by Michel Bussi
Marc drove alongside the port. All he had to do now was go up Boulevard Chanzy and he would be on his way out of Dieppe. The streets were deserted. At the end of the boulevard, Marc passed the train station. For some reason his eyes were drawn toward it… and spotted a girl asleep on a bench.
The Citroën came to an abrupt halt. Well, at least the brakes worked.
And so did the horn.
Malvina de Carville awoke, startled, and instinctively reached for one of the stones she had brought with her from the beach. She stood up, then recognized Marc, sitting behind the steering wheel of an orange-and-red van. He rolled down the window.
“You’re not going to stone my old van, are you?”
“Just give me back my gun!”
“Don’t worry, it’s in my pocket. I’m keeping it warm for you. Get in!”
Malvina’s eyes opened wide with disbelief. “You want me to help you sell fries?”
“I’m going somewhere that might interest you. Get in!”
Without letting go of the stone in her hand, Malvina moved closer. She gave the van a skeptical once-over.
“Don’t tell me you’re planning to drive to Mont Terri in this. It’s a death trap!”
Marc absorbed this verbal punch, trying not to think about whether it might have been deliberate.
“You’ve never been there, have you? I bet you’re dying to see it.”
Malvina dropped the stone. “You have no idea how right you are.”
Marc opened the passenger door and she clambered inside.
“God, what a mess this thing is! I bet we won’t even make it to Paris…”
“Piss off! Anyway, we’re not going via Paris.” He handed her the list of towns that they would pass through.
“I’ve never even heard of most of these places,” she said. “You’d better hope we don’t break down. I think you’re crazier than I am.”
For the next ten minutes, they drove in silence. The road hugged the valley of the Pays de Bray, tracing long curves over the landscape.
Marc said: “Sorry we didn’t invite you to dinner last night. Another time, maybe.”
“Don’t worry about me, I can look after myself. I made friends with a few local guys.”
Another ten-minute silence. They were nearing Neufchâtel-en-Bray.
“So what are we going to do at Mont Terri?” Malvina asked.
Marc shrugged. “It’s a sort of pilgrimage.”
Malvina looked at him curiously. “And the idea just came to you tonight? I thought the case was solved. What else is there to say after that stupid DNA test? Dragonfly is your sister. Are you’re just upset because you’re fucking her.”
Marc braked suddenly.
Malvina, half choked by the seat belt, said: “If you’re going to do that every time I have a dig at you, we’ll never get there.”
A dig? Marc was going to have to sit through ten hours of this shit.
“I’m sorry about the seat belt,” he said. “I forgot to bring the booster seat.”
Malvina pretended to laugh. “This isn’t going to be boring at all: you’ll keep me amused with all your excellent jokes,” she said sarcastically.
After another silence, Marc said: “So you believe that stupid DNA test?”
“God, no!”
“Good. Then we’re in agreement.”
“It’s total crap,” Malvina said. “I always knew Grand-Duc was on your side. Because he felt guilty. And because he liked your grandmother’s tits…”
This time, Marc did not hit the brakes, but he did think seriously about leaving Malvina by the roadside. He probably would have, except he needed her. He had to be patient: Malvina would be useful. She had already given him information, without being aware of it, when she talked about Grand-Duc’s feelings of guilt. And that was just the start…
They were silent for almost an hour, until they reached Beauvais. The road sped past, empty and monotonous. Malvina leaned forward, and the stiff, dusty seat belt scraped her ear. “I’m guessing your radio doesn’t work.”
“Nope. But the cassette player should be OK. Look in the glove compartment and you’ll find the tapes we used to listen to when we were young.”
“You’re kidding!” Malvina laughed. “Cassette tapes? Do those things still exist?”
Malvina opened the glove compartment. “What does a tape look like?” She turned toward Marc, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
She spent a few minutes looking through the cassettes, then put one in the player, without showing it to Marc. A brutal guitar riff, mixed with the sound of a police siren, filled the van’s interior. “La Ballade de Serge K.” A lonely man’s nighttime drive.
Marc recognized the album as soon as he heard the first chord. Poèmes Rock.
“Demain, demain. Demain comme hier,” sang Charlélie Couture in his nasal voice.
“I had a feeling you’d choose that one,” Marc said.
“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
Marc smiled. They were entering Beauvais. Even at five in the morning, it was a pain to drive through. They kept having to stop at traffic lights that appeared to have been designed by a sadistic government employee so that any motorist obeying the speed limit would always hit a red light.
