by Michel Bussi
Now you can guess what happened next. Snow White disappeared behind the ferns, then reappeared in a clearing. Naive searched for her with his eyes and ears, then spotted a slender shadow amid the trees, and heard a laugh that melted into birdsong.
And, through this game of hide-and-seek, Naive ended up in an even bigger clearing. In the middle, he saw a large cottage. Smoke rose from its chimney. Snow White was waiting for him by the door, and she was even prettier close up. She took his hand and said:
“Come in!”
When he went inside, everyone was sitting at the table in front of the fireplace.
Everyone turned around, and Naive couldn’t believe his eyes! Can you imagine? At the table there were other princesses who looked like Cinderella, Aurora, Belle, Rapunzel, and lots of others, wearing elegant dresses and tiaras. There were little boys, too, who resembled Pinocchio, Hop o’ My Thumb, and Hansel, and there was also Gretel and another little girl wearing a red hood.
They all smiled at him.
“Come in, Naive. Come and eat with us.”
There was an empty place next to Snow White.
Naive sat down and offered her his bouquet. She blushed. Naive had never felt so good, so happy. He had never eaten such delicious food.
He didn’t notice the time passing. He didn’t see night begin to fall outside. It was only when he heard the first cry that he realized; a cry that came from outside, but he couldn’t see anything through the windows except darkness.
“What was that?” Naive said, worried.
“Nothing,” replied Snow White. “It was nothing, Naive.”
Snow White was even more beautiful when she looked a bit scared.
Malone poked his head out from under his duvet. He put his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, asking Gouti to be quiet.
He had heard a noise too! A cry, just like the Naive knight had heard. It had come from downstairs. Maybe it was Maman-da and Pa-di arguing. Like they did almost every night.
Or maybe he had dreamed it.
This part of the story always frightened him a little.
Malone stayed there for a moment, listening. Then, when he was certain that no one was coming up the stairs, or scratching at his door, or moving through the dark towards his bed, he went back under the covers.
Gouti was waiting for him. And, as on all the other days of the war, as if he didn’t care about monsters or ferocious beasts or the dark, he continued with the knight’s story.
The feast carried on. Naive heard other cries, all of them coming from outside. Growls too, and other strange noises, as if something were scratching at the door or banging against the walls.
Snow White was still smiling. The other princesses too.
“It’s late, Naive, you should go home now.”
The little knight shivered.
Go home now? At night? Through this forest? So far from the castle?
“But I . . . ”
And then suddenly, another idea entered his head. You might find this strange, but it hadn’t occurred to him until that moment.
Where were all the baddies? He was sitting at a table with all the good people from the fairy tales, so where had the baddies gone? The wolves, the ogres, the witches?
As if reading his thoughts, Snow White leaned towards him. She was even more beautiful when she was a bit scary.
“We’ve lived together for so long, we’ve ended up coming to an arrangement.”
“An arrangement?” Naive repeated blankly.
“Yes. We share the forest with them, but we never see each other. They let us have it during the daytime, and we let them have it each night. As long as it’s like that, everything’s fine.”
Naive agreed that it was a good idea, until another question occurred to him:
“But then what do the wolves eat? And the ogres? And the monsters?”
Snow White had gone bright red, and she looked more beautiful than ever as she lowered her eyes apologetically. It was the boy who looked like Pinocchio who responded, and his nose didn’t grow a single inch.
“We feed them on Naive little knights who we lure deep into the forest. It was the only solution we could find so that we live in peace.”
And so finally the Naive knight understood. He took one last look at Snow White, and then he fainted.
When he came to, he was outside. In the forest. In the dark.
The cottage was still there, but the door was locked. He could see light coming from the windows and smoke rising from the chimney. Then he heard a wolf howl, so he started to run, very fast. He ran for a long time. Probably in circles, as he couldn’t find his way out.
He sensed twisted shadows all around him, as if each tree branch concealed the claw-like hands of a witch. When he eventually came to a halt, too tired to go on, the monsters gathered around him. There were wolves, foxes, crows, snakes, giant spiders and other ferocious animals, though all he could see of them were their yellow eyes or their fangs. Suddenly, the circle opened to let through the chief of the monsters.
The great ogre of the forest.
Naive shrank back. The great ogre of the forest had a skull-and-crossbones tattooed on his neck and a silver earring that shone in the night. He burst out laughing.
“It’s the birthday of the Generous knight,” said the ogre, leaning towards him. “I see our friends from the cottage didn’t forget that.”
He took out his big knife. The blade gleamed in the night, as if the moon in the sky above them were merely a piece of cheese that this immense weapon could slice into pieces.
Maybe you’re a bit too frightened at this point in the story and you’d like me to stop for a minute, even if you’ve heard it before and you know how it ends. But you must also know that Naive was even more scared than you, especially as it was only much later that he found out what I’m going to tell you next.
