The Double Mother

by Michel Bussi

  Lieutenant Pasdeloup’s finger caressed the photograph of a ruby tiara estimated to be worth fifteen thousand euros. When he thought about it, no one had paid much attention to the brief lives of this Bonnie and Clyde from Normandy. The investigation focused on the two fugitives, Timo Soler and his supposed accomplice, Alexis Zerda. On the haul too, which was the object of daydreams for readers and journalists alike. But Cyril and Ilona Lukowik, once their corpses had been removed from Deauville’s seafront in two plastic body bags, had been more or less forgotten. Just a few routine visits from the Caen police to Potigny, the village that probably linked all of this together.

  Papy had met Alexandra a few years later; she was thirty and she raised Charlotte and Valentin as if they were her own children, without ever asking for more, allowing him complete control over his kids. The perfect stepmother, who became a mother herself at thirty-three. A new child! The first for Alexandra, who hadn’t particularly wanted children, and the fifth for Papy.

  Anaïs was born in 1996. She was a little princess adored by all. His princess and his favorite. His reason for getting out of bed every morning. A dream of a girl, until she became a woman. Last June, she had passed her baccalaureate with flying colors. Now she was in Cleveland at a business school that cost ten thousand dollars per year. She had begged them to support her, and he’d spent the last eighteen years trying to make her happy, so how could he refuse? Even if, for him, it meant those eighteen years of happiness suddenly being swept away and scattered to the wind.

  Papy had left Alexandra the day after Anaïs’s exam results were announced.

  At fifty-one, he still found Alexandra sexy, elegant, free, liberated even; now definitively freed from the millstone of motherhood. A full-time woman, at last.

  They had made a wonderful family.

  And Papy suddenly felt terribly old.

  Lieutenant Pasdeloup somehow resisted his fatigue. His eyes, focused on the dossier, kept opening and closing. He only had to hold out a little while longer: in fifteen minutes, he would have Anaïs on the phone. That would be enough to wake him up.

  He straightened up and concentrated on every detail of the investigation.

  Timo Soler, Alexis Zerda, Cyril and Ilona Lukowik were all from Potigny, a little village in Basse-Normandie, that was renowned, for over eighty years, for having one of the biggest coalmines in western France. A village of miners’ cottages, surrounded by woodland.

  The Potigny mines had been shut down in 1989, leaving behind two generations and twenty nationalities of unemployed men, although the Poles—who had created a little Warsaw on the Caen plain—were definitely in the majority.

  Four armed robbers. Four children from Potigny. Three boys and a girl. All of them unemployed, their parents unemployed too. One question gnawed at Lieutenant Pasdeloup: how and why had these four kids—who had all grown up together in the same working-class street in their village, Rue des Gryzon´s—become, years later, an organized gang of criminals?

  The Caen police had rummaged around in the village’s collective memory, spending a few hours in the streets of Potigny, questioning people. It was all in the report.

  The words danced in front of Lieutenant Pasdeloup’s eyes.

  What if the Caen police had missed something essential?

  What if he could perceive what they had failed to perceive? If he could hear what they had failed to hear?

  Papy felt convinced that the key to the whole investigation lay in that grim transformation. A group of four friends decide to attack some shops, armed with guns, in accordance with an almost suicidal plan. It was this that interested him, more than the possibility of finding the famous hoard or proving Alexis Zerda’s guilt.

  The lieutenant paused for a moment over the photographs of the four robbers. He moved the pictures of the two corpses together, so that they were lying next to each other. He was convinced that there was something here, even if no one seemed to have thought about this question. Ilona and Cyril Lukowik were the only ones whose guilt had been proven: shot down, Berettas in hand, without any possible doubt over their involvement, even if they’d never had the chance to explain themselves before a judge or talk to a lawyer. Yet that version of events bothered Papy.

  Why had this couple agreed to take part in such a suicidal mission? Cyril had worked as a docker for years. True, he’d had only temporary jobs for the past ten months, but he’d left his past as a juvenile delinquent well behind him. He’d found love, marriage, a family. It was only the press that had depicted them as the region’s answer to Bonnie and Clyde. He and the other cops knew that the couple led a steady, content life. How could Zerda have convinced them to commit to this murderous game? Them, and Timo Soler?

  Was it just because of their friendship, forged in the Norman mining village?

  Or a secret pact?

  Some kind of debt? A contract? A threat?

  Papy had an intuition that the key lay in Potigny, hidden deep in their shared past. After all, the village was less than a two-hour drive away. The simplest thing would be to go there and check everything in the report; to analyze everything that Ilona and Cyril had left behind them forever on the boardwalk at Deauville: their childhood, their youth, their friends, their family.

  In particular, Lieutenant Pasdeloup felt he had to verify at least one detail, a detail that the cops from Caen, who had lost themselves in the mines of Potigny before him, had dealt with in less than thirty minutes. A detail that, he believed, changed everything.

  26

  Couldn’t you answer any quicker? I let the phone ring for at least three minutes . . . The cops are—”

  “I’m dying, Alex.”

  A brief silence.

  “Don’t talk crap. Isn’t the medicine I got you helping?”

