Three Days and a Life

by Pierre Lemaitre

  A great silence fell over the group as Antoine joined them. Théo, who smelled of cigarette smoke, stared pointedly at his shoes. His lip was swollen and flushed dark red with a small scab. He could not help but shoot Antoine a black look. But he was shrewd enough to know that everyone was more interested in the sudden arrest of Frankenstein than in his squabbles with Antoine. In fact, he was promptly confronted by Kevin:

  “You see? It wasn’t Monsieur Guénot who was arrested at all! That was just bullshit.”

  Among his many other faults, Théo was never wrong. In this, he was like his father, it was a trademark of the Weiser family, they never backed down. In such circumstances, it was more crucial than ever for him to regain the upper hand.

  “No, it wasn’t!” Théo snapped back. “They arrested Guénot and released him, but they’re still keeping an eye on him, you can take my word for it. He’s definitely queer, that’s for sure. And he’s weird . . .”

  “But still!” Kevin said, happy to have the mayor’s son over a barrel for once.

  “But still? But still what?” Théo was angry now.

  “But still, Frankenstein’s the one that they arrested.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the group. The arrest neatly reinforced the popular opinion, magnificently summed up by Kevin in a single phrase:

  “You only have to look at him . . .”

  Though he had lost the upper hand, Théo was not about to give up the battle, and attempted an audacious flanking manoeuvre:

  “I know a damn sight more than the lot of you about the case! That kid . . . he’s dead!”

  Dead . . .

  The word set the room spinning.

  “What d’you mean, he’s dead?”

  The conversation suddenly trailed off. Maître Vallenères had just arrived, and the sight of the lawyer pushing his daughter in her wheelchair made everyone fall silent. She was fifteen and so painfully thin that her fists would easily have passed through a napkin ring. Her only hobby was decorating her wheelchair. No-one had ever seen her do it, but there were rumours that she had ordered a special mask so she could spray-paint it. The chair was a constantly changing wonder, she had recently had two car radio antennas fitted that made it look like a giant, multicoloured insect. Some kids called her Mad Max. The joyful brilliance of her creation contrasted sharply with her face, always engrossed, uninterested in the world, people said that she was fiercely intelligent, but she would die young, and it is true that it was difficult not to imagine her being swept away by a gust of wind some day. There were many children her age in Beauval, but she did not spend time with any of them. Or perhaps none of them spent time with her. She was home-schooled, and was taught by a live-in tutor she had had since she first fell ill.

  The sight of the outlandish wheelchair rolling into the church was like a provocation. People wondered whether God might not punish her lack of propriety. She and her father were followed by Madame Antonetti, the spiteful bitch who never missed an opportunity to observe these people she had scorned and despised with every fibre of her being since the dawn of time.

  “Are they sure he’s dead?” Kevin said in a harsh whisper as soon as they had passed.

  It was a stupid question, given that the body had not been found, but it perfectly communicated the confusion the little group felt at the very idea of murder. The very word was enough to take your breath away. Antoine wondered whether Théo had said this so he could be the centre of attention, or whether he actually knew something.

  “And anyway, how would you know?” Kevin said.

  “My father . . .” Théo said, and allowed the word hang in the air, then he looked down at the ground and solemnly shook his head with the air of one who knows but cannot say. Antoine could not bear it any longer.

  “What about your father?”

  Since the fight that afternoon, a comment by Antoine carried considerably more weight. It forced Théo to embellish. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was not overheard.

  “He had a word with the capitaine at the gendarmerie . . . They know what happened.”

  “What do they know?”

  “Let’s just say . . .” Théo took a long, deep breath. “They’ve found evidence. They know where to look for the body. It’s only a matter of hours . . . I can’t really say any more . . .”

  He looked at Antoine, at Émilie, then at the others and mumbled: “. . . Sorry.”

  Then he slowly turned on his heel, crossed the square and went into the church.

  It was obviously a bluff, but why had Théo looked at Antoine first? Émilie took a lock of hair between her thumb and forefinger and twisted it thoughtfully. If she was going out with Théo (Antoine did not know one way or the other), was she in on the secret? She had not participated in the discussion, had not said a word . . . Antoine could not bring himself to look at her.

  “Right, I’m off,” she said.

  She peeled away from the group and went into the church.

  Antoine had an overwhelming urge to run away. And he would probably have done just that if, at that moment, his mother had not appeared.

  “Come on, Antoine!”

  All around, men were stubbing out cigarettes, doffing their hats and their caps, then the church doors slowly swung shut.

  What child is this, who laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping? Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, While shepherds watch are keeping?

  Next to his mother, Antoine was sitting at the edge of the pew immediately beside the central aisle; right in front of him was the nape of Émilie’s neck, something that usually had profound effect on him, but not tonight. Théo’s words rattled around in his head. They had evidence . . . Unconsciously, he felt his wrist. If it was true, then what were they waiting for? Why had they not come for him straight away?

  Maybe during the Mass . . .

