Interference

by Amélie Antoine

  I sigh again as I set my tripod down on my suitcase. I promised myself I would do everything I could to make it one day. I’m not a photographer; I’m an artist. Nothing can stop me. Not my father, not my mother, and certainly not some “nice guy.”

  I think it’d be better to take a warm, relaxing bath. It’ll be soothing after spending the whole day packing up my things. Plus, it’s probably the last one I’ll get for a while, since in my new place there’s no tub, only a shower.

  I’ll get on the road early tomorrow, even though the trip will only take a few hours. I have an appointment in the afternoon with the communications manager at the tourism office so she can explain the project details, specifically the number and type of photos they need. I’ve got a busy week ahead.

  CHAPTER 3

  MAY 16, 2013, 8:30 P.M.

  CHLOÉ

  When I see the metal table and the body covered with a white sheet, I can’t help but shiver. Even though I know it’s me underneath, I feel like I’m watching a bad crime show, the kind they run in back-to-back marathons on weekday afternoons.

  Seeing it all from the outside feels really strange. I’m a spectator looking down at my own lifeless body. My dead body, just to get it out in the open.

  I’m surrounded by a silence so thick I can hardly stand it.

  Gabriel receives a call at 8:34 p.m. When he hears the phone ring, he must instantly think it’s me calling him back. At last, after all these hours of worrying! Maybe he’ll even yell, hurling criticism born of a mix of anxiety and relief before he even hears my voice.

  But it’s not me on the line.

  It’s a police officer, or a hospital employee. It doesn’t really matter.

  There’s no point in beating around the bush: someone tells him that they’ve found his wife, that they’re so sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but she’d already been dead for several hours when an unlucky fisherman brought her up with his net.

  The poor man knew something was amiss when he started hoisting the netting up from the depths. More pull than usual. He even decided it was safer to stop the electric motor and pull it up by hand. He had already ripped a net the week before and couldn’t afford to buy another one, especially since his winch motor was starting to go downhill as well.

  He struggled for several minutes, his chest heaving, before setting eyes on his catch. It wasn’t a fish. It was a body, the body of a young woman in a black one-piece bathing suit. He was so surprised by the gruesome discovery that he almost dropped everything back into the ocean. But in the end, he managed to pull Chloé up, gracelessly yanking her over the side of the boat. He laid her down on the deck and put his ear to her mouth, then tried to take her pulse. There were obviously no vital signs. Just to be sure, he tried mouth-to-mouth and cardiac massage as best he remembered from the first-aid training he’d taken at the Red Cross years earlier. Nothing. He dialed for an ambulance as he turned on the motor and sped back to shore. Somehow he found the words to describe her silent, motionless body, pale skin, and purple lips.

  By the time he reached port, the ambulance was already there, lights flashing, along with a police cruiser. As the EMTs neared the small fishing boat, they exchanged a knowing glance. They took Chloé away quickly as the fisherman looked on in dismay. They placed her in a black body bag on a gurney, and the driver turned off the sirens and flashing lights. Silence engulfed the pier. The fisherman took the navy-blue beanie from his head and wrung it in his hands, muttering, “Oh my . . . Oh my . . .” over and over again.

  One of the EMTs patted his shoulder in gentle commiseration and told him that he had done what needed to be done, that he couldn’t have saved her, that she had been dead for quite some time before he had dragged her aboard. The fisherman nodded, relieved, and his feelings of guilt began to lift.

  The ambulance left silently, with my dead body in the back.

  Nowhere to go but the morgue.

  Gabriel drops his phone, and the black back pops off again as it hits the tile floor in the entryway. He leans against the wall and slides to the floor until his knees are pressed to his chest. He stares blankly ahead, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.

  I want to scream. I want to close my eyes and not see. I don’t want to see the indescribable suffering I can read in his unmoving eyes. I want to shake him, take him in my arms, tell him everything will be okay, that soon this terrible thing will be behind him, behind us. I can see him, but can’t touch him. I can hear him, but can’t talk to him.

