Blood Wedding

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Overcome by her new sense of calm, Sophie has begun to read again. Frantz regularly brings home paperbacks from the newsagent’s. Being out of touch with what has been published in recent years, she has had to trust to chance – to trust to Frantz – and he has proved very lucky in his choices: he has brought home some potboilers, of course, but also Citati’s Portraits de femmes and, as though he sensed her passion for Russian writers, Vasily Grossman’s Vie et destin and Ikonnikov’s Dernières nouvelles du bourbier. They watch films together on television, and he brings home videos. Here, too, his choices are sometimes fortuitous: this is how she finally got to see the famous “Cherry Orchard” with Michel Piccoli. As the weeks passed, Sophie felt overcome by an almost voluptuous lassitude, something approaching the marvellous marital numbness sometimes felt by wives who do not go out to work.

  The numbness was misleading. Far from being a symptom of new-found tranquillity, as she imagined, it was a precursor to a new bout of depression.

  One night, she began thrashing about in the bed, turning this way and that. And Vincent’s face suddenly appeared.

  In her dream, Vincent was a huge, distorted face, as though photographed with a fish-eye lens or reflected in a concave mirror. It was not really the face of her Vincent, the man she had loved. It was of Vincent after the accident, the eyes perpetually tearful, the head lolling to one side, the mouth half open but robbed of words. But no, Vincent does not communicate with grunts. He speaks. As Sophie tosses and turns in her sleep, trying to get away, he stares at her and speaks in a soft, deep voice. It is not really his voice, just as it is not really his face, but it is him, because he says things that only he could know. His face barely moves, his pupils dilate to become huge, hypnotic saucers, I am here, Sophie my darling, I am speaking to you from beyond the grave, where you consigned me. I have come to tell you how much I loved you, to show you how much I love you still. Sophie struggles, but Vincent’s eyes pin her to the bed, her thrashing arms are ineffective. Why did you send me to my death, my darling? Not once, but twice, remember? In the dream, it is night-time. The first time, it was simple fate. Vincent is driving carefully along the road in the driving rain. Through the windscreen, she watches as he becomes tired, sees his head drooping, his eyelids fluttering, watches him screw up his eyes to ward off sleep as the rain lashes harder, flooding the road ahead, and the blustery wind plasters sycamore leaves against the windshield. I was just tired, Sophie my dream, I was not dead then. Why did you want me dead? Sophie tries to answer, but her tongue is heavy, numb, it seems to fill her mouth completely. You’ve got nothing to say, have you? Sophie would like to say something, to tell him: My darling, I miss you so much, I miss life now that you are dead, I am dead now you are gone. But no words come. Do you remember how I was? I know that you remember. Since my death, I do not move nor speak, I simply drool, you remember how I drooled, my head is heavy, my soul, my soul is heavy, and how heavy my heart is to see you stare at me tonight. I picture you exactly as you were on the day of my second death. You are wearing the blue dress I never liked. You are standing by a fir tree, Sophie my gift, your arms folded, and so silent (move, Sophie, wake up, do not be a prisoner of memory, it can only bring you grief. Do not accept it), you look at me and I merely drool, I cannot speak, but I gaze lovingly at my Sophie, while you look at me with such cruelty, such bitterness, such loathing, I know that now my love can no longer move you: you have begun to hate me, I am the dead weight hung about your life for centuries to come (don’t accept this, Sophie, turn over, do not allow the nightmare to engulf you, these lies will kill you, this is not you, wake up, whatever the cost, force yourself to wake up) and you calmly turn, to grasp one of the branches of the Christmas tree, to stare at me, your eyes vacant as you strike a match, and you light one of the candles (don’t let him say such things, Sophie. Vincent is mistaken, you could never have done such a thing. He is in pain, his suffering is great because he is dead, but you are still alive, Sophie. Wake up!), the tree flares, a vast, all-consuming blaze and at the far end of the room, I see you disappear behind the wall of flames licking at the curtains and, terrified but paralysed in my wheelchair, I tense every muscle, but in vain, I watch you leave, Sophie, my flame (if you cannot move, Sophie, scream!), Sophie my vision, I see you now at the head of the stairs, standing on that wide landing from which you hurled my wheelchair. You have just performed your act of mercy. How headstrong you look, how single-minded (resist, Sophie, don’t allow yourself to be consumed by Vincent’s death). Before me, the abyss of the stone staircase, broad as a cemetery path, deep as a well, and you, Sophie my death, you gently stroke my face, this is your last farewell, your hand upon my cheek, you tense your lips, you clench your jaw and behind my back you grasp the handles of the wheelchair (resist Sophie, fight, scream louder!) and with a shove, the chair takes wing and I with it, Sophie my killer, and I am in heaven because of you, and here I wait, Sophie, because I need you here beside me, soon you will be here beside me (scream, scream!), scream if you will, my love, I know that you are on your way. Today, you resist, but tomorrow you will come to me for solace. And we shall be together for centuries to come . . .

