After the Crash: A Novel

by Michel Bussi

  Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal

  … I no longer noticed the driving rain. My heart was pounding. I kept going until I reached the hut in front of me. It was a simple shepherd’s cabin, and even though the roof was full of holes, it would offer me some protection. But it was not the cabin that had caught my eye—it was the little mound of stones next to it, about one foot high and two feet wide. A small wooden cross had been planted in the earth in front of it. At the base of the cross, in an earthenware pot, there was a plant, a yellow winter jasmine that had not even withered.

  You can imagine why this disturbed me. I was looking at a grave. A tiny grave.

  I tried to rationalize my discovery. It was probably just a dog that the shepherd had buried. Or a sheep, or a goat, or some other animal.

  The rain kept falling. I took refuge in the hut, but the rain came through the gaps in the roof so I had to lie pressed against the wooden wall to keep dry. I could not help thinking that the grave next to the hut, while it was undoubtedly the right size for a small animal, was also the right size for a human baby.

  As I waited for the storm to pass, I examined the cabin. It was unfurnished, but there was a long flat tree trunk that could be used as a bed in an emergency. A gray blanket, covered in holes and rolled into a ball, lay on the ground next to it. A pile of gray ashes, in a sort of cavity dug into the earth, suggested that someone had made a fire here, a few days or possibly a few weeks earlier. Further evidence that the cabin had been used as a squat by local adolescents was provided by the empty beer cans and cigarette butts scattered over the floor. The smell, a mixture of earth and piss, was only just bearable.

  It was over an hour before the storm died down. By then, night had fallen, but my years of mountain pilgrimages had taught me to expect the worst, so I always carried a flashlight with me. I left the hut and shone the beam directly on the grave. It was drizzling. I advanced cautiously: Were these just the final few drops before the rain stopped completely, or was it the beginning of another storm? The halo of light broke through the darkness. The cross was made from two twigs tied together with string—and the string, I noticed, did not look very old. A year or two at the most.

  I directed the flashlight beam at the plant. I was no expert, but it seemed unlikely to me that winter jasmine would be a perennial, particularly in these temperatures. Which meant that someone had placed the pot in front of the grave not so long ago. No more than a few months.

  It was difficult for me to find out anything more that night. The temperature was dropping rapidly and I knew it would take me at least two hours to descend Mont Terri by flashlight. Nevertheless, I stayed where I was. I moved a few of the stones, attempting to see what they were concealing. But the answer, apparently, was nothing. Just earth. Either that, or I would have to come back with a spade and start digging. I wasn’t about to do that with my bare hands.

  But you know me by now… you know I was never going to give up that easily. I removed the stones, one by one, with one hand, while the other held the flashlight. After ten minutes, I switched hands. I felt like a grave robber. A sort of zombie, out to recruit a corpse, preferably on a dark and stormy night. Any dead body would do: a dog, a goat, a baby…

  But I found nothing, apart from stones and mud. Blindly, I piled the stones up in a mound again.

  It was past midnight by the time I reached my BMW, and it took me another hour, driving at fifteen miles per hour, before I arrived at Monique Genevez’s cottage, on the banks of the Doubs. The storm had returned, even stronger than before, and what was falling from the sky now was sleet rather than rain. I was soaked, muddy, numb with cold. My fingers were bleeding. It took me ten days to get over the cold I caught that night… And all that for a few stones. A dog’s grave. A dog that I had not even managed to exhume. This case was driving me crazy. To calm myself before I went to bed, I drank three glasses of Mrs. Genevez’s Vin Jaune.

  The next day, I went to see Grégory Morez, the nature preserve employee with lumberjack shoulders and the face of a Hollywood idol. He had spent years driving all over Mont Terri and its environs in his Jeep, so presumably he would know about the cabin and the grave.

