The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

  Marion remained silent, staring at George, trying to work out what he wanted to prove.

  “Myself, I would say no,” he continued. “It doesn’t feel as though it was in his nature. And yet, in a rather intriguing first passage, he gives money to all the families of the murdered children, the ones he goes to see with Azim. It’s an interesting act of kindness and compassion. All the same, it doesn’t feel in character for the hunter he is. Could it be that this act constitutes a means of paying his debt, trying to gain forgiveness for murdering the children?”

  “George … you…”

  He raised a finger to silence her. “Wait until I have finished, please. Remember the day when he and Azim are standing around the body of the murdered child. Jeremy has difficulty containing himself; he doesn’t seem to be in his normal state. It isn’t the barbarity in itself that disturbs him, he is in fact under the influence of his unhealthy excitement, at the memory of what he has done. In the same way, a few minutes later, he is obliged to drive ‘crazy images’ from his mind—images that have nothing to do with an imaginative compassion or a curious gift of insight, but which are quite simply memories of the atrocities he has caused.”

  George could hardly get his breath back for what followed. “And when Azim comes to tell him that all the murdered children belong to the same foundation, remember how he admits feeling ill, livid. We are supposed to believe that it is because he feels personally attacked by the killer, since he too frequented the foundation, whereas in fact he realizes that the investigation has just taken a giant step in his direction.”

  “That doesn’t make sense! So why would he confess to feeling ill at ease?”

  “That is precisely Matheson’s strength. He hides the absolute minimum. He takes no risks. If Azim for his part had written a private diary or spoken with someone about this conversation between them, testifying to Jeremy’s uneasiness, he would have been embarrassed.”

  Marion counterattacked. “No, that doesn’t stand up. From the start, Jeremy shows his skill in the investigation, he makes discoveries at the scene of the crime, and deductions that are correct. If he was guilty, he would keep quiet!”

  “Not Matheson. On the contrary, he establishes his authority over Azim. Whereas the Egyptian detective hasn’t advanced in several weeks, he gets things moving in a tenth of the time. This enables him to take command of their partnership easily. And nothing he says compromises him in any way. For already, he knows that he is going to lay the blame on his great rival, my father. He will accumulate evidence accusing Francis Keoraz, redirect leads in his direction, even create them.”

  The old man gazed at the bell tower. “There is something even more disturbing,” he declared. “Remember when he’s discussing the very first murder with Azim, the one where the vagrant was killed in Shubra? He explains that he questioned everyone, looked for any witnesses, and he also says that it was a day when they were short-staffed, so he had to do everything on his own. Now, he admits several times in his diary that he doesn’t speak Arabic. So how did he manage? Must I remind you, as he says himself elsewhere, that it is an extremely poor district? So nobody speaks English.”

  “Obviously he didn’t bother mentioning that he had a dragoman with him,” stammered Marion, suddenly less gung ho.

  George shrugged his shoulders and continued: “Jeremy Matheson was not the victim of a perverse child-killer who hated him sufficiently to orchestrate everything in such a way that the crimes would be loosely or closely connected with him. That is a risible argument. Matheson had a connection with each detail of the investigation because he himself was the killer! Listen: He followed Jezebel into the foundation to please her, and it is there that he saw all those children, potential targets. It was he who investigated the first murder at Shubra, and he swiftly found the guilty party, a black giant suffering from noma—that is the probable name of the disease that had transformed him into a … ghoul. Matheson did not track him down in order to arrest him, but to bend him to his will. He knew an archaeologist with whom he often chatted, as he confesses; he must surely have told Matheson about his latest discovery, perhaps even taken him there before Jeremy killed him. Matheson then had a hiding place for his ‘hired monster,’ whom he asked to do to the children he would supply what he had done to the vagrant, in exchange for a roof and liquid food. Next, he went off to find children studying at the foundation, children about whom he knew a very great deal after breaking into the establishment’s premises and consulting their files. Armed with this precious information, he manipulated the children when they finished class at the foundation, far from witnesses. He promised them money, incredible knowledge—about the legends—or anything that would be attractive to a young kid from those districts. Let us not forget that the children knew him; he had been a reader at the foundation! He would set up a secret meeting, if possible at night, if they were able to leave their homes without being noticed. And we know what happened after that.”

