Blood Wedding

by Pierre Lemaitre

  April 15

  So here she is at last, the famous Valérie! The two women are rather alike, I think. They met in secondary school. Valérie works for an international haulage company based in Lyon. The internet throws up no results for “Valérie Jourdain”, but by widening the search to “Jourdain” alone I manage to trace the family lineage from the grandfather, the source of the family wealth, to the grandson, Henri – Valérie’s elder brother. By the late nineteenth century, the family had already amassed a considerable fortune in the textile industry when, by a rare stroke of genius, the grandfather, Alphonse Jourdain, filed a patent for a synthetic cotton thread which was to ensure a generous income for his family for two generations. This was all that was needed for his son, Valérie’s father, to consolidate their wealth with a series of judicious investments (principally real estate), so that the family would be secure for at least eight generations more. From what I’ve been able to glean of Valérie’s personal finances, the sale of her Lyon apartment alone would allow her to live comfortably for a hundred years without working a day in her life.

  I watch them stroll together in the grounds of the house. A distraught Sophie shows her how all the plants are dying, even some of the trees. No-one knows what the problem is. They would rather not find out.

  Valérie proves to be cheerful and enthusiastic. She helps with painting the walls, but after a while she sits on the stepladder smoking cigarettes and chatting until she realises that Sophie has been working on her own for more than an hour. The problem is that she is terrified of rats, that the alarm randomly going off as many as four times a night sends her into a blind panic. (Although it requires a lot of work on my part, the results are deeply rewarding.) Valérie complains that they’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t disagree.

  Sophie introduced Valérie to Laure. They seem to get along famously. But what with Sophie’s chronic depression and Laure’s persistent anxiety about the wave of poison pen letters circulating in the village, it’s not much of a holiday for Valérie.

  April 30

  If things carry on like this, even Valérie is going to get annoyed with Sophie. Vincent is a sphinx, it is impossible to know what he is thinking; Valérie, on the other hand, is impulsive and spontaneous. She has no ulterior motives.

  For some days now, Sophie has been pleading with her to stay a little longer. Just a few more days. Valérie tried to explain that she simply can’t. Sophie insisted, called her “darling” and “poppet”, but though Valérie might be able to take more time off, she hates the place. I don’t think anything in the world could persuade her to stay. But then, just as she is about to leave, her train ticket goes missing. She cannot help but think that perhaps Sophie is doing everything in her power to keep her here. Sophie swears that she had nothing to do with it, Valérie shrugs it off, Vincent makes it out to be just a trivial incident. Valérie books a new ticket over the internet. She is more reserved than usual. They kiss goodbye at the station, Valérie patting a sobbing Sophie on the back. I think Valérie is ecstatic to be getting out of here.

  May 10

  When I saw that Laure’s car had broken down, I immediately realised what would happen next and planned accordingly. It worked exceptionally well. The following day, Laure asked to borrow Sophie’s car so she could do her weekly shop. Sophie is always happy to help. Everything was prepared. I had arranged things meticulously, though I also had a stroke of luck. When she opened the boot of the car, Laure might not have noticed anything. But as she was loading the bags from her shopping trolley, she saw the stack of magazines poking out of a plastic bag. Given that recently her whole life has been dominated by the poison pen letters, she was of course intrigued. When she saw that there were words and letters cut from the pages of the magazines, she made the connection. I was expecting her to explode. But she didn’t. Laure is a very calm, very organised person; in fact this is what Sophie likes about her. Laure went home to pick up copies of the anonymous letters she has been collecting over recent weeks and took them and the magazines directly to the police station in the nearest town, where she pressed charges. Sophie was beginning to worry by the time Laure finally came back from her shopping trip. Laure barely said a word. Through the binoculars, I could see them standing facing each other. Sophie’s eyes widened. Hardly had Laure left when the police arrived with a search warrant. It didn’t take them long to find the other magazines I had secreted here and there. The libel action should keep tongues wagging in the village for the next few weeks. Sophie is at her wits’ end. This is all she needs. She will have to tell Vincent. Sometimes I think that Sophie wishes she were dead. And she is pregnant.

  May 13

  Sophie is distraught. These past few days she has literally had to drag herself around. She did a little work on the house, but her heart was not in it. She seems reluctant to set foot outside.

  I don’t know what is going on with the builders, but there has been no sign of them. I suspect the insurance company are not being cooperative. Perhaps they should have had the alarm installed earlier, I don’t know, insurers can be sticklers for regulations. In short, no work is being done. Sophie looks haggard and dispirited. She spends hours standing outside smoking. Hardly the best in her condition.

  May 23

  Huge black clouds have been rolling across the sky all afternoon. At about 7.00 p.m., the rains started. By the time Vincent Duguet passed me at 9.15, the storm was raging wildly.

