The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

  His voice was measured. Marion detected no signs of anxiety or fear in it.

  “I’ve finished it,” she said softly, showing him the diary.

  “That’s what we thought, that you’d finish it today.”

  Marion gazed around the living room as if she was there for the first time. Looking for some detail, some clue that would tell her more about the old man’s personality. About what Jeremy Matheson had become after all these years.

  “He has hardly any accent,” she commented.

  “He’s been living in France for so long.…”

  “And he doesn’t look his age.”

  Grégoire’s eyebrows arched, and he gave a sort of twisted grin. “Look…,” he began. “About this afternoon, I wanted to apologize … I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. It wasn’t planned, I was just supposed to get hold of the old book, that’s all. I didn’t want us to come into contact and—”

  “Drop it, Grégoire. You’ll learn with the years that we’re responsible for our own actions, their consequences don’t matter much. There are times when it’s good, no … vital, to ask ourselves questions first.”

  The youth, who hadn’t been expecting a sermon while he apologized, went into a huff and folded his arms across his chest.

  Marion refrained from adding that, in the final analysis, it was he who had suffered more from their physical confrontation.

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to stay and wait for him to come back from the concert,” she went on.

  “In fact, he suspected you’d come to talk to him, this evening or tomorrow. He’s not in the hall, he’s on the roof. I’ll explain to you how to get up there.”

  Grégoire described the route to take and accompanied her back to the door.

  “One last thing,” said Marion. “Why did Jeremy abandon his private diary among the books in the Avranches library?”

  Grégoire scowled. “Jeremy?” he repeated. “Jeremy Matheson? But he never abandoned his diary in Avranches.…”

  “But it was he who—”

  “Matheson disappeared in 1928.”

  Marion shook her head. “No, Matheson is … wait a minute. Joe is Jeremy, hasn’t he ever told you?”

  Grégoire looked at her as if she had just proffered the worst kind of insult. “What are you talking about? Haven’t you got your information straight? Jeremy Matheson disappeared in March 1928, and his body has never been found. Joe is not Jeremy!”

  He gave his head a slap. “You don’t know, huh?”

  “Know what?”

  “Who he is really.”

  52

  Grégoire leaned against the front door.

  “You haven’t done your research, have you? Don’t you know what happened that night?” he went on.

  Marion’s heart began to beat faster, making her chest rise and fall.

  She was experiencing this with a sense of involvement that went way beyond her. She hadn’t just read a private diary, she had shared a real life.

  Grégoire began: “The night Jeremy Matheson disappeared, the police received a telephone call from the detective, explaining where to find the body of Keoraz’s son and that of the ghoul. When the cops got there, they found everything as described in the notebook you’ve read. Except that the son wasn’t dead. He was sitting in a corner. Not in a good state, but alive. In the confusion, Matheson had made a mistake. He was so convinced that the ghoul had already killed the child that he barely checked. In fact, the little boy was unconscious when he arrived, but absolutely not dead. He came to shortly before the cops arrived.”

  Marion held the diary tightly to her.

  “George Keoraz was treated,” the young man continued, “he grew up, and went off to study in England, before coming to France, which he liked so much that he stayed here to live. That is where he entered holy orders. He settled on Mont-Saint-Michel with other members of the religious brotherhood to which he belonged. After a few decades, internal tensions led his superiors to want him transferred elsewhere. He refused. He was more attached to the Mount than to the rest. After a year, he left the brotherhood to move into this house. He stopped attending the abbey and went to the little parish church instead. And he got old.”

  “Joe is George,” murmured Marion. “George Keoraz.”

  “Yes. A former member of the brotherhood.”

  “That’s why he had the keys. He’d kept his bunch from back then.”

  “Copies.” Grégoire nodded. “So he could get into any part of the abbey, even into your house.”

  “Which also explains the tension between him and Brother Gilles.…”

  Grégoire hesitated before answering. “I think it’s because of Sister Luce.… They were both very close to her and that created problems,” he admitted with an absence of embarrassment that testified to his lack of maturity.

  Suddenly, all the various elements came together inside Marion’s mind. She opened her mouth without saying a word.

  Jeremy Matheson had disappeared that night. He was certainly dead.

  She realized why Joe had been so motivated to get the diary back.

  It contained all the truth about his father.

  The truth that had not emerged. Which had cost Jeremy Matheson his life.

  Joe had striven to take back the book so as not to sully the memory of his father if the truth came out.

  Francis Keoraz had killed Jeremy that same night. While the detective was at his house, attempting to make him confess, the millionaire had got the upper hand, and he had made the body disappear.

  The investigation into the child-killer had eventually been closed.

  The ghoul was an ideal culprit. A monstrous madman.

  Perfect for the public opinion of the time.

  And Francis Keoraz managed not to be tainted by the scandal. He remained undisturbed.

  In one way or another, Matheson’s private diary had remained in the Keoraz family’s hands.

  “I must see him,” declared Marion.

  Grégoire stepped out into the street and raised his eyes to the fantastical bell tower of the abbey church.