While the monsters and the ferocious creatures closed in around Naive, licking their lips in anticipation, the cicada for whom he’d played the flute that morning had woken up and had jumped all the way to the castle to sound the alarm. The bird to whom Naive had given a feather from his helmet had flown to the highest battlement of the towers to warn the guard, who was dozing against his lance. The rabbit to whom Naive had told a story had bounded over the drawbridge, and the butterfly to whom Naive had offered his petals had landed on a bouquet of flowers on the large table where the knights were eating their dinner.
“Naive is in danger!”
And so the drawbridge opened, and the knights galloped through the night, armed with real swords, real helmets, real armor and real shields.
There was Bold, Gallant, and Valiant, but also Ardent, Robust, Battler, and even Cowardly, Fearful, and Puny. All the knights of the castle.
They arrived just in time. The wild beasts of the forest and the wolves, and even the ogre, all fled.
Naive was saved.
He was still trembling when the oldest of the castle’s knights, Placid, sat down on a tree trunk next to him.
Placid told him two very important truths. Would you like to hear them?
The first is that people who appear to be kind aren’t always really kind.
But the second is even more important, and without it, the cicada, the rabbit and the butterfly that you helped wouldn’t have come to warn us, and we wouldn’t have got here in time to save you.
You see, even if it’s true that people are not always as kind as they appear, if in doubt, always choose kindness! That’s your best bet. I’m sure you won’t understand all the things I’m saying to you. Some of it is a bit complicated, but by repeating them, you will end up remembering them.
In spite of the baddies, kindness is always your best bet. It is always kindness that wins out in the end.
16
Is that all there is to
eat tonight?
Want to kill
I dither between poisonous mushroom omelette and tartar sauce curare.
Convicted: 49
Acquitted: 547
www.want-to-kill.com
Angélique had had too much to drink.
The bottle of Rioja on the table was three-quarters empty, but Marianne had barely touched a drop. Through the window of the restaurant, the two women could see a tram passing without stopping at the deserted station before it disappeared between the buildings, heading towards St. François Church, which looked like a giant altar candle.
“Careful, Angie,” Marianne warned her.
The waiter in Uno, a dark-haired man with a Catalan accent that went perfectly with the tapas he was serving them, placed a plate of tortillas in front of her. His gaze lingered a little too long on Angélique’s profile, until she finally turned to look at him. Her long dark hair, held loosely in place by two hairclips, framed the perfect oval of her face. With a gesture that was almost unconscious—and no doubt terribly sexy in the eyes of the Catalan—she brushed her hair behind her ears, briefly revealing her forehead, her eyelashes, her cheekbones, her almond eyes, before the delicate curtain fell back in place.
An innocent game.
Angie didn’t really seem to be fully aware of the power she wielded over men. She lifted the glass of Rioja to her lips and smiled at the police captain.
“Vasily Dragonman? Did you really fall for him, Marianne? I’ve only met him twice in my life. Both times at dinner parties given by my friends Camille and Bruno, where there were at least ten of us. The second time was last Saturday. He started telling us this strange story, about the kid who remembered a previous life, other than the one he has with his current parents. Vasily didn’t give any names, of course. He said he’d come to a sort of impasse, and he didn’t know what to do. It was clearly upsetting him. I got the feeling that he felt very alone—alone against everyone else: the parents, the school, the local authorities. But he didn’t have enough evidence for his doubts to be taken seriously, or to make an official report. He needed help, it was obvious. Someone who could investigate, on the quiet . . . ”
“So you gave him my number?”
“Yes. The story about the kid just seemed odd.”
“And that was the only reason?”
Angélique winked at Marianne.
“Well, he was cute, too. No wedding ring—and it wasn’t in his pocket either; I checked with Camille. Knows lots about children, obviously. So because I’m a good friend, I thought about you!”
Marianne grimaced as the waiter arrived to clear away the empty tapas plates and replace them with an arroz con costra. She waited for him to move out of earshot.
“Thank you, Angie. You’re too kind to your poor, old grandmother!”
“Oh, give it a rest! You look after yourself like an Olympic athlete. You’re extremely well preserved.”
“Yeah, well preserved . . . ” She gazed out at the gray lines of the rectangular buildings in the Perret quarter. “Preserved like a historical district. Soon to be classified by Unesco!”
She put a finger to her nose and the bandage that still covered it.
“But you’ll have to wait for the renovations to be completed.”
Angélique smiled.
“The perils of your job, my dear. Anyway, why are you complaining? You’re surrounded by virile men who all obey your every order. We can swap if you like: you take my place at the hairdresser’s and spend your days turning kids with dark hair blonde and women with gray hair dark.”
Marianne burst out laughing.
She was aware that Angélique lived vicariously through her investigations. The captain was always careful not to tell her friend too much, not to break the rules of professional secrecy, but she would sometimes confide a few details to this budding detective. And Angie sometimes had surprising insights.