  “Come on, Gabriel,” I mumble, but not a sound disturbs the chilling silence that has just engulfed our home.

  After a few minutes, my husband gets up, a haggard look on his face. He undoes the top button of his dress shirt to breathe a bit easier and runs his hand through his hair. He slowly heads toward the stairs and drags himself up the steps. He walks down the hallway to the bathroom, and I can hear him rifling through the cabinet where I keep all my meticulously organized beauty products. My moisturizing day cream, roll-on eye cream, powder foundation, charcoal-gray eyeshadow, black eyeliner, and evening toner. Dozens of hair ties for my usual ponytail—it’s the easiest thing given all my exercising.

  He comes out with my hairbrush and steadies himself on the railing. He looks like he’s about to faint; he’s gripping the banister so tightly that his knuckles are white. He takes a deep breath, goes back down to the entryway, picks up the pieces of his phone for the second time tonight, makes sure his car keys are in his pants pocket, and steps out the front door into the dwindling daylight.

  The door closes without a sound. I’m alone.

  GABRIEL

  Gabriel arrives outside the morgue at nine thirty. He took his time on the drive over; there was no reason to hurry. No one to save.

  He parks in the small lot, turns off the ignition, and sits there, waiting. He wants to go in, take care of all of the required formalities he knows next to nothing about, and then exclaim, “That’s not my wife!” when the coroner lifts the sheet off the dead body. But he also wants to run, floor the gas until he’s far, far away and the whole evening seems like nothing more than a far-fetched bad dream.

  In the end, a police officer opens the door to the morgue and makes his way toward Gabriel’s car. He’s young—hardly more than twenty-two or twenty-three years old—and clearly uncomfortable. He would undoubtedly have preferred to be on traffic duty; promotions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Usually by this time, he would be comfortably seated on the couch in his little studio apartment, drinking and watching rugby with his buddies. Unfortunately for him, the evening is far from over. When Gabriel leaves—and he hasn’t even come into the morgue yet—he’ll still have to write the administrative report so his boss can read it first thing tomorrow morning.

  Gabriel makes it easier for the young cop by getting out of his car. He walks toward him, a bereft look on his face.

  “Hello. I’m, uh . . . I’m Gabriel Hamon. I got a call earlier. About, uh . . . my wife. Chloé Hamon.”

  “Yes, of course. The coroner is waiting for you. I’ll take you down,” mumbles the officer.

  He should try to prepare Gabriel for what’s about to happen inside, for the blunt questions the coroner will ask. But it’s all new for him too, and he’s unsure of himself. It’s the first time he’s ever worked a real case, and to be honest, he’s really still a trainee . . . So he keeps quiet and simply leads Gabriel along the morgue’s dim hallways and down some stairs. When they reach the basement level, he steps aside and gestures toward the room where the coroner is waiting, inviting Gabriel to go in first.

  The coroner glances up as Gabriel hesitantly enters the room. He quickly prattles off his usual speech for the circumstances, which are hardly exceptional for him. Only the faces change. The end result is always the same. He’s been doing this job for more than thirty years now, so he’s had more than a few bodies on his autopsy table. He’s detached from it all, and meeting the family—often una
voidable—is just something he has to get through. He doesn’t know how to be empathetic; he’s never known how, and he’s not going to learn now. Especially given all he’s seen over the years.

  Gabriel is there to identify the body, but when the coroner sees the anguish in his eyes, he adopts a gentler tone and shares what he knows. They brought him the body in the early afternoon. Given the degree of rigor mortis—the lower body wasn’t stiff yet—he estimates she hasn’t been dead long. No more than three to twelve hours.

  The paunchy man clears his throat and pauses for a few seconds. He reminds himself that this isn’t the kind of thing loved ones want to hear.

  He continues. She must have died around nine or ten in the morning. Maybe a bit earlier. The body is in good condition, so it must not have spent more than a few hours in the water. It’s lucky the fisherman happened to pull her up, because many drowning victims are never found, and if they are, it can be weeks or even months before they turn up.