  A hacking cough, in itself a kind of reply. Alexis Zerda imagined the gobs of blood that Timo was probably spitting over the screen of his phone. He held his own phone tight to his ear. Even if the parking lot outside the Docks Vauban shopping center was deserted, there was probably a cop or two not far away, freezing his balls off, hidden behind a car somewhere. But wherever they were, they were too far away to hear what he was saying. In any case, the waves that were crashing against the sea wall of Quai des Antilles, less than ten meters away, were already practically drowning out Timo’s voice.

  Or his death rattle.

  “I won’t last much longer like this, Alex.”

  Just a bit longer. A few more hours. A day or two.

  “You’ll make it, Timo! You’re safe and sound. The cops won’t find you. They’re following me night and day. I can’t go anywhere. So let’s make this quick. Don’t do anything stupid, OK? If you set foot outside, if you try to see a doctor—any doctor—or go to a hospital, they’ll get you!”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  It was as if Timo had downloaded an I’m-going-to-die app from the Apple Store, thought Zerda. It was all there: the husky voice pierced by a whistling sound, the slow breathing, the tremble in his voice and probably the rest of his body. Zerda could sense every little bit of life in Timo seeping away.

  A wave broke against the wall and the spray splashed his trouser legs. He took a couple of steps back. No more than that, just in case the cops had a long-range microphone, or were accompanied by lip-readers. Although it hardly seemed likely that they’d have stuff like that in Le Havre.

  “We’re playing for time, Timo. The cops have connected me to this, because of that stupid fucking pharmacy. I went there for you, I can’t do any more. We have to be careful. We can’t lose everything, not now.”

  While he spoke, Zerda tried to think of an excuse so he could hang up. He felt sure now that Timo wouldn’t hand himself over to the cops. Not yet. Which gave him a bit more time. By the end of the pier, after the Quai de Marseille, a dimly lit yacht entered the port.

  “Let me spe
ak to him!”

  It was a woman’s voice in the background. Zerda froze in surprise.

  “I said let me speak to him!”

  This time, the voice drilled itself straight into Zerda’s ear.

  “Alexis. It’s me. You do realize Timo is dying here? You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “What do you want me to do? Call an ambulance? Take care of that female cop who’s running the investigation?”

  “Why not? I’ll let you choose. Anything that will create a diversion while we make a run for it.”

  “Give me one more night. Don’t do anything tonight. If we panic now, we’re dead.”

  “And what if Timo doesn’t wake up tomorrow?”

  Alexis Zerda was distracted by the electric blue lights of the yacht. Forty-five feet minimum. Steel hull and wooden deck. Must have cost a fortune—a few million at least. For a fraction of a second, he found himself wondering who lived behind those fluorescent portholes. What billionaire could possibly want to moor his boat in Le Havre, to bring his high-class whores to this dump?

  Not him, anyway.

  He forced himself to think again about Timo dying. His fiancée in tears.

  “I love you, girl. You’re way too good for him!”

  * * *

  Timo fell back against the pillows, his back to the wall, as soon as the call ended. This was the least uncomfortable position he could find. He’d been in this position since the day before, half-sitting, half-lying, like some bedridden old man in a hospice who had nothing left to hope for in life but the comfort of a hospital bed.

  “What a bastard!” hissed the girl.

  Timo forced himself to smile. His wound had stopped bleeding a few hours ago. If he kept very still, it didn’t even hurt anymore.

  “He didn’t have to get those things from the pharmacy for me.”

  She picked up a cream-colored towel from a pile in the wardrobe, poured water on it, then lay down next to him. She put the damp cloth over the scarlet gauze that covered his wound.

  Timo was trembling. His skin seemed to have turned even whiter, as if his natural color were fading, turning the color of the sheets, the pills he swallowed, the compresses that were accumulating in the bin. After only a few days shut up in this lightless apartment, he seemed to have lost the brown complexion he’d inherited from five generations of Galician peasants.

  The brown complexion she loved so much.

  She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “Zerda’s scared that you’ll go outside, and the cops will catch you, and then you’ll rat on him. That bastard would rather see you die.”

  “I won’t die if you look after me.”

  Her hand touched the back of his neck. Damp. Feverish.

  “Of course not. Of course not, Timo. You’re not going to die.”

  She leaned over his shoulder and couldn’t hold back her tears. They fell on his torso, trickling down to the damp towel. If only they were magic, she thought, and a single tear could heal his wounds, like they did in fairy tales. The next second, she told herself off for having such idiotic thoughts.

  She had to keep going.

  She lay for a long time in the same position. Timo fell asleep. Or he was dozing, at least. Finally, she managed to detach herself from him, taking great care not to touch his skin or disturb the mattress.

  One foot on the floor. One step.

  Timo’s eyes flashed white in the darkness.

  “You have to sleep,” she whispered.

  The wound wasn’t bleeding anymore. The Betadine and the Coalgan were sitting next to the bed, along with a bottle of water.

  She put one hand on his shoulder and gave him a long kiss on the mouth. Although his skin was damp with sweat, his lips were dry and hard.

  “We’re going to make it through this, Timo. We’re going to make it through.”

