis, and considered himself difficult to impress. My mother could only conclude that these women must have been unique creatures, to say the least.

  Information about his first wife was easily procured by virtue of a quick trip to the library, as her name turned out to be splashed all over an entire archive of society pages. Her father was a wealthy Italian entrepreneur. He’d made a fortune by virtue of his ownership of a few textile mills, and in consequence his daughter was a moneyed lady of leisure, a regular on the beaches of the Riviera and slopes of Cortina d’Ampezzo. Judging by her photographs, she was not quite beautiful, but had a certain je ne sais quoi; she was very polished and she led an exciting lifestyle. When my stepfather married her, her family acquired the noble family tree they had always coveted so lovingly. And when his wife died in a tragic accident on the ski slopes two years later, my stepfather wound up inheriting the textile fortune.

  His second wife brought far less money but much more charm and chic to the marriage. She was a celebrated ballerina, and, when he first arrived in Paris looking to console his grieving heart, she was the toast of the town. Their affair, too, regularly appeared in newsprint as the Parisian press delighted in photographing them at the opera, at the most fashionable restaurants, at after-hours clubs in Montmartre. A citywide tragedy was declared when she stepped into oncoming traffic at precisely the wrong moment and was killed on impact. According to the obituary, my stepfather spoke movingly at the funeral about how it would always haunt him that he had not been able to pull her back in time to save her.

  These deaths could have — and perhaps should have — alarmed my mother. But she was not a woman easily rattled. She was, if anything, an understanding woman who knew all too well that life did not always play out as prescribed. No; it wasn’t until my mother began paying attention to bank correspondence addressed to the both of them — my stepfather’s name typed neatly next to her own on the envelopes that arrived by post — that she began to question the circumstances surrounding the death’s of Léon Reynard’s previous wives.

  The first clue was an obvious one: A copy of a document bearing her signature. “PLEASE ACCEPT THIS COPY FOR YOUR RECORDS,” the accompanying cover letter read. It was a Swiss life insurance policy, made out in her na
me, noting my stepfather as the beneficiary. His signature was on it, and her signature appeared to be on it. The only problem was, my mother had no memory of signing it.

  Instead of confronting my stepfather, my mother dabbed glue on the envelope to seal it back shut and kept her latest discovery to herself. She hired an investigator, and dug even deeper, hoping whatever the investigator might uncover would help to put her mind at ease. What the investigator found, of course, did quite the opposite. He investigated my stepfather’s finances, first and foremost. His inquiry revealed that, despite my stepfather’s noble lineage, his family name was only that — a name, with quite a lot of debt and very little remaining gold behind it. As it turned out, the bulk of the family fortune had been spent two generations before my stepfather made his debut in the world.

  And so, while consulting with the private investigator, my mother heard the tale of her husband’s two previous wives all over again — and this time the narrative took the form of a money trail. It was his marriage to his first wife that brought Léon to a level of greater wealth. The father of the bride’s failing health meant he signed much of the textile mill empire over to his daughter and new son-in-law upon their wedding. Two years later, when the young bride was buried in a bizarre, very localized avalanche, my stepfather — Léon Reynard — was left as the sole inheritor of the entire operation.

  According to the investigator, the textile mills slowly began to fail as my stepfather syphoned money off, bit by bit, over time. He took up residence in Paris, and life in Paris — at least the way Léon wished to experience it — was expensive. Yes, the textile mills were slowly going bankrupt, but few would have ever suspected as much. My stepfather never allowed his feathers to be ruffled. And just before the mills went completely under, my stepfather’s lovely ballerina of a second wife lurched into oncoming traffic with an awkwardness that stood in curious opposition to her many years of diligently studied grace.

  Her career as a dancer was considered quite important, and she had very thoughtfully taken out a Swiss life insurance policy on herself, for a sizable sum of money. There was only one beneficiary named, the love of her life: Léon Jean-Jacques Reynard. It was altogether too sad and discouraging, my stepfather reportedly said to his friends and colleagues, to go on living in the same appartement they had once shared. With his pockets freshly lined, he purchased a stately townhouse a month or so after his second wife had departed from this dear world — the same townhouse my mother and I eventually came to know.