  The coroner hasn’t performed the autopsy yet, but he’s almost certain the cause of death is drowning. The first step is to identify the young woman. And that has been rather complicated, since she obviously didn’t have her ID or any personal effects on her, and she hadn’t been declared missing yet. The police managed to get ahold of Gabriel thanks to the bracelet the victim was wearing. A first name was engraved on the front: Chloé. And a date on the back: 16/8/1983. From there, it didn’t take them long to find a young woman named Chloé Hamon, maiden name Vasseur, who’d been living in Saint-Malo for the past three years.

  Gabriel feels unsteady. The bracelet means there is no room for doubt; it can’t be a mistake. The coroner shows him the narrow white-gold plaque and chain in a clear plastic bag. It’s Chloé’s. The one she has worn on her left wrist since he’s known her. Gabriel gently strokes her name, engraved in italics, through the sealed evidence bag.

  “Since we have the bracelet, you could choose to just ID that and give us something for a DNA match . . . I really don’t have to lift up this sheet. We have enough proof. Did you remember to bring your wife’s toothbrush or an article of clothing?”

  Gabriel takes Chloé’s hairbrush out of the plastic bag he’s been fiddling with since he entered the morgue and hands it to the coroner.

  The coroner thanks him with a nod. “I’ll call you as soon as the results are in, all right?” He heads toward the door, letting Gabriel know he can go home.

  “I want to see her.”

  Gabriel’s voice wavers, but it’s loud enough to make the coroner jump. He turns around, surprised. Usually people are relieved not to have to look at the lifeless body of someone they loved.

  “Are you sure?”

  Gabriel nods. Until he sees Chloé with his own eyes, he won’t be able to convince himself she’s not coming back. He’ll always harbor that absurd hope.

  The coroner sighs and walks over to the metal table. He looks at Gabriel one last time and imperceptibly shakes his head. Taking the edge of the sheet in his hands, he lowers it just enough to expose the victim’s head.

  Gabriel is stoic when he sees her bluish face and purple lips.

  “It’s her. It’s my wife,” he mumbles before quickly turning away. The coroner pulls the sheet back up and tries to look sad.

  Without a word, Gabriel leaves the room and its harsh neon lights behind, climbs the stairs to the first floor, and pushes through the front door. Outside he takes a deep breath of fresh air.

  Saint-Malo is swathed in darkness.

  EMMA

  My fingers are all wrinkled when I finally get out of the hot bath. I open the bathroom window to clear the steam from the mirror. I dry off quickly, wrap a towel around my chest, and study my reflection. I use my index finger to rub away the last traces of the green clay masque I put on rather sloppily in the bath and rinsed off thirty minutes later, without bothering to look in the mirror. My skin feels tight.

  I examine my face. My skin is ivory. I don’t even try to tan in the summer anymore—it’s a waste of time. I gave it my all as a teenager, though, coating myself in monoi oil and all sorts of other tanning aids. My nose is a bit too straight; it makes my profile look funny. I always try to pose head-on or turn slightly off-center for photos. My lips are thin and I don’t do much for them—I hate lipstick. My short auburn hair is exactly the shade that’s in style right now. I got a pixie cut the same day I saw Emma Watson without that disheveled mane she has in Harry Potter. It makes me look a bit androgynous, but the effect is balanced by the way I dress and my feminine figure: my chest is on the smaller side, but my hips are generous.

  Then there are my big blue eyes, my “main asset,” as the beauty advisor at Sephora once explained. “You absolutely have to play them up!” The eyeshadows, mascara, and eyeliner she recommended are in the very back of my drawer, still in their plastic packaging. I wanted to make her happy; she really seemed to believe in her pitch. As if I had the time to put on makeup. Or even knew how!

  I know how to camouflage imperfections: blemishes, blackheads, and dark circles. I know how to make eyes pop, enhance the natural colors of the iris. I can whiten teeth, eliminate fine lines, erase gray hairs . . . and deliver perfect portraits that blur the line between the real and the imaginary. But applying eyeshadow and eyeliner on an actual eyelid is not my thing.