  Welcome to you all on this Christmas night where we joyfully celebrate the birth of the Christ child.

  The priest was a young, fat, clean-shaven man with thick lips and piercing eyes. He moved at a slight angle, as though he was shy, as though afraid to trouble anyone, but spurred by a fervent, harsh, demanding faith that starkly contrasted with his physique. It was not difficult to picture him, naked, pudgy, pot-bellied, furiously flagellating himself in a monastic cell.

  . . . He who summons us, who fills us with all Joy and Peace in believing, that we may abound in hope . . .

  To the left of the altar, a small group of women were gathered around Madame Mouchotte, who stood head and shoulders above them, and in front of them, the little church organ that Madame Kernevel had played for more than thirty years.

  At regular intervals, heads furtively glanced back at the church doors. People were disappointed that the Desmedts had not made an appearance. It was perfectly understandable, but all the same, Christmas Mass . . . Heads turned towards the door, people whispered.

  Then, finally, they arrived.

  They walked arm in arm, like an old married couple. Bernadette looked as though she had shrunk by several more centimetres. Her face was chalk-white, there were deep circles under her eyes. Monsieur Desmedt was tight-lipped, a man struggling to contain himself. They were followed by Valentine, their daughter, wearing a pair of red trousers that seemed shameful in the church, in the circumstances. Summing up general opinion, Émilie said she was “the town bicycle”, a phrase that Antoine found both shocking and oddly intriguing.

  As they passed, Antoine got a whiff of Monsieur Desmedt’s harsh, acrid smell.

  As they continued on their way, Antoine watched Valentine’s pert red buttocks jiggle with an extraordinary expressivity that left a strange taste in his mouth like someone else’s saliva.

  Lord Jesus, sent by the Father for the salvation of the world.

  The Desmedt family slowly made their way up the long central aisle.

  Although the Mass did not stop for them, in their wake there settled a very different silence, murmurous, reverential, solic
itous, sorrowful and sombre.

  Father, you make this holy night radiant with the splendour of the true light; grant in your grace that, enlightened by the revelation of this mystery, we might one day enter into eternal joy in the kingdom of heaven. Through Jesus Christ, your Son, our Lord.

  The entrance of the Desmedts had been like the arrival of the penitents. Bernadette had found it a struggle to walk. Monsieur Desmedt moved through the transept slowly but with animal determination, head bowed, tread heavy, it seemed as though he was intending to have things out with the priest, to do battle with God Himself.

  When they came to the altar, they stopped. There was no room in the front pew. They turned as though about to head back down the nave and leave the church. Valentine was now standing next to her mother, all three of them facing the flock of parishioners. And there was something heart-wrenching about the tableau: this bull-necked man straining to keep his rage in check, this ravaged woman and their adolescent daughter who oozed sex and disappointment. It was as though the family, from whom little Rémi was conspicuously absent, were offering up their suffering to God.

  No-one knew what would happen next. Though he was sitting some distance away, Antoine felt the savage energy that emanated from Monsieur Desmedt when, finally, he raised his head and stared at the assembled townspeople. He shot a quick glance at Monsieur Mouchotte, who had cordially loathed Rémi’s father ever since the altercation at the factory when Monsieur Desmedt had slapped him. It is true that Monsieur Desmedt’s frequent outbursts had made him many enemies. Faced with this harrowing spectacle, the people in the front pew suddenly began to stir, several people quickly got to their feet in order to free up some space and crept down the side aisle to stand at the back of the church. The Desmedt family sat down. Facing the priest who was officiating.

  For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given . . .

  As soon as the Desmedts had disappeared from his view, Émilie turned to Antoine and stared at him with a curious insistence.

  Was her look a question? What did she know?

  He frantically tried to interpret the meaning of her look, but she had already turned away. Had this been a message? What was she trying to tell him?

  She had been strangely silent when Théo had said, “They know where to look for the body”. Instinctively, he glanced towards the door of the church.

  “They’ve found evidence . . .”

  Then it burst over him like an explosion, Antoine suddenly knew that with her look Émilie was telling him not to stay here.

  To run. That was it. They were waiting for Mass to be over in order to arrest him. He had walked right into their trap. Outside, there would be a police cordon . . .

  Tomorrow the wickedness of the earth will be destroyed and the saviour of the world will reign over us.

  Antoine would find himself trapped by the horde of the faithful stampeding towards the doors. Gradually, they would turn back, scanning the crowd to see what could have prompted the forces of law and order to gather on the church steps in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Soon, Antoine would find himself alone, walking down the aisle, the crowd parting as he passed.

  The screaming would start . . .

  He would have no choice but to surrender to the gendarmes or wait as the heavy footsteps of Monsieur Desmedt drew level with him. Antoine would turn around to find Rémi’s father shouldering his rifle, the barrel pointed at Antoine’s head.

  Antoine let out a scream, but it was drowned out by another.

  Rémi!