  The wind, which had proved timid on the northern side, suddenly gusted, slamming into George Keoraz and battering his cheeks.

  “In reality,” he shouted to make himself heard, “I am quite convinced that he spoke Arabic. He had been living in Cairo for nine years, and it was difficult to be a detective in a city like that for almost a decade and not have learned at least a smattering of the language. It’s a question of logic. And he had read One Thousand and One Nights as the end indicates, when Jezebel comes to his home and sees the book. He tells her that it was his colleague Azim who thought that the killer had used it, without having the nerve to say that he had just bought it and read the whole thing in just a few days. In my opinion he had had it for a very long time. Between his books and his ‘friend’ the archaeologist, he had enough sources of information to delve into history for the method of torture inflicted on Azim, not to mention the fact that he was a constant visitor to qawhas, where Arabic was spoken and a succession of storytellers recounted ancient legends. Jeremy had come to know Egypt through this mythological culture, and when he saw the deformed black giant, he remembered those tales about ghouls. Was it then that the whole scenario unfolded in his mind? Remembering how Francis Keoraz had charmed Jezebel by telling her the story of One Thousand and One Nights, deciding to give free rein to his insane impulses, and falsifying them so that he could one day accuse his great rival? Or was it later, while listening to frightened gossip, that he stage-managed everything? And then attributed this madness to my father, on the pretext that he was a history enthusiast.”

  Marion caught him by the wrist. “Tell me, George, have you been dissecting the whole diary like this for the last seventy years?”

  He observed her with a sad look on his face. “I didn’t even need to read it twice. I knew what I was looking for.”

  “But why are you so sure you are right?”

  There was a touch of incredulity in his voice as he answered her: “Have you forgotten? I am George Keoraz. I was that abducted child.… And who do you think it was that got onto the train that day, to take me away?”

  55

  George rubbed his chin and lips with his broad hand. “It was he, Marion. That is why I am categorical. I am not suggesting anything to you. I am stating it as a fact. Jeremy Matheson got on that train. My father had introduced him to me the previous evening, and he was a police officer; that was enough for me to agree to get off with him when he told me my father had sent him to fetch me and take me to meet him somewhere other than had been planned.”

  Marion’s throat tightened again as she saw tears in the old man’s eyes.

  “He delivered me into the hands of that creature, so that it would be less alone, so that it could … play. And he didn’t return until the evening, staying just long enough to torment me himself. What is more, in his diary he is not precise about what he did that day. If you read attentively, you will note that he mentions having investigated Azim’s disappearance that morning, and going back home for a shower in the early af
ternoon. Then he tells us about the end of his day in his office and the discovery of his companion’s body. There is not a trace of what he did between his shower and his arrival at the office, a few hours later. And with good reason. He was busy following me when I got on the train, and taking me away to his sordid hiding place. The previous evening he had heard my father talking to me about my piano lessons, about the streetcar…”

  He stood there without adding anything for a moment, beneath the stars. Marion could not tell if he was hiding his emotion as best he could, or if he was searching for something else to add.

  “That night, he wrote that he saw Humphreys early in the evening—the conversation lasted a quarter of an hour—then Dr. Cork at almost midnight. Between the two, we know nothing.”

  The old man’s head rotated on his shoulders like an owl’s, to take in Marion’s reaction. “He was with me during that missing time.”

  Marion’s hands tightened around the diary until the leather was digging into her skin.