  Morez seemed surprised by my question and was disappointed not to be able to give me a satisfactory response. Yes, he knew about the cabin: local teenagers would go there occasionally, and he would do his best to chase them away. He had never paid any attention to the grave, but he thought it was probably that of a dog. It was common, in the Jura Mountains, to bury dogs under piles of stones.

  I thought about going back up Mont Terri with a spade, so I could dig up the grave. But the weather that day was even worse than the night before: the air was colder and sleet was still falling heavily from the sky. Was it really worth the two-or three-hour walk? I had already spent quite a long time scratching at the earth beneath the grave, and found nothing. Could there really be any connection between that hut, that pile of stones, and my investigation?

  No, of course not.

  In the end, I drank a coffee in Indevillers, the closest village to the mountain, and waited half an hour—in vain—for the weather to clear up. By the end of the morning, it was snowing. I went straight back to Paris.

  Yet another dead end in my investigation, I thought. Another theory that would have made Nazim howl with laughter if I had told him about it.

  Can you imagine? Climbing a mountain to dig up a dead dog?

  I didn’t yet know it, but that day—December 23, 1986—I had made a mistake. It might have been the only mistake I made during the entire investigation, but my God, it was a big one! I can find plenty of excuses for myself—the snow, the cold, my tiredness, bad luck, the prospect of Nazim’s sarcasm—but what would be the point in that? I, the stubborn and meticulous Crédule Grand-Duc, gave up that morning. I lacked the requisite courage; I did not keep going until the end. It was the only time that happened, believe me. But it was also the only time I could not have afforded to let it happen.

  But I am getting ahead of myself again. Forgive me.

  So, this was in 1986, and the reward for the bracelet had now risen to sixty thousand francs. Still no takers. Obstinately, I kept searching, suppressing the first signs of weariness in myself by methodically planning out what I should do next. I went to Quebec for a while, to meet Lyse-Rose’s maternal grandparents—the Bernier family, in Chicoutimi—though it yielded me nothing.

  One of the items on my planning list was to get closer to the Vitrals. It was also my pleasure. Lylie was nearly six, Marc was eight. I spent June 21, 1986, in their company. It was the annual World Music Day in France, and Lylie played two pieces on the piano with the Dieppe Orchestra, on a specially constructed stage on the seafront. Looking adorable in her pretty green dress, Lylie was by far the youngest musician in the group. Afterward, we ate fries at Nicole’s van. There were a lot of people around that night. Nicole was even more radiant than usual, so proud of her talented granddaughter. So beautiful, too, and almost happy, for the duration of a Chopin sonata. I could not help staring at her, though she didn’t notice, as her gaze was fixed on the stage. Not once was her stained jacket pulled across to hide the magnificent plunge of her cleavage.

  A short while later, we sat on the grass, while Lylie ate a crêpe balanced on my knee. She asked me what my name was.

  “Crédule.”

  “Crédule-la-Bascule!”

  That was what she named me, that night. Crédule the Seesaw. Does she still remember that? I was a private detective, an ex-mercenary, but for that little girl, I was just a playground ride.

  As for Marc, he wanted to go home as soon as possible. It was the quarterfinal of the World Cup that evening: France versus Brazil. There was no need for Marc to say anything, though, as I didn’t want to miss the match either, and the prospect of watching it with Marc gave me great pleasure. Nicole agreed to let me take him home to Pollet while she stayed on the beach with Lylie.

  What a night…

  Marc and
I hugged, ecstatic, when Platini equalized, just before halftime, after Stopyra had discreetly stamped on the Brazilian goalkeeper; Marc grabbed my knee when Joël Bats saved Socrates’s penalty, fifteen minutes before the end; we both screamed at the television set when that bastard referee did not whistle for a foul on Bellone, in the penalty area, during overtime. And when Luis Fernandez scored the last penalty in the shoot-out, we went out together, onto Rue Pocholle, and partied with the neighbors for hours.

  1986.

  Crédule-la-Bascule.

  France in the semis against the Germans!

  I acknowledge that this does not really add anything to the account of my investigation. But, to be honest, what else is there to tell?

