After the Crash: A Novel

by Michel Bussi

  Insane and dangerous.

  Ayla panicked.

  “Right. Yes. Well, thank you…”

  What could she do now? Go to the police? Put out a missing persons report? They would ask her questions if she did and she would have to tell them everything she knew—about the case, about the de Carvilles, about Nazim. He had only been gone for two days. If she talked to the police, he would end up in jail. Nazim would never forgive her…

  The man with the dog was walking away, although he kept glancing back at her. No, she would have to deal with this on her own. She knew a great deal about the de Carvilles. She had not forgotten any of Nazim’s postcoital confessions. Ayla felt a shiver of anxiety and excitement. She thought again of Nazim’s body, of his mustache tickling her skin. She wanted so desperately to be held by him now. To be kissed by him, greedily.

  She had only one lead: Malvina de Carville. She touched the cold steel of the blade. Ayla was alone, but she wasn’t stupid. The de Carvilles lived near Marne-la-Vallée; it would be easy enough for her to find them. She had shared a bed with a private detective for twenty years. She could do this.

  30

  October 2, 1998, 1:17 p.m.

  Marc walked through the dark hallway. Mathilde de Carville had not accompanied him; she had merely opened the door for him, leaving him alone with his doubts. His agoraphobia was gradually diminishing, his breathing returning to normal. The burning effect of the herbal tea was fading, too, as if his body’s pores were opening up to the outside air. Passing the large oval mirror, Marc caught a glimpse of his wild-eyed reflection. He hurried on.

  Down three steps, past the heavy oak door. Get out of here, as quickly as possible.

  Marc’s legs could hardly bear his weight and his thoughts were jumbled. Should he open the blue envelope and read the DNA test results? Or should he wait until he was in Dieppe? Perhaps Mathilde de Carville was trying to trap him…

  The fresh air hit his face, and Marc took long deep breaths while he tried to order his thoughts. In front of him, not even a shadow moved in the Parc de la Roseraie. The suffocating atmosphere of the place reminded him of an old people’s home. Or a lunatic asylum.

  Marc walked toward the gate. To his left, behind the red-leafed maple tree, he saw Léonce de Carville. He was asleep, alone, head to the side, abandoned by Malvina de Carville in the middle of the lawn.

  Think, Marc told himself. Concentrate.

  He had three urgent mysteries to solve, all of them linked, in one way or another, to a crime. First, the murder of Grand-Duc, a few hours earlier. Everything led him to believe that Malvina de Carville was the guilty party. Next, the murder of his grandfather—because it certainly was a murder—fifteen years ago. Marc had to try to discover an anomaly in Grand-Duc’s account, a lost memory that he felt sure he would find in his childhood bedroom in Dieppe. Last, there was Lylie. The “one-way trip” she had talked about. Was she running away? Seeking vengeance? Planning to kill herself?

  Were these three things connected? Without a doubt. If he solved one problem, the other two would be solved as well.

  A crunching of gravel. Behind him.

  “Where are you going, Vitral?”

  Malvina.

  Marc turned around.

  “I’m off. Your grandmother kindly told me everything I wanted to know…”

  “Bullshit! You didn’t learn a thing. Grandma may look impressive, but all she does is ramble on.”

  Marc sighed.

  “I’m the only one who knows the truth,” Malvina boasted. “I was in Turkey. All the others died in the crash, but not me. I took an earlier flight. Follow me, Vitral!”

  Marc watched her, incredulous.

  “I said follow me! Look, I’m not even carrying a gun anymore. You said earlier that Lyse-Rose is alive, that Emilie Vitral was the one who died in the crash, didn’t you? So, follow me.”

  Marc did not move.

  “Come on, Vitral. Come with me. I promise, you’ll find this interesting.”

  Oh, well. Why not?

  Giddy as a small child, Malvina raced back up the driveway, opened the oak door, walked down the hallway, then climbed the wide staircase. Intrigued, Marc followed her. When they reached the next floor, Malvina turned to face him and placed a finger to her mouth. Almost in a whisper, she said: “The room to the right is mine. Don’t get your hopes up—I’m not taking you there. On the left, though, that is Lyse-Rose’s room. Follow me…”

  Malvina opened the door.