  Vincent is a cautious, attentive man. He is driving at a reasonable speed, and is punctilious in his use of indicators. As he turns onto the trunk road, he accelerates. For several kilometres, it is a straight stretch of road and then it swerves sharply to the left, I would even say savagely. Despite the warning signs, many drivers have probably been caught out, especially since at that point the road is lined with trees that conceal the hairpin bend: it can quickly sneak up on an unsuspecting driver. Not Vincent, obviously; he has been driving the same route for weeks and is not given to bursts of speed. Even so, being familiar with a road can make you complacent; you stop thinking about the dangers. Vincent approached the bend with the confidence of someone who knows the area well. The rain was lashing hard now. I was just behind. I overtook at precisely the right moment and cut in front of him so brutally that the rear wheel of the motorcycle grazed his front bumper. At exactly that moment, I went into a carefully controlled skid, then braked hard to right the bike. The element of surprise: the rain, the motorbike appearing out of nowhere, scraping against the car and spinning out in front – Vincent Duguet literally went round the twist. He braked too hard, swerved and tried to turn into the bend. Just then, I pulled a wheelie right in front of him. He could visualise himself ploughing into me, wrenched the steering wheel wildly and . . . that was that. The car spun around, the tyres mounted the hard shoulder, it was already the beginning of the end. It veered right, then left, the engine roared and the shriek of metal as it hit the tree was terrible: the car wrapped itself around the trunk, balanced on the rear wheels, the bonnet half a metre off the ground.

  I got off the motorcycle and ran towards the car. Despite the torrential rain, I was afraid there would be a fire, I needed to work fast. I approached the driver’s door. Vincent’s chest was buried in the dashboard, the airbag must have exploded – I didn’t realise that was possible. I don’t know why I did what I did next, I probably needed to make sure he was dead. I pushed back the visor on my helmet, then grabbed him by the hair and twisted his face towards me. Blood was streaming everywhere, but his eyes were wide open and he was staring at me intently. I stood, completely paralysed. The driving rain poured into the car, Vincent’s face was gushing blood and yet he went on staring at me so fixedly that I was petrified. For a long moment we looked at each other. I let go of his head and it lurched heavily to one side and I swear, his eyes were still open. They now had a different fixity. As though he were finally dead. I ran to my bike and raced off back the way we had come. A few seconds later, I pas
sed a car whose dipped headlights I had noticed earlier in my rear-view mirror.

  I could not sleep for seeing Vincent’s eyes gazing into mine. Is he dead now? If not, would he be able to remember me? Would he realise that I am the motorcyclist he knocked down a few months ago?

  May 25

  I keep up to date by way of Sophie’s e-mails to her father. He tries to insist that she come to stay with him, but she always refuses. She says she needs to be alone. When it comes to solitude, she has all she could wish for. Vincent was rushed to Garches hospital. I am desperate for news of his condition. I have no idea how things are going to pan out now. But I feel reassured: Vincent is in a bad way. A very bad way.

  May 30

  I had to take extreme measures, otherwise I risked losing her. Now I know where Sophie is at any moment of the day. It is safer that way.

  I look at her: you wouldn’t think she was pregnant. Some women are like that, they only start to show at the very end.

  June 5

  It was bound to happen. It may be the predictable outcome of months of disaster and distress, and the way things have recently accelerated: Laure’s libel action, Vincent’s accident. Last night, Sophie went out in the middle of the night, something she never does. She went to Senlis. I wondered what it might have to do with Vincent. Nothing, as it turns out. Sophie has miscarried. Probably because she has been overwrought.

  June 7

  I was not at all well last night. I was woken by an overpowering feeling of dread. I recognised the symptoms at once. Anything related to motherhood does this to me. Not always, but often. When I dream about my own birth, when I imagine Maman’s beaming face, the pain of missing her is excruciating.

  June 8

  Vincent has just been transferred to the Clinique Sainte-Hilaire for physiotherapy. The news is worse than I had feared. They expect him to be discharged in about a month.

  July 22

  It has been some time since I last saw Sophie. She took a little trip to visit her father. She stayed only four days, then came back to be at Vincent’s bedside.

  Truthfully, the prognosis is not good . . . I am anxious to see what happens next.

  September 13

  My God, I’m still in shock . . .

  Of course I had been expecting it, but even so. From an e-mail to her father, I learned that Vincent is being discharged today. First thing this morning, I found a spot in the grounds of the clinic from where I could see the whole complex. I had been there for twenty minutes when I saw them emerge through the door to the main building. Sophie at the top of the wheelchair ramp, pushing her husband. I could barely make them out. I scrambled to my feet and took one of the adjacent paths so I could move closer. What a surprise! The man in the wheelchair is a shadow of his former self. His spine was badly damaged, but that is not all that’s wrong. It would be quicker to list the things that are still functioning. He cannot weigh more than 45 kilos. He is a shrunken relic; he wears a surgical collar to stop his head lolling and, from what I can make out, his eyes are glazed and his complexion sallow. When you think that the guy is not even thirty, it’s terrifying.

  Sophie pushes the wheelchair with admirable altruism. She is calm, she stares straight ahead. Her gestures are a little mechanical, but that’s understandable, she has a lot on her mind. What I love about her is that, even in such tragic circumstances, she doesn’t lapse into mawkishness, she doesn’t adopt the martyred air of a nun or a nursemaid. She simply pushes the wheelchair. Though she must be wondering what she is going to do with this human wreck. As indeed am I.