  Certainly, in 1986, it didn’t seem likely that there would be anything else.

  32

  October 2, 1998, 1:41 p.m.

  From her observation post, Ayla Ozan commanded a view of the entire property. She was deep in the Coupvray Forest. From Chemin des Chauds-Soleils, she had followed a path that wound up between trees. Now, hidden behind a trunk, she was able to see all the comings and goings at the Roseraie.

  At that moment, there was no movement around the de Carvilles’ house. Even the old man, sitting limp in his wheelchair in the middle of the lawn, looked like some kind of modern sculpture. The only thing that was missing, to complete this illusion, was ivy crawling up his legs and lichen on the wheels of his chair. Ayla had inspected the woods and paths all around: there was no sign of the blue Xantia anywhere. She’d had no difficulty spotting Malvina de Carville’s Rover Mini, however, as it was parked practically in front of the Roseraie. The same car that had been seen in Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles a few hours earlier.

  So, neither Crédule nor Nazim was here. Ayla was unsure what to do next. Wait here, just in case? Ring the doorbell and pay a visit to the de Carvilles? Find that Malvina girl and make her talk, discover what she had been doing at Grand-Duc’s house? More important, find out if she had seen Nazim?

  Ayla could still feel the cold blade of her kitchen knife against her leg. Oh, yes, she would enjoy a little woman-to-woman chat with Malvina. The dead leaves rustled quietly under her shoes. She tried to think clearly. Getting in contact with the de Carvilles was probably not such a great idea.

  The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that she ought to go to the police. Just tell them that she had not heard from her husband, Nazim Ozan, in two days. The police could send out a missing persons report. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps they wouldn’t ask her too many questions. And if they did ask, and if she believed that it would help them find Nazim, then yes, she would tell the police everything she knew. Without a second’s hesitation.

  Her testimony would help Nazim, when it came down to it. He was not the only guilty party. She would tell the police that. They would understand. Nazim would understand, too. All that mattered, right now, was finding him.

  Ayla looked over at the Roseraie again. What she wanted was for Malvina to come out. She would trap her, put the knife to her throat, and tell her that if she did not talk, she would kebab her. The girl would blab; she might be crazy, but she wasn’t suicidal.

  But Ayla still hadn’t seen any sign of her, apart from the car. She had already been waiting here for an hour.

  That was it. She had to go. She had to inform the police.

  Ayla stood up.

  The gun blast exploded in her ears.

  Instinctively, Ayla dived to the ground. She landed on a thick bed of leaves. She breathed out. She wasn’t hurt. She estimated that the shot must have been fired less than fifty yards away.

  Had someone really tried to shoot her, or was she just panicking? Hunters? There must be plenty of them in a posh place like this.

  She could shout out: “Hey, I’m here!”

  That way, the hunters would know not to shoot in her direction.

  Or the killer would know exactly where to shoot.

  Or she could crawl down to the path, a few hundred yards away. Down there, she would be safe, as there were houses all around.

  Ayla didn’t move. She waited, listening for any noises. The adrenaline pumping through her body reminded her of the time she had fled Turkey with her father, hidden for hours under the false floor of a van. She could still remember the sound of boots on the boards above her, when they stopped at the border, her father’s hand covering her mouth.

  The forest was silent, except for the leaves blowing in the wind.

  She waited for ten, twenty minutes, all of her senses alert.

  There was nothing. The forest was calm. All was peaceful.

  Quietly she stood up, scanning the shadows near the trees.

  There was nobody around.

  She had probably just heard a random shot. The trees might have made it echo, so that it sounded louder and closer than it had really been. Yes, she was definitely too nervous. She needed to go to the police now, as quickly as possible.

  She took a step, slowly, still unable to shake her suspicions. She put her hand out to the nearest tree.

  The bullet was lodged in its trunk.

  Ayla’s hand went tense on the rough bark. She suddenly felt cold.

  Whoever it was had been aiming at her.