  Panting for breath, bathed in sweat, Sophie jolts upright in the bed. Her terrified howl still echoes around the room. Next to her, Frantz looks on in alarm. He grasps her hands.

  “What is it? What happened?” he says.

  Her scream dies in her throat, she feels herself choking, her fists are clenched, her nails are stabbing into her palms. Frantz takes her hands in his, relaxes her fingers one by one, whispering to her gently, but to her, in that moment, all voices sound alike, even Frantz’s voice sounds like that of Vincent. The voice in her dream. The voice.

  This is the day that her childlike pleasures come to an end. Sophie concentrates hard, as she did during her worst episodes, so as not to founder. During the day, she tries not to fall asleep. Fearful of what dreams may come. But sometimes, there is nothing to be done, sleep overtakes her, engulfs her. Night and day she is visited by the dead. Sometimes Véronique Fabre, smiling and blood-streaked, mortally wounded but still alive. Véronique talks to her, describes her death. It is not her voice but the voice that speaks, always the same, the voice that knows every aspect, every detail of her life. I am waiting, Sophie, says Véronique Fabre, ever since you killed me, I have known that you will join me. Dear God, the pain you caused me, you cannot begin to imagine. I will tell you all when we are reunited. I know that you are coming. Soon, you will long to be with me, to be with us. Vincent, Léo, me. We are all eager to welcome you.

  During the day Sophie does not move, she lies prostrate. Frantz is alarmed, he wants to call a doctor, but Sophie adamantly refuses. She pulls herself together, tries to reassure him. But she can tell from his face that he does not understand, that to him, not calling a doctor in such circumstances is incomprehensible.

  He comes home increasingly early. But he is too concerned. Before long, he tells her:

  “I’ve applied for leave. I have a few days in hand.”

  Now he is with her all day. He watches television while she lies sprawled, only half-conscious. In the middle of the day. She can just make out Frantz’s close-cropped head in silhouette against the television screen before sleep overcomes her. Always the same words, the same dead. In her dreams, little Léo speaks to her with the voice of the man he will never be. Léo speaks with the Voice. In agonising detail he tells her of the pain as the laces dug into his throat, how he struggled to breathe, how he thrashed and tried to scream. All the dead return, night after night. Frantz makes her hot drinks, herbal teas, tries to insist she call a doctor. But Sophie refuses to see anyone, she has managed to disappear, she does not want to trigger an investigation, she does not want to be insane, she does not want to be sectioned, she is determined to get through this alone. During these episodes her hands are frozen, her heart rate fluctuates alarmingly. She feels cold, but her clothes are soaked in sweat. Day and night, she sleeps. “They’re
just panic attacks.” She tries to sound reassuring. “They come and go.” Frantz smiles, but he does not seem convinced.

  Once, she disappeared. Only for a few hours.

  “Four hours!” Frantz says as though this were a sporting record. “I was worried. Where were you?”

  He takes her hands in his, he is genuinely concerned.

  “I came back,” Sophie says, as though this is the response he is expecting.

  Frantz tries to understand, Sophie’s disappearance has made him nervous. He is a simple soul, but rational. What he cannot understand drives him crazy.