Although, right now, her friend seemed more interested in affairs of the heart. If anyone had been able to overhear their conversation—a waiter, a man at a nearby table, a spy who could read Marianne’s mind—he might perhaps have taken her for a predator, obsessive, someone mostly concerned with evaluating whether she could seduce the men she met in everyday life: colleagues, witnesses . . . An impression all the more mistaken, as Marianne had climbed the ladder of the national police almost totally surrounded by men, yet having slept with hardly any of them. She was ambitious, not flirty, and actually quite sensitive when it came to any questioning of the equality between sexes in this profession where women, very much in the minority, had to stick together and stick up for themselves.
As far as equality was concerned, though, Marianne was just beginning to realize the terrible injustice that fate had dealt her: a man had no biological clock to worry about. A guy could go out on the pull at the age of fifty and become a father at sixty. But a woman, if she left it too late . . . Game over! Even if Prince Charming finally turned up, with apologies for his tardiness.
Yes, it was completely unfair, Marianne thought. Doubly unfair, in fact. Because it was the most liberated, most demanding women, those least inclined to throw away their youth on the first idiot they encountered, who—as their forties approached—would find themselves having to go out hunting for a man. A bit like a girl who doesn’t really like shopping and who finds herself, the day before a big party, with nothing to wear, having to battle through the crowds she hates so much on the last day of the sales.
She’d talked about all of this thousands of times with Angélique. Beautiful, young Angie who had her whole life ahead of her, who adored window-shopping, crowds, sales, and the first idiots she encountered.
“But Vasily isn’t the only man in your sights, is he? What about JB?”
“JB?”
“Yeah, your gorgeous deputy. We spent our last night out together talking about him. I’ve been thinking about it. Verdict: he’s too good-looking! Too kind, to be honest. He must be cheating on his wife, or thinking about it. Guaranteed. You should lead him on a bit, just to find out.”
“Are you kidding?”
Angie clinked her glass against Marianne’s.
“There’s no such thing as the perfect guy, you know that. Go for it!”
“For God’s sake, Angie, he’s married! He’s the only guy in the force who’d give up on a stake-out so he could collect his kids from school. Anyway, he’s my deputy. And anyway . . . ”
“Exactly! Keep him close, it’ll be your shoulder he cries on when the right moment comes along. Come on, Marianne, don’t you realize how lucky you are? You’re spoiled for choice! You’re not washing women’s hair or selling bread or looking after toddlers in a crèche—you’re the captain of the local police force. To those guys you’re iconic!”
“I was . . . I’m screwed now. We were tracking this guy today. I had ten men and five cars, and we still didn’t catch him. Total incompetence!”
She touched her throbbing nose again. Angie dutifully rose to the bait.
“Shit . . . That guy you’ve been searching for since January? He’s the one who got away? How did you find him?”
Marianne thought for a moment about mentioning the surgeon and blaming him. After all, Larochelle was just as responsible for the afternoon’s fiasco as she was. But she didn’t want to fall into the same trap as he had and break the rules of confidentiality.
“We had a stroke of luck. A patrol at the port. They spotted him waiting close to the lock.”
The captain could, however, talk about the rest. The criminal’s escape would be all over the front page of the Havre Presse within a few hours.
“And then he slipped through our fingers. Into the Neiges quarter.”
Angélique’s eyes sparkled. The excitement of the hunt.
“I know lots of people in Neiges. Some of my customers live there. I could ask
around.”
This was true. Marianne was aware that a hairdresser with the ability to extract confidences from her customers could be more effective than a whole army of informers. When the captain touched her nose again, Angie gave a professional assessment of her facial damage.
“It doesn’t look too bad. Don’t worry, when you wake up tomorrow just put on a bit of foundation. It’ll look like nothing ever happened.”
“We could have caught him, Angie. I yelled at Cabral—the guy who was driving the car—on principle, but in reality he probably saved my life by slamming on the brakes. I could have been killed. I haven’t let any of my men know this, but I was scared shitless when we were speeding towards that bridge.”
Angélique’s hands trembled slightly as she tucked a few stray hairs behind her ears again.
“I understand.”
“You understand what?”
“The fear. The fear of an accident. That moment of panic before the impact.”
Marianne’s eyes bored into her friend’s. Angie rarely spoke about herself. She had confided a great deal when they first met: what she hated, her fears, her want-to-kill, her redemption. That had sealed their friendship forever, like poison that is poured from one bottle into another, so that Angie had become an empty vessel again; a very pretty exclusive little bottle, made of glass. A hairdresser’s mirror. Sometimes transparent, at other times reflecting back the other person’s image.
The ideal friend.
The two women were complementary. Marianne was pragmatic, calculating, strategic. Angie was romantic, idealistic, naive. There was just a hint of vulgarity in her demeanor, an indefinable failure of taste that men always spotted. It could probably be corrected, this fault, with a little psychological surgery. Easier to take than a nose job or liposuction.
“Have you been in an accident before?”
“Yes. A long time ago.”
Angie hesitated. The waiter, all smiles, brought them some ice cream profiteroles. Salted caramel sauce, with a miniature umbrella and a fan-shaped biscuit on the side. He leaned even closer to Angie this time, but this time her face remained hidden.