  He half-closed his eyes, then looked at her again.

  “Both of us? You really think so?”

  “All three of us,” she said.

  He couldn’t hide the spasm of pain. He grimaced, then continued.

  “I couldn’t care less about that bastard Alex.”

  She didn’t reply. She just had to remain quiet and wait. Wait for Timo to fall asleep. But, just for a moment, she felt disappointed that her fiancé had not understood.

  27

  Little hand on the 8, big hand on the 9

  Under the duvet, Gouti had told him everything. Everything that Pa-di had said to Maman-da. But Malone had not understood any of it. And, like yesterday, he didn’t feel like listening. He just wanted to hear his own story.

  The story of Mercury.

  This was maybe his favorite story.

  He would almost have preferred to hear just that one, but it wasn’t possible. Gouti told him a different one each night. Gouti always did what Maman had told him to do.

  * * *

  On his island, everyone called him the Baby Pirate. He didn’t like that much, especially as he hadn’t been a baby for a long time, but as he was the youngest in the family, with his cousins growing up at the same rate as he was, he always remained the baby.

  Baby Pirate lived on a small island, a very small island, so small that when he walked around it by the sea, after only a few minutes he wasn’t moving away from their small hut anymore, but towards it.

  Yet Baby Pirate didn’t get bored. With his cousins, he would climb the palm trees to find coconuts. Except that Baby Pirate wasn’t allowed to go up all the way to the highest branches.

  “When you’re bigger,” said his mother.

  With his cousins, he also played hide-and-seek, even if it was difficult to find new hiding places on such a tiny island. They would bury themselves in holes in the sand, in rabbit burrows or in caves near the beach. Except that Baby Pirate was never allowed to bury himself completely.

  “When you’re bigger,” said his Maman.

  So, quite often, Baby Pirate would play with the only other person of his own age. Lily. Like him, she lived in a hut built on stilts above the sea, a hut that touched his. Indeed, ever since they were born, their beds had been leaning against the same bamboo wall that separated their houses. Lily was so pretty that Baby Pirate had only one desire: he wanted to marry her.

  “When you’re bigger,” said his Maman.

  Once a year, but only once a year—at Christmas—Baby Pirate’s small size came in handy.

  That day, he would climb on his Papa’s shoulders (he was the only pirate on the island who could still be carried on his Papa’s shoulders) and his job was to put the big star on top of the tree decorated with baubles and tinsel.

  “Only until you’re bigger,” his Maman warned him.

  One day, Baby Pirate had had enough of waiting to be bigger, of walking round and round his island. So he took the big boat that was moored at the beach and left. Alone.

  He had hardly been gone ten seconds when he made an extraordinary discovery.

  His round little island was not an island, but a planet!

  His pirate ship was not a boat, but a rocket!

  The sea all around his island was not sea, but the sky!

  That’s good, thought Baby Pirate. A rocket goes much faster than a sailing boat. A rocket goes at the speed of light, so he would travel light years.

  On board the rocket was a little GPS showing the way to each planet, even the smallest planets in the most distant galaxy. Baby Pirate only had to follow the directions.

  “After the third satellite, turn right towards the Milky Way. Keep left for three light years.”

  “Make a U-turn immediately before the black hole.”

  “Your itinerary includes meteor showers. Do you wish to continue? Yes or no.”

  The GPS also indicated the location of suns in each galaxy, and all h
e had to do was pass close to one of them—barely a few light-seconds—and the rocket would be filled with solar energy. The GPS was even equipped with a speed-limit system, except that was silly, because no one can go faster than the speed of light.

  Baby Pirate travelled for twenty light-years. Surely that was enough, he thought, for him not to be a baby anymore. Then he turned around and went back to his planet.

  When he set foot on the planet once more, all his cousins, his Maman, his Papa, and Lily ran over and hugged him.

  His cousins had become big, bearded adults, his Maman and Papa almost looked like grandparents, and Lily had grown into the most beautiful of princesses. They were all twenty years older than when he had left them. He remembered his mother’s words, so long ago.

  “When you’re bigger.”

  That was now!

  Or at least that was what Baby Pirate thought.

  Because he hadn’t noticed this yet, but he had forgotten one small detail, a stupid little detail, but one that changed everything: when you travel at the speed of light, you move as fast as time, and so you don’t get any older.

  Baby Pirate had spent twenty years in his rocket, but he wasn’t a day older.

  Everyone had aged except him.

  And it was even worse than before, because none of his cousins wanted to climb the palm trees with him anymore: they had become serious and strong, and were content to make the coconuts fall by shaking the trunk. He was the only one who could still crawl into rabbit burrows and caves, but no one else wanted to play hide-and-seek. When Christmas came, his father explained to him that he was too old and too tired to carry Baby on his shoulders so he could put the star on top of the tree. As for Lily, such a pretty princess could never marry a Baby Pirate who was twenty years younger than herself . . .

  Baby Pirate became the saddest pirate in the galaxy. And no matter how much he thought about the problem, he couldn’t come up with a solution. He felt lonely too—the loneliest pirate in the galaxy. And yet, even if this might seem unbelievable, he would soon be even lonelier.