  “What am I supposed to do if you go and disappear like that? I mean . . . how am I supposed to find you?”

  She says that she does not remember. He insists.

  “Four hours you were gone, how can you not remember?”

  Sophie rolls her eyes, they are strangely glazed.

  “In a café,” she says, as though talking to herself.

  “A café? You were in a café? Which café?” Frantz says.

  She stares at him, utterly lost.

  “I’m not sure.”

  Sophie started to cry. Frantz held her and she huddled in his arms. This was in April. What did she want? For it to be over, perhaps. And yet she came back. Does she remember what she did for those four hours? What could she possibly do in just four hours?

  *

  A month later, in early May, more exhausted than ever, Sophie escapes.

  Frantz has gone out for a few minutes. “I’ll be right back,” he says, “don’t worry.” Sophie waits until the sound of his footsteps fade, then pulls on her jacket, hastily stuffs a few things into her pockets, grabs her purse and flees. She leaves the building by the side door next to the bins. It leads onto a different street. She starts to run. Her head is pounding like her heart; they bludgeon her from her belly to her temples. She keeps running. She feels flushed and hot, takes off her jacket and tosses it on the ground, never breaking her stride, she turns back every now and then. Is she afraid the dead will follow her? 6-7-5-3. She needs to remember this. 6-7-5-3. She pants for breath, her lungs ache, she keeps on running, reaches the bus and does not climb but rather leaps aboard. She forgot to bring any change. In vain she fumbles through her pockets. The driver looks at her as though she is mad – which she is. She digs out a two-euro coin. The driver asks a question she does not catch, but she replies: “Everything’s fine”, a stock answer designed to reassure others. Everything’s fine. 6-7-5-3. Do not forget. There are only three or four people on the bus, they give her curious glances. She tries to straighten her clothes. She sits at the back, scanning the traffic through the rear window. She feels a desperate urge to smoke, but smoking is forbidden and, besides, she left her cigarettes back at the apartment. The bus lurches towards the train station, stopping for endless minutes at traffic lights, setting off again, wheezing and rattling. Sophie gets her breath back, but as they approach the station, she feels fear overwhelm her again. She is afraid of the world, afraid of people, afraid of trains. Terrified of everything. She cannot get away so easily. She glances back continually. Do the faces behind her wear the mask of impending death? Her whole body is trembling and, after so many gruelling days and nights, the simple act of running for a bus and walking through a train station have left her shattered. “Melun,” she says. 6-7-5-3. No, she does not have a rail card. Yes, she is prepared to travel via Paris. She proffers her debit card insistently, desperate for the cashier to take it now, desperate to have done with her message before she forgets it (6-7-5-3), desperate to get her ticket, to board the train, to watch the stations flash past, desperate to arrive at the other end . . . Yes, there will be a long wait while she has to change trains. Finally, the man taps on his keyboard, a printer rattles into life and her ticket is in front of her. “Just enter your code . . .” he says. 6-7-5-3. A small victory. Against whom? Sophie turns to leave, she has left her card in the machine. A woman gestures towards it with a smug smile. Sophie snatches it back. Everything smacks of déjà vu. Sophie has been reliving the same scenes, the same getaways, the same deaths since . . . when? It has to stop. She pats her pockets in search of cigarettes, finds the bank card she has just slipped in there and when she looks up Frantz is standing in front of her, panicked, saying “Where the hell are you going dressed like that?” He is holding the jacket she dropped on the street. He tilts his head left, then right. “Let’s get you home. This time, we have to call a doctor. You have to recognise that . . .” For a moment she considers saying yes. But she stops herself. “No. No doctor . . . I’ll come home.” He smiles and takes her arm. Sophie feels a wave of nausea. Frantz grips her arm: “Let’s go home,” he says. “I’m parked just over there.” Sophie watches the station recede, closes her eyes as though she needs to make a decision. Then she turns to Frantz, throws her arms around his neck, hugs him hard and says “Oh, Frantz . . .” She sobs as he half-carries her towards the exit, towards the car, towards home; she drops the crumpled train ticket on the ground, buries her face in his neck and sobs.

