by Mallock;
The oldest shots had faded almost completely away. The eyes, mouth, and hair were still there but the rest had disappeared. At the bottom of the trunk there were three real Indian faces, scalped. Their papery skin was still stretched over a wooden mold.
In Ralph’s eyes, since Viracalas had begun the line in the nineteenth century, it was only right for another Frenchman to finish the quest, by finally discovering the true Face of God. The boy had the sudden certainty, the marvelous intuition that he was, in fact, the chosen one. He would be the last of the Makeup Artists, and the first to look upon the face of the one who had made the world, the Earth and all its chaos, the whole universe with its galaxies, its planets, and him. He watched Ralph Bennet walk away, his heart too full of this overwhelmingly large dream even to say goodbye. Two hours later, Scott Amish killed Bennet while trying to arrest him.
It was August 31st, the last day of the month. The evening was scorchingly hot. Outside, everything that hides in the night was being regularly illuminated by huge bursts of light. New York was experiencing one of those dry storms that sometimes come to flash-photograph big cities. The wind rose, swirling among the buildings, erasing footprints, destroying traces, like ripples on water.
Cut!
36.
Paris, present day
A decade had gone by, and now the Makeup Artist was on the point of achieving his greatest dream. It was Thursday, January 13th, and everything was cold and dull. What a path he had traveled in such a short time! He’d gone further, been stronger than all his predecessors. For him there was no question of hunting butterflies or collecting. No; it was to the ultimate dream, the supreme art, and it alone, that he had dedicated his life.
Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, God had ordained, and no one had listened to him. So what was he afraid of, this holy man with his white beard, his seven-pointed halo, and his benedictory hands? This numb old man on his cotton clouds? What could his son have to fear, sitting on rainbows, illuminated by his dazzling mandorla, his cross-bearing glory? Now he, the mortal, the “so ugly”; he knew. By reproducing His image he would finally have a face, and he would be the first one to unmask Him, to be able to ask him all the questions his human yearning desired.
At around two A.M., alongside his work on the Christ Pantocrator, he started smoothing down the photo of the little Modiano girl, with her braids and her sublime forehead, onto a panel of wood.
The Makeup Artist utilized his murders in two major ways. One used the computer, the most modern of technologies; the other, the ancient art of the icon as Ralph Bennet had taught it to him. Though all the victims’ portraits were digitized, only the most interesting photos earned the right to the second activity.
An icon wasn’t painted, but written. It wasn’t the fruit of imagination but rather a work of copying, respecting models and schemas. In the beginning it was this soothing, almost scholarly aspect of it that he had loved.
Everything began with the choice of wood. He had a special affection for ash and purple beech, but since those varieties were too hard to work with he often ended up using maple, larch, or even linden or poplar, which were even softer. This time, his choice had fallen on a plank of willow.
He had prepared the mount yesterday, spending the whole day smoothing it with sandpaper and a polishing cube, always with the grain of the fibers. He had patiently polished away all the rough places, using liquid wood before impregnating the mount with a dispersion adhesive mixed with vodka and seminal fluid, according to Bennet’s recipe. It was dark by the time he had laid down three intertwining coats of thin primer and gesso powder. He had a little secret to speed up the drying process, so he hardly had to wait at all between coats. If he started at five in the morning he could be done preparing the mount before midnight the next day. He was very proud of this quickness; only a couple of years ago it would have taken him two weeks to finish the job. The last step in the preparation process was damp-polishing with a half-water, half-alcohol mixture and a polishing cube wrapped in abrasive paper. After that, his technique broke with tradition a bit. He didn’t draw his model, but applied it directly to the mount, a photograph he had taken and developed on special matte paper that was almost as thin as cigarette paper.
This time, without really realizing it, he had worked all night. The sun was rising and yet he didn’t feel the slightest bit tired. He stopped for just half an hour to drink some Chinese tea and wolf down a baguette. Then, glancing absently out the window at the activity in the street, he took his place again, smiling widely, in front of the wooden plank he used as both workbench and drawing board.
At the very beginning of his iconostasis project, he had only depicted Blachernitissa or Kazanskaya, the mother of God. But lately he’d changed his theme. Now Christ Pantocrator was his preferred subject.
To recreate the features, he used pigments and egg tempera paint to add the beard required by the iconic representation directly to the photos. He especially favored burnt-Sienna earth and black from charred animal bones; brightness effects were created with light ochre. He dressed the bodies in traditional costumes: red madder dalmatics and crimson himations; chromium oxide green mantles. To finish, he redrew the eyebrows and refined the nose, which was never elongated or fine enough in mortals.
That same day, he made up a woman’s face to create an almost perfect representation of the son of God. Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image. Like a broken record of a canticle, a mantra, this phrase echoed endlessly in his head while he painted. Today, as always, it resonated within him, and he did absolutely nothing to make it stop.
The square was filled with the sound of children, like the flapping of wings. It was 4:20 in the afternoon, a cursed time of day for Mallock.