  53

  From the western terrace, Marion had a splendid view over the area bordered by night’s starry sheet. Behind her, the lyrical melodies of Vivaldi and his Four Seasons filtered out through the tall doors of the abbey church. The winter allegro non molto was just beginning.

  She took a deep breath, pushed open the door as quietly as possible and entered the nave. About a hundred people were in the concert audience, seated on benches, concentrating on the music. Marion passed by via the aisle and headed for the south transept, trying not to attract attention. There, she found the door Grégoire had told her about. It was wide open.

  Marion stepped through it and set off up a particularly narrow spiral staircase.

  Her thighs soon showed their displeasure by growing heavy. The intoxicating echo of the music resounded in the dark stairwell.

  Marion reached the first landing, where she rested for a moment before continuing. Grégoire had told her to go right to the top.

  The last step ended outside a door, which Marion half-opened so she could go through.

  The wind instantly grabbed hold of her. It charged at her, sniffing at her more suddenly than any wild beast. It seized her clothing, tousled her hair, and threw her roughly backward so it could whirl around between the gables, beneath the bell tower, like an invisible guard dog in the pay of God.

  Marion accustomed herself to this turbulent presence.

  She took in her surroundings, concluding that she was lost in a forest of pinnacles, flying buttresses, and spires growing out of the roof, sometimes merging, sometimes exploding next to one another in a petulant clump.

  Powerful floodlights were trained on the most ornate walls, projecting golden curtains between the tall, dark stained glass windows and the mutilated faces of the gargoyles.

  A bridge of carved granite soared above the void, joining up with the turret fr
om which Marion had emerged onto the roof of the choir. A series of steep, concertina-like steps led upward, running along its back.

  Marion ventured onto it, gripping the guardrail with all her strength. The bridge was so intricately carved as to make the entire structure almost fragile. Whipped by nature’s powerful breath, she pitched dangerously for a moment before concentrating on her feet to escape the dizziness.

  She gained a little more height and stopped, two steps from the top.

  An imposing silhouette awaited her.

  “The lace staircase, that’s what we call it,” said George Keoraz by way of a greeting.

  He reached out his hand to her. “Will you allow me?”

  She didn’t know what to do and ended up reaching out her own hand. He took it and helped her to haul herself up.

  “I like coming up so high, it’s an exquisite experience for the senses, and it’s conducive to thought. I didn’t know if you would finish the diary this evening or tomorrow; uncertain as it was, I came here to meditate.”

  He was obliged to shout to make himself heard above the surrounding wind. Without letting go of her hand, he led Marion along a parapet, which was so low that it scarcely reassured her, to the northern side where the wind was more forgiving.

  From here, the bay looked endless.

  The stars were reflected in the sea’s calm waters, creating a landscape with no visible horizon.

  The Mount floated at the heart of the universe.

  “Between ourselves, I must tell you that you are a very mediocre liar,” he said. “On Thursday, when we met, you asked me if there had been an Englishman on the Mount, on the pretext that someone in town had led you to believe that there had been. It was rather laughable, but entertaining. Particularly since at the time I thought you had confounded me.”

  Marion attacked back. “Dragging Grégoire into your personal quest wasn’t such a great idea.”

  George responded first of all with a grin. “On the contrary. On the contrary…”

  Then he went into detail: “It enabled him to feel important. To share secrets, converse with an adult; and he has taught me a lot of things. He’s a smart lad. And he would have held it against me if I hadn’t involved him. I simply regret the physical confrontation you had today. It ought not to have happened. He was not supposed to take the diary back from you unless he considered it was possible to do so without your noticing. Then he panicked.”

  He folded his hands behind his back. “Nobody was hurt, that’s what matters,” he concluded.

  “He told me who you were. I confess I thought you were Jeremy himself to start with.”

  “Matheson?” he exclaimed indignantly. “Do I look that old? Don’t be deceived!”

  “You used to be a member of the brotherhood. Why did you hide that from me?”

  George gave her an amused look. “You didn’t ask. In any case, sooner or later you would have found out. It’s of no great importance.”

  The floodlights were attracting a whole cloud of insects, which themselves were encouraging greedy bats to fly over.

  “Why the riddle on my first evening?” asked Marion.

  “Oh, that … because I have a taste for games. To combat boredom. Like everyone else, I knew that the brotherhood was going to take in a woman on retreat for the winter. I wanted to mark the occasion, welcome you in a more … original way. I have a mischievous spirit—let’s face it, it’s all I have left. And believe me, when it comes to that game, I confess that I can prove formidable. I take a sadistic pleasure in it. I would have played with you until I went too far, until I’d worn you down; that’s my personal sin. The taste for intrigue, always going just a little further. I had it in my mind to communicate in this way with you for a while.”

  “Until I found the diary…”

  “Yes, that on the other hand … I confess it disturbed me a little. It was Grégoire who mentioned it to me. The evening of your discovery, you went to see your friend Béatrice; you showed it to her and talked about it. Her son was there too. That’s how it all began. It ought not to have happened. If it was in my power, I would wipe this whole story from your mind.”