  To his shock, Marc found himself in a little girl’s bedroom. It was all there. The little pink bed, covered in cuddly toys; the curtains printed with giant giraffes; a terry-cloth towel laid out on an oak changing table; an armoire decorated with pastel-colored flowers. Arrayed on a shelf were a music box, a night-light, and more cuddly toys: a blue elephant, a tiger, a gray-and-white rabbit. On the floor, there was a huge play mat, cluttered with rattles and other toys.

  “Grandma decorated this bedroom eighteen years ago, for Lyse-Rose’s return from Turkey. We have kept it like this ever since, in case Lyse-Rose comes back to us. She could arrive at any moment, you know!”

  Malvina stepped nimbly over the toys and opened the door of the armoire. Inside, the shelves were crammed with clothes: dresses of every size, beautiful little shoes. A tiny pink fur-lined hat fell to the floor.

  Smiling impishly, Malvina turned to face Marc and kept talking, like a little girl telling a grown-up about her doll’s house: “I look after the room now. I’m sure Grandma would throw away all these things if I let her. Could you believe it? All these beautiful toys and clothes tossed in the trash? I know you understand. Of course, Lyse-Rose is a big girl now, but it’ll really be something when she finally comes back here and discovers this room, won’t it?”

  Marc stepped back, overcome by a welter of contradictory feelings.

  “Are you looking, Vitral? Come closer. You love Lyse-Rose, don’t you?”

  Almost against his will, Marc took a step forward.

  “Look. Even her presents are here!”

  Marc felt even more ill at ease.

  “Can you see, Vitral? These are all Lyse-Rose’s Christmas and birthday presents, since her first birthday.”

  Malvina pointed to gift-wrapped boxes strewn in piles across the room.

  “I could tell you what they all are. I know them by heart. The biggest box, there, on the bed, was the present for her first Christmas with us. Grandma and I went shopping for it together. I was six years old. I still remember the toys in the shop windows…”

  She moved closer to Marc and whispered in his ear: “Can you guess what it is?”

  Marc shook his head, half moved, half horrified.

  “It’s a teddy bear. A huge teddy bear. Bigger than she would have been. It’s orange and brown, and it’s called Banjo. I came up with the name myself. Banjo is her friend, and he’s been waiting for her all these years. Hang on, I’ll introduce you…”

  Marc put his hand to his face. This weirdo was going to end up making him cry with all her crazy fantasies. Malvina carefully opened the large box and pulled out an enormous teddy bear with a dreamy expression on its face. Malvina placed Banjo on the bed, propped up by two pink cushions.

  “Hello, Banjo!” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to tell you a secret. You won’t be alone much longer. You won’t believe this, but… Lyse-Rose is coming home!”

  This is like Sleeping Beauty’s room, Marc thought. Piles of toys; clothes that have stiffened during the long wait for the dead child’s return. Like a museum devoted to an absence.

  “In the other boxes,” Malvina continued, “there are dolls, of course, and books, because I know she loves to read. For her tenth birthday, in that box over there, there is a violin. I don’t know if that was a good idea, but we already had a piano. There’s some jewelry over there, for her thirteenth birthday, and a watch, too. There are some records, but they’re probably a bit old-fashioned now. Britney Spears, Ricky Martin, tha
t kind of thing. The big parcel over there was for her sixteenth birthday: it’s a stereo. And then the last one, for her eighteenth birthday, is in this envelope. Can you guess what it is?”

  Marc shook his head again.

  “It’s a trip. Do you think that’s a good idea? Do you think Lyse-Rose will be brave enough to catch a plane again?”

  A storm was raging inside Marc’s head. He could strangle this crazy bitch right now, suffocate her under her cuddly toys, just to make her shut up.

  “I have to admit, my favorite present is still the first one. Banjo, the teddy bear. Isn’t he beautiful? When we first got him, I was a bit jealous. I loved him so much, I wanted to keep him for myself. But Grandma wouldn’t let me. I’m sure Lyse-Rose will adore him, too. What do you think?”