  “The hours passed, and the shock treatment to which I was subjected disconnected me more and more from reality. I lost consciousness the next day. Only to wake up when the barrel was knocked over and the water flooded over me. It was completely dark; I was suffering from cold sweats, fever, and unbearable pains. I remained motionless for a long time. My throat had tightened up, and I was having difficulty breathing. Then I groped around and found some matches, and a candle. The monster’s corpse was there. I don’t know what really happened between the two. I think Jeremy came to check that I was dead, which is what he expected from the ghoul. And that he killed his slave so that he could not betray him in one way or another. The notebook was on the table. I opened it, and saw that it contained his words. I don’t know what came over me, but I stole it. I hid it among my rags and the police arrived shortly afterward.”

  A salvo of applause rang out beneath their feet. The concert was at an end.

  “I didn’t open my mouth again for five weeks after that. I didn’t say anything about the notebook either; I kept it like a trophy, secretly. And I read it. One page from time to time, when I was alone. It was after I’d finished it that I got my voice back. I went to see my father, and asked him if he was really a murderer. Then we had a long conversation, whose epilogue I was not to learn until ten years later, when he left us. Jezebel admitted to me then what had happened that night, between them and Jeremy. For he did indeed come to the house. He got past the gates and entered the house; and he aimed a weapon at my father. He manhandled him to get him to confess that he was the child-killer. He yelled at him, holding a tin of cigarettes in his free hand, saying that it was proof that he had found in the monster’s lair. Proof that he had been able to buy from Groppi’s, since my father had given him the name of his supplier on the night they had dinner together. He became mad, struck my father, again and again. He wanted at all costs to make him confess in front of Jezebel. So that she would realize. Jezebel ended up seizing the revolver we kept there for our own defense, and she fired at the detective.”

  Marion’s eyes were fixed on him. George Keoraz was telling his story with great difficulty; his voice was less assured than usual, and his hands were shaking.

  “Jeremy Matheson died instantly, with a bullet lodged right in the middle of his brain. Jezebel and my father did not know what to do. They panicked. They had just killed a police officer. A police officer who had accused my father, what’s more—which could constitute a motive in the eyes of a particularly obtuse judge. So they weighted him down and put him in one of the mercury pools in the garden, while they waited to find a better place. A whole army of police officers turned up shortly afterward, not to arrest them but to bring me back. And my father eventually buried Matheson in the desert, a few days later. An investigation was opened into his disappearance, but it came to nothing. According to the people who knew him best, he had become more and more impulsive in recent months, sometimes irascible. His character changed, and the beast in him rose to the surface. Instinct was beginning to take hold of the hunter. For my part, I claimed to remember nothing; I lied because I didn’t know what to say anymore. They concluded that the child-killer was the black giant, and everybody was happy. I found out later that Jezebel had searched in vain for Matheson’s diary. He had confided its existence to her, and she was anxious to know what it contained in reality. I never managed to admit to her that I was the one who had it.”

  George swallowed several times in succession, and turned to Marion. “Do you still doubt the identity of the real child-killer?”

  She wanted to say something, but the strength needed to push out the words instantly evaporated.

  “You are wondering why, aren’t you?” guessed George. “Why did he do all this? He was a tortured soul. A man who had lost all notion of emotion. As Jezebel told him on the evening when she came to find him in his rail car. She could not work him out. Because he was not a man in other men’s image. He was not really human. In a certain way he was unbalanced, but although sick he was conscious of his perversity, and it caused him pain. I think that if Jezebel meant so much to him it was because her strong, original personality had made him experience feelings again that he was normally incapable of feeling. And these odious crimes, through their extreme nature, made him feel emotion. He was nothing but an empty shell, weeping over the nothingness that he could not fill except with uncontrolled, immoderate sensations.”

  A group of bats in formation skimmed the two human shadows on the top of the abbey church, more than a hundred yards above sea level.