At the same moment as the Makeup Artist left his lair to prepare his gilding compound of marl, rabbit-skin glue, and pore sealer, to be spread on before the gold leaf was applied, Mallock stood up from his desk, ready to pick Thomas up from school. He had never managed to break himself of this ingrained habit, which never failed to sharpen his grief. Of course, he had never really tried very hard to break it, either. The pain was the only tangible connection he still had to his son.
He sat back down heavily, while out there, standing in a little apartment with blue balconies, a psychopath snipped pieces of gold leaf with a pair of silver scissors.
After applying the primer, he spread on the yellow adhesive and then the red gilding base made of Armenian bole, an ochreous clay with a high iron oxide content, in three successive layers. Then he went down to relieve his mother in the store. He didn’t mind playing shopkeeper too much.
When she came back from running errands he went quickly upstairs again, the traditional “Thank you, sweetheart” floating after him.
It was six o’clock and the mount was perfect. Not too dry—because then the leaf wouldn’t stick—and not too damp, otherwise the gold would sink. He moved on to the final procedure, which consisted of running a boar’s-hair paintbrush, bizarrely called a “dog,” over the surface.
Once these time-consuming preparations were finally finished it was time for the magic moment, the one he loved above anything else. With his left hand, he picked up the gilding cushion on which he had placed the cut-off sheets of gold leaf. Lighter than butterfly wings, they seemed like they had a life of their own, like they could fly. He laid the first one on the cushion, turned it over, and blew on it to flatten it. Then he cut it with his gilding knife. Before applying it, he rubbed his palette over his cheek to charge it with static electricity and placed it carefully on the still-damp part of the object. Using a special gilding brush called an appuyeux,15 he delicately tamped the gold leaf down to get rid of any residual moisture, and then started the process over again with another leaf.
Next it was time for the hook-shaped burnishing agates. He applied himself to the task, startled as always by the velvety, sensual touch of t
he agate against the still-wrinkled gold leaves.
The gold began to gleam.
Before his eyes, thanks to his dedicated perseverance, the halo appeared at last, glowing in the already shadow-filled room. It was at these moments that he would have liked to call the world in to see. Show it that, if this mandorla around the lord shone miraculously in the darkness of this winter evening, it was because of him. Maybe then people would understand that he was right to do what he did. Maybe then he would even be loved and admired like he deserved to be.
But this weakness never lasted more than a fraction of a second. He preferred to remain misunderstood. It was what he enjoyed. Feeling different from everyone else, monstrously unique, with the solitude and the horror draped around him like a cloak.
37.
Friday, January 14th
Mallock had been up since four o’clock in the morning, unable to get back to sleep. He suffered from insomnia sometimes, when the day’s results hadn’t lived up to his expectations. Sometimes he slept like a baby, with the reassuring feeling of having conducted his day in ways that were helpful for himself and others. Work as remedy for depression and guilt.
At six o’clock he turned on the radio, to keep the silence from whispering hateful things that he didn’t want to hear.
The news hit like an exploding bomb. France was at the mercy of the most fearsome murderer of all time. A super-killer, a bloody monster, a butchering psychopath . . . there was no lack of titles and superlatives. Worse, the number of two hundred victims was mentioned for the first time. Someone hadn’t been able to hold their tongue, and the journalists had pounced on the case with their customary voracity.
Carnage like this was a godsend! A victim tally like that, how lucky! What joy, for the press.
At seven A.M. Amédée went out to buy the newspapers. It was even worse than he ever could have imagined. After seventy years of blackout, everything was now revealed in the light of day, with various versions that were more or less precise but all relatively complete. Some of them wallowed in the horror, in more or less realistic descriptions of the different murders; others preferred to focus on the mystery, the fantastical aspect of this unprecedented series of killings.
And the ultimate question: how old could the murderer be?
They had published old photos of the chief superintendent, taken on various cases. Some of the captions allowed readers to believe that the shots had been taken yesterday, while others wrote: Chief Superintendent Mallock, seen here trying to dodge our cameras, has refused to comment on this incredible case.
He should have become immune to their mudslinging a long time ago, but this really infuriated him. You might get wiser over the years, better at turning the other cheek, but you don’t get used to everything.
At eight o’clock, like a gladiator marching back into the arena, Mallock headed for the Fort. Snow had started falling again on the mob of journalists bunched at the main door of the police station. After a brief hesitation, he began making his way through this crowd of people he had liked at one time, but couldn’t feel any affection for now that they had replaced ethics with grandstanding, sources with the gutter, objectivity with ideology, and information with spectacle. Every journalist now followed his paper’s editorial line the way an addict followed a line of coke; there was no question of anything anymore except staying in the good graces of the editor-in-chief. To be honest, if you added to all of that the lobbies and networks, the cronyism and mutual back-scratching, the commercial and financial pressures—both those on the media and those on journalists at the end of the month—how could you still believe for a single second that the information being diffused could still have the slightest bit of value?16
Mallock was very careful not to make any statements. These guys were only going to write down what they wanted to hear. He made sure to say nothing at all. They loved nothing more than zooming in on one little sentence or even a single word, if it was on the blacklist of terms forbidden by the semantics police.