  Marc looked at Malvina, wondering how to respond. The child’s bed with its pale pink sheets was the same shape and color as a granite gravestone. A child’s grave. This room was a burial chamber. These presents, piling up year after year, were offerings to a martyr.

  “You’re very quiet, Vitral. You look like you’re in shock. I suppose you’re realizing just how much Lyse-Rose missed out on. I can’t even imagine the kind of crap she must have received at Christmas at your house!”

  He should slap her, at least. Hurt her physically, and then get out of here.

  “Come here, Vitral, there’s one last thing I want to show you…”

  Marc readied himself for the worst. Malvina walked over to the armoire, opened a drawer, and took out a book, bound in pink cloth and decorated with flowers and pom-poms.

  “It’s Lyse-Rose’s birth book,” Malvina whispered. “Come on, I’ll let you look at it. Just be careful.”

  Reluctantly, Marc took the book in his hands, opened it, and turned the pages.

  MY FIRST NAME: Lyse-Rose

  MY OTHER NAMES: Véronique, Mathilde, Malvina

  MY DADDY: Alexandre

  MY MOMMY: Véronique

  I WAS BORN ON: September 27, 1980, in Istanbul, Turkey

  More details followed, increasingly haunting…

  MY HOME: A photograph of the Roseraie

  MY BEDROOM: A drawing of the room in which Marc stood—a child’s drawing, probably done by Malvina when she was younger

  MY FAVORITE CUDDLY TOY IS CALLED: Banjo

  MY BEST FRIEND IS: My sister, Malvina

  Marc turned the pages in a trance. He was face-to-face with the phantom of an imagined life.

  MY HAND: A painted imprint of a baby’s hand. But whose?

  MY FAVORITE COLOR: Blue

  MY FAVORITE ACTIVITY: Listening to music

  MY FIRST BIRTHDAY: A photograph of Lylie cut from a magazine—Paris Match or something similar—had been clumsily glued in the middle of a de Carville family photograph. They were eating at a table on which sat a picture of a cake covered in candles, also taken from a magazine.

  MY FIRST VACATION: The same photograph of Lylie had been stuck in a field filled with gentians, with mountains in the background. Malvina was posing next to her sister, looking radiant. She was eight years old, and the flower stems came up to her waist.

  Marc closed the pages. He couldn’t take any more. Malvina grabbed the book from his hands.

  “Seen enough, have you? I’m going to put this away.”

  From the living-room window, Mathilde de Carville watched Marc stride down the driveway. He was practically running away.

  Malvina could not resist, of course: she had to show him the bedroom. She had forgotten about her grandfather, abandoned him in the middle of the lawn as if he were a cheap toy. Serves him right, thought Mathilde.

  Marc was going to his grandmother’s house, in Dieppe, in too much of a hurry to open the envelope, too frightened to disobey her orders. Poor little Marc… he wouldn’t be disappointed when he read the DNA test results.

  Marc opened the gate and disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the trees of Coupvray Forest.

  Mathilde paced thoughtfully around the silent room. She had not told Marc Vitral everything. She had not told him about Grand-Duc’s phone call, the night of Lylie’s birthday—his final discovery, the one that would change everything. Grand-Duc claimed to have finally uncovered the truth. A different truth. And all he had done was look at an old newspaper.

  Mathilde de Carville’s fingers brushed against the white keys of the piano.

  Had Grand-Duc been bluffing?

  She would soon find out. She had asked one of the secretaries at the company’s headquarters to send her a photocopy of the Est Républicain dated December 23, 1980. She would receive it that evening, in all likelihood, unless the secretary was an imbecile. She had asked for it to be hand-delivered. All she had to do now was wait a few hours, and then she would know if Grand-Duc had lied, or if the mystery was solved at last.

  Mathilde de Carville sat down on the piano stool, her hands flat in front of her. She had not played for years. The piano had grown mute, useless, like everything else in this house.

  Yes, it would all be over in a few hours.

  The silence was broken by three sharp notes. Do. Fa. Sol.

  It would all be over, except for Malvina.