  “To define him, I must tell you that the major part of his delirious fantasies about my father’s perverse personality were merely a transposition of his own. His pages of psychological analysis are nothing more than a transfer of what he was himself, to the scapegoat he had devised. He could eliminate his rival in love and exonerate himself in one fell swoop. Having said this, the criminal processes he attributes to my father’s mind seem most grotesque when one reads his diary; on the other hand, they become more plausible once they are replaced by Jeremy himself. All one has to do is replace the intoxication with power that he claimed was the breaking point—as a point of departure—for my father with the terrible consequences of the war that turned Jeremy Matheson into a disembodied creature, and we can grasp his nature.”

  George clapped his hands in front of him. “In the final analysis he was a damned soul. The war had succeeded in dehumanizing the child he had been.”

  Marion shuddered.

  The war. The tortures Jeremy had seen inflicted on that poor soldier.

  George pointed to the diary. “Take hold of the first page, and tear the cover. Go on, don’t be afraid, I covered the book myself, back then, so as to camouflage it.”

  Marion followed his instructions and pulled on the leather. It grumbled as it tore.

  “That’s enough,” ordered George.

  He leaned over and slid his fingers under the tear in the leather, searching for something.

  “There…”

  The old man drew out an old sepia photograph.

  “There you are, look. That’s Jeremy Matheson.”

  Marion took it and looked at the author’s face with a degree of apprehension. In appearance he was as he had described himself, a handsome man, but with an expression that darkened his face. In fact, it was even disturbing. There was an enigmatic glimmer in his eyes, as imprecise and changeable as those holographic photographs in which the facial expression changes when the viewing angle is altered. A look of cold, permanent anger, Marion decided, without much confidence. Or a persistent suffering, which consumes him.

  And then another flash of intuition came to her. A more disturbing one.

  That glimmer of light belonged to a lifeless body, floating in the very depths of him. The glimmer of his soul.

  In his eyes there was a terrifying fogging, which belonged to a consciousness that had been dead for a long time, having abandoned its body to drift
aimlessly.

  He was harboring his own corpse.

  Beside Jeremy stood a magnificent woman. Marion had no difficulty in identifying her. Her class and her impetuous nature were imprinted on her features. Jezebel.

  The photo had been taken on a beach. Jeremy was in short bathing trunks, in accordance with the fashion of the time, revealing a chest disfigured by a long, swollen-edged furrow.

  Marion turned over the photograph.

  Alexandria, September 1926.

  “The photo was acting as a bookmark in the notebook when I found it,” commented George. “An error on Jeremy’s part, committed because of his affection for Jezebel.”

  George revealed the final cog in the insane mechanism that constituted Jeremy Matheson. “When he was a little drunk, on the evening they dined together, he told my father and Jezebel an anecdote in confidence. You have probably guessed that he lied about that, too. He did not see that young solder being mutilated and raped for so long by vile noncommissioned officers. He didn’t see it, he lived it. He was that soldier.”

  Marion ran her index finger over the slender curve of the scar on the detective’s chest. The photo quivered in the wind.

  “That was why Jezebel wept that evening,” emphasized George. “She understood. When he talked about the mutilations by bayonet, and a gash across the chest, she remembered that enormous scar on his torso. She grasped the sufferings he had endured during the war. After each slaughter, when he had to go and attack the Germans, he returned, astonished that he was still alive, covered with the meat of his comrades, and confronted another hell, while waiting for the next attack that would in turn burst open his flesh.”

  Marion scrutinized the photograph and the man who had made her share his existence, what she had thought was his investigation, his pain. She imagined him wandering along the sordid alleyways of Shubra, to flush out the black giant, approach him, say a few words to him in Arabic. Then she imagined him bringing his “hired hand” down into the underground chambers, to shelter him there. Promising him food. And inciting him to liberate his anger with the children he would procure for him. Jeremy had savored the spectacle. He had also killed his own friend, the archaeologist who had told him about his discovery, this ideal hiding place. He had slaughtered Azim because he was on the point of uncovering the whole thing.