  I’m into the new “nude makeup” trend. Without the makeup.

  I open the refrigerator, then close it again. It’s depressingly empty, of course. I settle on a half-eaten bag of cookies and turn on the kettle to make some green tea. Before I close my computer and put it in its black bag, I check my e-mail one last time. I have a message from a certain Edith Adelstein. I click it open.

  Dear Ms. Lenglet,

  First off, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to contact us via our website. As the coordinator for the Brittany branch of Coping with Bereavement, I’ve given a great deal of thought to your offer to volunteer and am quite interested in your idea. I think it could be very helpful for the people who are trying to manage their grief by attending our group sessions.

  Your idea of working with each of the participants to create a photo album that celebrates their relationship with the deceased really touched me. I think it would be an ideal exercise both in and outside of our group sessions, a chance to create something concrete as they go through the grieving process—a kind of memorial album.

  For it to work, you’ll need to attend our group sessions, where you’ll begin to understand the participants’ expectations. From there you should be able to figure out how best to use your skills to help them make it through their loss through photography.

  Please feel free to contact me as soon as you are settled in Saint-Malo and are available to meet.

  Best regards,

  Edith Adelstein

  I contacted this association just a week ago and didn’t think I’d get such an enthusiastic reply so quickly. Volunteers must be rare these days. I flag the message as a reminder to reply once I get to Saint-Malo. I plan to meet with her as soon as possible and find a way to help as best I can.

  I’ve never lost someone myself, but if photography has taught me anything, it’s that memories are important. And if I can use the passion and the talent I think I have to help people in need get through a difficult time, I have every intention of doing so.

  I’m preoccupied as I get ready for bed. The big move is in just a few hours. It’s dark outside. My mind always starts racing at night, the cogs in my brain turning relentlessly. Is leaving a good idea? What if I regret it? Isn’t it a lost cause? Do I really have a chance?

  I fluff my pillow.

  © Emma Lenglet/AFP

  Someday this credit will be on the front page of newspapers worldwide.

  CHAPTER 4

  MAY 21, 2013

  CHLOÉ

  Not just anyone can attend their own funeral. Watch as their casket disappears into the grave and tears stream down distraught faces. Listen to their loved one
s read speeches they have written in trembling voices.

  Some of them seem less upset than I would have imagined. My older sister, Oriane, has come from Rennes with her husband; she must have left her three kids with her mother-in-law. Actually, I’m losing all sense of time, but I think today is Tuesday, so they must be at school. And the baby must be with the nanny. Glad to know I haven’t disturbed her busy schedule.

  My sister is wearing a black dress with a charcoal-gray jacket; she’s always cold. She’s not crying. I’ve been studying her face and haven’t seen a single tear—not even dried—on her cheek. Her eyelids aren’t even swollen. I can’t hear any discreet sniffling and don’t see a tissue clutched in her hand. I guess she’s just trying to keep her sadness to herself, to maintain her dignity.

  Or maybe she’s not sad. It’s hard to tell. I’ve never been able to read her. I’ve always felt like my own sister is a stranger. We don’t look alike at all, and our personalities are total opposites. She’s only two years older, but she’s so old-fashioned that it feels like we’re separated by a fifteen-year gap. She has everything she’s ever wanted: a faithful husband who obeys her every command without any objection; three beautiful and well-behaved children who don’t even know the word “no”; an ordinary job in an ordinary office with ordinary coworkers; and a house in the countryside with a big yard because “it’s important for kids to be able to play outside.” The only thing she’s missing is a yellow Lab.

  I don’t even think we were close as children. She always worked hard to color in the lines while I was out having fun, climbing trees and scraping my knees without noticing. In high school, she wrote essays on Saturdays while I went to parties and discovered tequila shots and screwdrivers. I think she always thought that someday I’d grow up and reach her level of maturity, and then we’d finally get along. When I finally had a Lab and all the rest.