This time they managed to crucify him even when he didn’t say a word.
They drew their own conclusions from his silence, especially because he made the mistake of accompanying it with a fixed, rather idiotic smile. That same rictus would be splashed across the front page of every newspaper that very afternoon. The journalists, poor darlings, professed themselves to be completely scandalized by the irresponsible attitude of this superintendent who smiled so mockingly when so many unfortunate victims had been tortured and all of France trembled with fear. Some of them called unhesitatingly for the resignation of this monster of cynicism—or reactionary, or anarchist, depending on the political leanings of the publication. Comparing three newspapers’ versions of the same photo, Francis noticed that one of them had retouched the smile so that the scum-sucking cop looked even more repugnant. It was Photoshop’s smoothness slider, Amédée realized, not sure whether to laugh or cry.
The morning passed without Mallock’s being able to get much done. Phone calls and visits came thick and fast; it was like everything was made so the pressure would reach unprecedented levels. From the DA to the president of the bar association by way of Humbert and a host of other examining magistrates, from the lowest asshole of an umbrella-holder to various goddamn cabinet members, everyone piled on him, directly or through some middleman. All of them were careful to cover their asses as quickly as possible in case of a possible failure and the victims to come.
For Mallock, it was already a failure.
Only the Secretary of the Interior, and God knew this wasn’t typical of either his position or his character, acted halfway civilized. Which didn’t stop him from warning Mallock, in his low, gravelly voice:
“I’ve only got one piece of advice for you: hurry. The wolves have been released. I can’t do anything for you unless I get some tangible results as soon as possible, some bone to throw to the dogs. They’d be all too happy to pin the blame on me, so let’s not beat around the bush. I’ll support you for as long as I can, and not a minute longer. I’m well aware that you’re a good detective, which makes you my best chance—and the country’s. Give me another demonstration of your talents as fast as you possibly can, if you don’t want to end up as the fall guy.”
He hung up without giving Mallock time to respond. The phone immediately rang again. It was Queen Margot, who was none too pleased either.
“You asshole! Everyone’s put out an article and I’ve got zilch! I’m furious! I kept everything to myself, and now I look like an idiot in front of my editors-in-chief. I promised them reliable, exclusive info. Wasn’t that our deal?”
“You’re right. But the info you’re talking about didn’t come from me. There was a leak. I give you my word; I didn’t see any of this coming, and frankly I feel terrible for you.”
An embarrassed silence fell between them. She wasn’t wrong, but neither was he. It had just worked out badly. Murphy’s Law. He explained it to her calmly, and Margot, magnanimously, took it on the chin.
“I’m not angry at you,” she said at last. “Your investigation comes before I do, and that’s normal. But seeing all these articles everywhere when you swore me to silence . . . it made me livid. Especially because they completely destroyed you.”
“I understand. I wasn’t particularly happy about it either.”
“The only information they have is your wonky smile. Incredible. Sometimes I’m ashamed to be a journalist.”
“Those people aren’t journalists anymore. You still are, and there are a few others, thank goodness. The ones outside, they’re . . . ”
“Cocksuckers?”
Mallock laughed. “You said it, not me.”
“Okay, I’ll let you get back to work, my big bear. Try to think of me next time.”
Mallock made a quick decision. “Wait, don’t hang up. Get out your tape recorder; you’re going to have the only official and ex
clusive interview given by Chief Superintendent Amédée Mallock, my girl. That’s better than the scuttlebutt, don’t you think?”
After the improvised interview with Margot Murât, Amédée organized a series of meetings in his office. Then he spent his lunch hour listening, eyes closed, to the reports of the various lieutenants and inspectors who had been conducting house-to-house inquiries. Maybe some detail would tell him something, awaken that particular brand of inspiration he’d abused so many times. He met with all of them, one by one, without a break, from eleven A.M. to half past four.
At exactly 4:20, as like he had yesterday, he started and stood up abruptly at his desk, thinking of Toto and classes getting out. He sat down again once he remembered that Tom didn’t go to school anymore, now that he was dead. At the same moment a call from the hospital came, telling him that Amélie Maurel’s condition had taken a new turn for the worse. They’d had to put her back on the ventilator.
“You seem to know her quite well,” ventured Dr. Ménard on the telephone.
Ménard was an old-school gentleman, and a man of courage and duty. Mallock had liked him right away.
“Not for too long, but we . . . get along very well.”
“Her father is dead,” said the doctor, “and her mother lives out in the country with the rest of her family. Would you be so kind as to bring us her things? Identity papers, social security, insurance—anything you can find within the next couple of days. I’m very much afraid she won’t be with us a great deal longer.”