  In the front pew, Bernadette was on her feet, wailing for her son. Valentine tugged at her sleeve and slowly she took her seat again.

  Startled by the cry, Madame Kernevel’s fingers froze on the organ and the choir trailed off into awkward silence.

  Then the voice of Monsieur Mouchotte boomed out, the organ immediately followed suit and the choir once again took up the hymn in resolute chorus, bidding the congregation to stand fast against the chaos.

  On this night, when the mercy and kindness of God our Saviour have appeared, let us, dear brothers and sisters, humbly pour forth to him our prayers, trusting not in our own good works, but in his mercy.

  The priest carried on with the Mass and greeted each of these mishaps – the appearance of the Desmedts, the erring of both organ and choir – with an infinitesimal smile that expressed his jubilation that he had been called upon by God to exemplify rigorous morality in the face of a congregation that was obviously losing its bearings. The chaotic nature of the service merely confirmed how much his flock needed to find in him a brother, a father who might show them the way. Overcome by events beyond their understanding, the faithful followed the Mass with the resignation of the damned.

  Antoine had managed to calm himself: it was unthinkable that the gendarmes would defer the arrest of a child-killer; as soon as they had conclusive evidence, they would dispatch officers to arrest him. Théo’s pronouncements had simply been a means to avoid him losing face. After all, the insinuations he had been making last night had been proved incorrect by the arrest of Frankenstein. Antoine knew that the Marmont charcutier had nothing to confess, he knew they would have to release him soon. What would happen then?

  . . . and the angel said to the shepherds, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord . . .

  Believing he had the congregation in the palm of his hand, the young priest began his homily in a deep, solemn voice, borne up by the will of God he was charged with communicating.

  Naturally, he knew what had happened in Beauval in the past few days (he was reputed to be the best-informed man in the district), he knew young Rémi, having seen the boy attend Sunday Mass with his mother (her husband was rarely seen). On this Christmas Eve, he thought of the child as a sort of cherub. He gazed at the parents in the front pew and, all around them, at the solemn, sorrowful faces, as though somehow by a process of osmosis their grief had spread to the whole congregation. He was unsettled by what he saw: where was the joy that the birth of Jesus should have stirred in them?

  It was clear that the faithful, blinded by these disturbing events, had failed to understand the meaning of what had happened. He observed a long silence.

  “Life constantly puts us to the test . . .” he began at length.

  His voice was suddenly firm and clear. It echoed through the church, an effect he accentuated by drawing out the final syllables.

  “But remember, ‘The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience . . .’ Patience! Be patient and you will see!”

  To judge from the faces of his flock, the message had not yet got through. He would have to explain. So the young priest set about doing just that, his voice pulsing with determination; in this rustic priest, there was a missionary aching to burst out.

  “Brothers and sisters in Christ, I understand your grief. I share your pain. Like you, I too am suffering.”

  This was clearer, from their faces he could see that these words had touched a nerve. He felt emboldened.

  “But suffering is not a misfortune . . . What is suffering? It is the most magnificent gift from God, for it serves to bring us closer to Him and to his Perfection.”

  He had admirably modulated the word “magnificent”. He warmed to his theme, abandoning the sermon he had spent hours preparing so that he could give it in every church in the diocese. Now, his faith was speaking through him. God was guiding him. Never before had he felt himself entrusted with a greater mission.

  “It’s true! Because suffering, pain and grief, these are our penitence . . .”

  He marked a pause, propped his elbows on the pulpit, leaned towards the congregation and in a gentle voice he said:

  “And what purpose does it serve, this penitence?”

  The question was followed by a long silence. No-one would have been surprised to see a hand go up, like a child’s at sch
ool. The priest stood up straight, jabbed his finger towards heaven, and in a commanding voice, proclaimed:

  “To prevail against the evil that is within us all! God allows us to be tested so that we may reveal to Him the power of our faith!”

  He turned and whispered a few inaudible words to Madame Kernevel, who nodded vigorously.

  The organ immediately struck up, followed by the resounding voice of Monsieur Mouchotte. The choir gradually joined in the thanksgiving hymn:

  In all things God does right by Man,

  Hallelujah, let us praise him!

  In his fond grace begetting children,

  Hallelujah, let us praise him!

  That they shall love Him as He doth them . . .

  One by one, the faithful joined the chorus. It was impossible to tell whether the hymn truly provided them with healing and consolation or whether it was merely a tangible expression of their devotion, but the priest was elated, he had done what needed to be done.

  After the Concluding Rite and the Dismissal, he unfolded a piece of paper as he always did for parish announcements.

  “To try and find our dear little Rémi, a search of the woods has been scheduled for tomorrow morning. The gendarmerie is calling on all those who can to volunteer. Those taking part should meet outside the mairie at 9.00 a.m.”

  Antoine was stunned by this news.

  They were going to search the woods, they were going to find Rémi. This time, there would be no escape.

  The information also had an immediate effect on the parishioners, there was a murmur which the young priest silenced with a peremptory gesture.