  Ayla heard the next shot barely one-tenth of a second before she felt the bullet tear into her shoulder. She collapsed to the ground, banging her clavicle and sending another howl of pain through her body. Involuntarily, Ayla screamed. She rolled around on her stomach, incapable of turning over. Her whole upper body was rigid, paralyzed by the pain. In vain, Ayla tried to stand up, using her one good arm. Like a three-month-old baby.

  She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a foothold so she could crawl away. But all she found was a pile of dry leaves that slid beneath her flailing feet.

  Pain pinned her to the ground, but she knew she had to get away.

  She heard footsteps moving closer. The sinister crackle of broken leaves.

  And then nothing.

  He was here. It was over.

  Ayla was no longer in pain. The only sensation she could feel was the gentle caress of the dead leaves cushioning her face, her neck, her arms. She wanted to die with this feeling, this caress. Now it was no longer the leaves tickling her bare skin, but Nazim’s mustache. His big mustache, so tender and soft. She thought about the house in Antakya, the one she wanted to buy with Nazim… their house, in their country, the country she had fled with her father, so long ago…

  The silence was broken by the sound of a revolver being loaded. Ayla made one last effort to turn over, to see him. Her murderer.

  She pushed with her good arm.

  But her last wish was not granted.

  In the very next instant, she was shot in the back of the neck.

  33

  October 2, 1998, 2:40 p.m.

  Concorde. He had to change here.

  Marc put the notebook back in his bag. The smiling girl with the guitar on her back was getting off here, too. They walked side by side through the passageway, almost touching, embarrassed, as people are when they find themselves standing close to a stranger.

  Curled up on the cold floor of the corridor, a woman appeared to be praying to some god of the underworld. There was no child or animal with her; she was not playing music or displaying a cardboard sign; all Marc could see was a face hidden between her knees and an empty plate. Everyone walked past her or stepped over her. Without thinking, Marc dropped a coin from his pocket into her saucer. Guitar Girl gave him a surprised look, the sort of look that meant Marc had, in her eyes, just gone from “dickhead-too-busy-to-smile-at-someone-in-the-metro” to “more-interesting-than-I-thought.”

  A few yards farther on, the passage divided in two. Marc, still lost in his thoughts, turned to the right, following the signs for Line 12, toward Porte de la Chapelle. Guitar Girl went left, toward Line 7, in the direction of La Courneuve, slowing down a little to watch the tall, sad-looking boy disappear into t
he distance.

  Madeleine.

  They were entering one of the busiest stations in Paris. It was not quite rush hour, but it was getting close. The crowds on the platforms and in the trains suddenly became more dense. It was impossible to read with so many people packed tightly around him.

  Saint-Lazare.

  The train emptied with dizzying speed. Marc watched, amazed, as people raced through the corridors of the station: some even sprinted, pushing past their slower neighbors, running up the empty staircases two steps at a time rather than taking the packed escalators, moving into top gear whenever a long, straight corridor gave them the chance. Were these people running so fast because they were late for something important, or did they do this every day, simply out of habit, the way other people might jog around a park?

  Marc had once read about a man, one of the greatest violinists—a Russian name that he couldn’t recall—who, one day, had played down in the metro for several hours. No posters, no official announcements; he just sat there anonymously and took out his violin. And while his concerts all over the world were always sold out, with people paying hundreds of francs for the privilege of hearing him play, that day in the metro, almost nobody stopped to listen to him. All those men in suits did not even slow down as they ran past on the way to their train, and yet—that weekend, perhaps, or even that evening—they would run to make sure they arrived on time at the concert of a famous musician they would not want to miss at any price.

  For the first time that day, Marc gave himself a break. He walked calmly to the main concourse, where thousands of people stood waiting, motionless, staring upward, like a crowd at a concert waiting for a rock star to appear. Except that their eyes were not drawn to spotlights on a stage, but to words on a screen indicating which platforms the trains would depart from.