  October 18

  It is heart-rending. The Oise is not a cheery region to say the least, but we seem to have reached rock bottom. This vast mansion and this forlorn young woman who, at the first ray of sunshine, drags her husband’s wheelchair out onto the front porch, her husband who takes up all her time, saps all her energy. It’s terribly moving. She wraps him in blankets, pulls a chair up next to his and chatters to him while she chain-smokes. It’s impossible to tell whether he understands what she is saying. He nods constantly, whether she is talking or not. Through the binoculars I can see him drooling, it is painful to watch. He tries to express himself, but he cannot speak – by which I mean he can no longer articulate words. He lets out little cries and grunts, they both do their utmost to communicate. Sophie is so patient with him. I couldn’t do it.

  Otherwise, I am very discreet. It’s important not to overdo it. I come by during the night, between 1.00 and 4.00 a.m., I slam one of the shutters and half an hour later I smash an outdoor lightbulb. Once I see a light go on in Sophie’s room, then on the stairs, I can go home in peace. The important thing is to maintain the atmosphere.

  October 26

  Winter has arrived a little early.

  I have discovered that Laure has dropped the charges against Sophie. She even came round to visit. Things may never be the same between them, but Laure is a good person at heart, she is not one to hold a grudge. Sophie is so pale she is almost translucent.

  I visit about twice a week (I adjust her medication, read any opened letters and carefully put them back), the rest of the time, I keep up to date by way of her e-mails. I have to say I don’t like the turn events are taking. We could languish in this listless depression for months, for years. Something needs to be done. Sophie is trying to get herself organised, she has requested a home help, but they are hard to come by around these parts, and obviously I’m against the idea. I intercepted her letters. I have opted for a more fitful approach, I am counting on the fact that, given her age, regardless of the love she feels, Sophie will get bored, she will start to wonder what she is doing here, how much longer she can stand it. I can tell she has been looking for solutions: she has considered buying another house, she is thinking of moving back to Paris. Personally, I’m not fussed. What I don’t want is to have the human vegetable hanging around much longer.

  November 16

  Sophie never gets a moment’s peace. When he first came home, Vincent would sit in his wheelchair like a good little boy, and she could get on with other things, checking on him every now and then. But as time went on, things became more difficult. Recently, they have been very difficult indeed. If she leaves him out on the front steps, within minutes his wheelchair has rolled forward and is liable to topple over. She had someone come and install a ramp and protective rails anywhere he is likely to venture. She does not know how he does it, but sometimes he makes it all the way to the kitchen. Now and then, he manages to get hold of some implement that could be dangerous, or he starts screaming. She quickly rushes to his side, but can never work out what it is that has set him off. Vincent and I are old friends now. Every time I show up, his eyes grow wide, he starts to grunt. He is visibly afraid, he feels terribly vulnerable.

  Sophie writes to Valérie, telling her about his misadventures. Valérie keeps promising to visit, but – surprise, surprise! – she never quite gets around to it. Sophie is having trouble coping with her anxiety, she is taking all sorts of medication, she has no idea what to do for the best. She seeks advice from her father, from Valérie, she spends hours on the internet looking for a house, an apartment, she feels completely helpless. Her father, Valérie, everyone she has talked to suggests that she put Vincent into residential care, but she will not hear of it.

  December 19

  The second home help has just quit. She did not even give a reason. Sophie worries what to do, the agency has written to say it will be difficult to find anyone else.

  I did not know whether her husband still had urges, whether he could still function and, even if he could, how she might go about it. Actually, it’s quite simple. Obviously, Vincent is not the strong, masterful hunk he was a year ago on their (now infamous) Greek holiday. These days, Sophie “services” him. She does her best, but it is evident that her heart is not in it. At least she doesn’t cry while she’s doing it. Only afterwards.

  December 23

  As Christmases go, it is pre
tty cheerless, especially as this is also the anniversary of Vincent’s mother’s death.

  December 25

  Christmas day! The fire started in the living room. Vincent seemed particularly calm, he was dozing. Within minutes, the Christmas tree had caught fire – it makes an impressive blaze. Sophie just had time to drag Vincent’s wheelchair away (he was screaming by this time) and douse the flames while she called the fire brigade. They were more shaken than hurt. But they were very shaken. Even the volunteer firemen, to whom she served coffee in the dank, charred remnants of the living room, gently advised her to place Vincent into care.

  January 9, 2002

  She had only to make up her mind. I allow the letters containing the official paperwork to arrive unhindered. Sophie has found a residential home in the suburbs of Paris. Vincent is well looked after, he had first-class private health insurance. She drove him there, she kneels next to the wheelchair, takes his hands in hers, whispers softly, explains the advantages of the situation. He grunts something incomprehensible. As soon as she finds herself alone, she bursts into tears.

  February 2

  I have eased up a little on Sophie to give her time to get organised. I just mislay a few objects, juggle with her calendar, but she is so used to such things that she no longer finds them disturbing. She muddles through. And, in doing so, she begins to recover her strength. In the beginning she went to visit Vincent every day, but such good intentions never last. And then she finds herself crippled by guilt. It’s most obvious in her e-mails to her father: she cannot even bring herself to mention it.