  No matter what that notebook contained, no matter what Grand-Duc had discovered, no matter what Marc Vitral read in that blue envelope, Lyse-Rose would continue to live forever, in the sick imagination of her sister. She would live as a doll lives in the mind of a little girl. Except that this particular little girl was carrying a Mauser L110, and she was capable of killing anyone who told her that the baby in her stroller was merely a lifeless toy, a corpse.

  31

  October 2, 1998, 1:29 p.m.

  Marc walked quickly down Chemin des Chauds-Soleils. It crossed his mind that the path must have been named before the trees in Coupvray Forest grew so high that they cut out the sunlight. The “Path of Hot Sunlight” might have been better renamed “The Path of Cold Shadows.” It was with relief that Marc left the forest and entered the village of Coupvray, with its gray church tower, its triangular sign warning drivers to slow down for schoolchildren, and the shy ray of sunlight that pierced the cloudy sky above.

  He slowed down and checked his cell phone. Still no messages. Without breaking stride, he called Lylie. He cursed as the answering machine clicked into life.

  “Lylie, it’s Marc. We have to talk. As soon as possible. Call me back. I’ve just left the de Carvilles’ house. That’s right, you heard me. This is important, Lylie. Don’t do anything rash until you’ve talked to me. I love you.”

  Marc arrived at the canal. The fishermen were still there. The river flowed idly by. Marc scrolled down the list of numbers on his phone.

  Nicole.

  The phone rang twice, then a familiar, croaky voice answered: “Hello?”

  Marc sighed with relief. “Nicole, it’s Marc. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes, I did. I’ve just gotten back from the cemetery. I was going to call you, and answer your questions, although I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t already know. You must have seen Emilie more recently than I have. You see, I…”

  “Nicole, I’m in Coupvray. I’ve just left the de Carvilles.”

  Silence. Orpheus returning from the underworld. Without Eurydice.

  “Nicole… Mathilde de Carville gave me an envelope for you. It’s a DNA test, done in 1995. Grand-Duc stole Lylie’s blood.”

  Nicole’s broken voice echoed in his ears, imploringly: “Marc, you can’t believe a word they say. Not after…”

  Marc interrupted her: “It’s for you to open, Nicole. That’s what she told me.”

  Another long silence. All Marc could hear was Nicole’s husky breathing.

  “Marc, do you have the envelope on you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Describe it to me.”

  Though he had no idea why his grandmother was asking this, Marc obeyed: “It’s a normal-size envelope. Pale blue. Like the kind of letter you’d get from a hospital, or la
boratory…”

  “Have you opened it?”

  “No. I promise, I haven’t…”

  “Don’t open it, Marc, whatever you do. Mathilde de Carville was right about that, at least. You must come straight to Dieppe. It was crazy of you to go and see the de Carvilles. Come to Dieppe now, as soon as you can.”

  Nicole coughed. She seemed to be finding it difficult to talk. She cleared her throat, then continued: “Marc, things are never as simple as they appear. Don’t believe anything the de Carvilles might have told you. They don’t know everything. Far from it. Get here quickly. I just hope it won’t be too late.”

  Marc felt as if he were drowning in icy water, being dragged irresistibly to the bottom of the canal.

  “Too late for what, Nicole? Too late for whom?”

  “Don’t waste any more time, Marc. I’m waiting for you.”

  “Nicole…”

  But she had hung up.

  Standing behind a concrete pillar, away from the crowds in the Gare de Lyon, Marc checked the paper timetable that he always kept in his wallet.

  Paris–Rouen: 4:11–5:29

  Rouen–Dieppe: 5:38–6:24

  He had more than an hour before he needed to catch his train to Saint-Lazare. That gave him enough time to finish reading Grand-Duc’s notebook before he arrived in Dieppe. While he walked toward the metro, Marc attempted to remember the final words he had read on the torn-out pages. The detective was on Mont Terri, where he went every year. There had been a storm, and he was looking for shelter. And then…

  The train appeared. A young woman carrying a guitar on her back got on before Marc, smiling radiantly at him as he let her pass. The top of the case rose up above her head like some kind of Bigouden headdress. Marc affected a blasé indifference, like that transmitted by most underground travelers in the world’s big cities. He stood at the end of the railcar, leaned against the window, and concentrated on Grand-Duc’s story.