  “You shouldn’t have left it within reach of the first person who came along.”

  “The attics containing old stock in Avranches are not open to the public, and there was little chance of anyone coming to look for a book in the English language around here.… That diary is a private story. It is the intimate history of my family, mine. You shouldn’t have read it. In return, I bestowed on myself the right to enter your lodgings in your absence, to search and take it back. Unfortunately, you always had it on your person.”

  Taking advantage of the old man’s eloquence, Marion gave her curiosity free rein. “Why was the diary in Avranches?”

  George frowned. “Through cowardice, I suppose. When I arrived here, around sixty years ago, I chose not to have this diary in my cell, in case someone happened upon it. I hid it among the other works in the library we had here at the abbey, with the English-language books. The fact is, the collection was swiftly transferred to Avranches. I made sure that mine was lost among the rest, in the attics. And I left it there. Unable to destroy it, and not brave enough to carry it with me.”

  A little nervously, Marion ran her tongue over her lips. “I don’t understand why you kept it. It’s a piece of evidence with dangerous implications for your father’s memory.”

  George gazed admiringly at the placid stretch of water radiating from the foot of the Mount.

  “You came here to me after making skillful deductions,” he said. “However, there is an error of interpretation in your logic. And it is a monumental error; I am even surprised that you committed it.”

  He turned to face her. “My father was not guilty of any crime. It was not him.”

  54

  A bat skimmed past Marion’s hair. “How can that be?” she demanded, taking no interest in the small mammal.

  “Marion … you astonished me that first night when you played the game and swiftly deciphered my Polybus square. I would have thought that the truth would not escape you when you read the diary. Think. There are important clues in what you have read. Who is the real guilty party?”

  Marion had absolutely no idea. Everything was so crystal-clear in the diary; why try to cast doubt on it? Was George trying to divert attention so as to save the memory of his father? Marion couldn’t believe that; it would have been puerile on the part of George, and she thought too much of him for that.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Don’t be offended, but Francis Keoraz is the obvious culprit.”

  “That is what it said. I am asking you what is more sustained, as well as more coherent. My father? No, that has no meaning. Except for Jeremy Matheson’s pathological jealousy. Come along, make an effort.”

  Marion couldn’t work out what he wanted. Nobody else could be guilty, the investigation had been skillfully conducted, and everything could be explained. There was only Francis Keoraz.

  “Set aside what is written about my father, can you do that? And now, if you had to accuse one of the protagonists described in this diary, which one would your suspicions most likely fall upon?”

  Marion sighed.

  Although the wind was weaker on the north side, it was forcing its angry moans between the open arches of the bell tower. Suddenly it fell silent. In this short period of time when the elements spared the Mount, Marion heard the melancholy strings floating up from inside the church.

  “Jezebel.”

  She had said it without thinking, just because he was insisting on a name.

  George looked annoyed. “No, of course not. She could never have done such a thing.… Try harder.”

  Tired of playing the game, Marion chose another name from the diary at random. “The doctor … Dr. Cork?”

  George made a little sound with his mouth to demonstrate his disappointment, and folded his arms across his chest. “No. And yet you had him right u
nder your nose the whole time you were reading,” he said sharply.

  “Azim? No, he died during the investigation.…” She looked for an answer among the stars. Then she stared at her own hands. She hesitated.

  George leaned toward her. “Do you have an idea?” he whispered, very close to her face.

  “I … I don’t think it could be possible.…”

  The insects were crowding against the overheated floodlights and burning up in such great numbers, that they gave off an almost caramelized smell.

  “But,” he urged her to continue.

  “… Jeremy?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He stood up straight. “I am going to tell you: because sometimes he frightened you a little. He intrigued you, that great white hunter.” He laid strong emphasis on the last two words.

  “And I am going to tell you,” he went on. “You are completely right.”

  Marion raised a hand, palm upwards, in a sign of incomprehension. “You’re talking nonsense! Jeremy wrote the diary. He conducted the whole investigation, he has nothing to do with these murders, it’s—”

  “Jeremy Matheson,” he said, hammering home each syllable. There was a faraway look in his eyes. “He fooled us all.”

  Marion seized the diary she had brought in her coat pocket. The cover creaked at her touch.

  “He deceived us all,” lamented George. “And that diary is his greatest success.”

  “No,” objected Marion. “He investigated the murders, he—”

  “He insisted on conducting the investigation. To ensure that nobody would pick up the trail leading to him. At the risk of shocking you, I shall state that almost everything in the diary is true, the facts and the emotions. Jeremy only doctored certain events, and omitted others. As one may be surprised to read, he took that case very much to heart. And with good reason…”

  “What are you saying?”

  “After going through his notes, one becomes more intimate with him, and could almost say that one knows him a little. Did he give you the impression that he was somebody extremely compassionate, in particular with the natives? And generous? Is he that by nature? What do you think?”