  *

  Frantz is always close at hand. As soon as she recovers her composure, she apologises for what she has put him through. Timidly, he asks for an explanation. She promises to tell him everything. She needs to rest first, she says. “Rest” is her constant refrain, the word that, for a few hours, closes every door, gives her time to breathe, time to gather her strength, to steel herself for the battles to come, for the dreams, the dead, the unwelcome visitors. Frantz does the shopping. “I don’t want to have to go hunting for you all over town,” he says, smiling as he locks the door behind him. Sophie smiles back gratefully. Frantz takes care of the housework, does the hoovering, cooks the meals, brings home roast chicken, Indian takeaways, Chinese food, rents videos and brings them to her hoping for a flicker of approval. Sophie finds him a good housekeeper, a great cook, she assures him that the films he brings are excellent, but by the time the opening credits roll, she is already asleep. Her heavy head falls and she finds herself among the dead, Frantz is holding her arms when she wakes lying on the floor, wordless, breathless, almost lifeless.

  *

  And so what was bound to happen finally happened. It is a Sunday, Sophie has not slept for days. She has been screaming so much she is hoarse. Frantz cossets her, he is always by her side, spoon-feeding her since she cannot bring herself to eat a mouthful. It is remarkable how this man has accepted the madness of the woman he has just married. He is almost a saint. He is devoted, ever ready to make sacrifices. “I just want you to accept that you need to call a doctor, that way you can start to get better,” he says. She says that things will be “back to normal soon”. He presses her. Tries to understand the logic of her refusal. He is worried he may be stepping into the uncharted territory of her life. What is going on in her head? She does her best to reassure him, knows that she needs to behave normally to allay his concerns. Sometimes she climbs on top of him, rocks back and forth until she feels him get hard, opens her legs, guides him inside, doing her best to pleasure him, she lets out little moans, squeezes her eyes shut, waits for him to surrender.

  *

  It is a Sunday. As calm as death. In the early morning, the building echoed with the voices of tenants coming back from the market, or washing their cars. Sophie spent the whole morning gazing through the French windows, smoking cigarettes, hands so cold she has stuffed them into the sleeves of her jumper. Tired. “I’m cold,” she says. Last night, she woke up vomiting. Her stomach still aches. She feels dirty. The shower did not help, she wants to take a bath. Frantz runs the water – too hot, as he often does – adds the bath salts he likes but silently she loathes, they feel synthetic and the fragrance is cloying, but she does not want to offend him. It hardly matters. All she wants is for the water to be scalding, hot enough to warm her frozen bones. He helps her to undress. Sophie catches her reflection in the full-length mirror, the jutting shoulder blades, the angular hip bones, the gauntness, it is enough to make you cry,
if it did not make you shudder. How much does she weigh? She finds herself saying aloud something that seems obvious: “I think I’m dying.” She is shocked at the thought. She said it in the same tone in which, a few weeks ago, she said, “I’m fine.” It is just as true. Sophie is slowly wasting away. As day follows night, as one nightmare follows another, Sophie is growing weaker, thinner. She is melting. Soon she will be translucent. She looks at her face again, the prominent cheekbones, the rings around her eyes. Frantz hugs her to him. He whispers sweet, foolish things. He pretends to laugh off this shocking thing she has just said. But he goes too far. He pats her on the back as one might a friend going away for a long time. He tells her that the water is hot. Sophie tests the surface. A shiver runs through her. Frantz runs the cold tap for a moment, she checks again and tells him it is fine. He goes out. He smiles encouragingly every time he leaves the room, but the door is always left ajar. As soon as she hears the television, Sophie gets into the bath, reaches for the shelf and takes down the nail scissors. She studies her wrists, the pale blue of the veins. She angles the blade of the scissors, adjusts the position, glances round and sees the back of Frantz’s head, seeming to draw strength from this. She takes a deep breath and cuts deep and fast. Then she lets her muscles go slack and lies back in the bath.