“You’re right,” Marc said, between two traffic lights. “Poèmes Rock is the best French rock album ever written, in my opinion.”
“Really?” said Malvina indifferently. “I only know one song. But unfortunately it’s not a CD, so we can’t just skip to it.”
“What do you listen to normally?” he asked her.
“Nothing.”
As they left Beauvais, the first side of the tape came to an end, and Malvina turned it over. Finally, she would get to hear the song she knew. She turned the volume as high as it would go. The van vibrated as Charlélie Couture sang:
Like a plane without wings,
I sang all night
Yes, I sang all night
For the one who didn’t believe me…
Marc shivered. Malvina, eyes closed, was singing along silently to the words.
Even if I can’t take off,
I will go all the way to the end
Yes, I will play all night
Even though I know I can’t win
Marc had listened to this song hundreds of times. When he was alone. When he was filled with doubts. Never with Lylie—she couldn’t stand it. Once, when she was eight years old, Lylie had smashed a radio at a friend’s house, just because this song was playing.
Listen to the voice of the wind
That blows, blows under the door
Listen, we’re going to change the bed, change our love
Change our lives, change the day…
Malvina was almost in tears. The harrowing guitar solo did not help. Marc stared at the horizon.
Oh, dragonfly,
Your wings are so fragile,
As for me, my body is broken…
The road continued to speed past, crossing through sad villages where—in a vain attempt to convince the government to build a bypass—signs displayed the number of deaths that had occurred there and the number of trucks passing each day. Twenty minutes later, they were approaching Compiègne. The volume of traffic began to increase.
As they exited Compiègne, Marc turned to Malvina. “We’ll stop at the next town, if we see a bakery open.”
Malvina looked behind her, toward the back of the van. “Oh, I thought you’d let me drive while you whipped us up some crêpes and waffles, just like your grandparents used to…”
Marc did not reply. There was no point: he’d made his decision. After all, Malvina had brought the subject up herself, in a way.
They drove into the small village of Catenoy and Marc stopped in a large parking lot. All the shops were closed, and so was the restaurant proudly displaying its forty-nine-francs menu for truck drivers. He checked that the Mauser was still in his pocket, took the car keys, and got out of the van. T
he parking lot was bordered by a few birch trees, their leaves blackened by the incessant diesel fumes. After relieving himself behind a tree, Marc walked back to the van.
Malvina had not moved. Marc went to the passenger door and opened it. He took the five pages he had torn from the notebook from his back pocket, and handed them to Malvina.
“Read this,” he said. “It’s from Grand-Duc’s notebook. I think you might find it interesting.”
52
October 3, 1998, 6:13 a.m.
Mathilde de Carville brought the lit match close to the jet of gas. A circle of blue flames lapped around the edges of the pan of water. She turned around and looked one last time at the copy of the Est Républicain from December 23, 1980. Then she tore off the front page, scrunched it up into a ball, and set fire to it. She did not let go of it, dropping it into the sink, until the flames had blackened her fingernails.
She had found the envelope containing the newspaper in the entrance hall yesterday afternoon, and had read it immediately. It had not taken her more than a few seconds to understand.
So, Grand-Duc had not been bluffing. He was right: the truth jumped out at you the moment you looked at that newspaper… as long as you looked at it eighteen years later.
How ironic!
They had been barking up the wrong tree from the very beginning.
Worse than that: her husband had been guilty of the most contemptible crimes. He had killed. For nothing. And she was hardly any less guilty: she had looked the other way as he did those things. For Lyse-Rose. They had hurt innocent people. The truth would come out, eventually. She did not have the courage to face the judgment of men. As for the judgment of God…
Mathilde de Carville put her finger in the water. It was lukewarm. Linda was upstairs, in the spare bedroom. She was asleep. She had fainted in the hallway, after discovering Léonce’s corpse. Mathilde had given her a tranquilizer, and then a sleeping pill. She had laid Linda out on the bed and called the woman’s husband to let him know that Linda would be sleeping at the Roseraie that night. It happened sometimes, when Léonce was unwell. The husband did not ask any questions. Mathilde paid generous wages.
Mathilde opened a cabinet and took out a glass bottle wrapped in newspaper. When Linda woke up, the first thing she would do was run to the police. Mathilde had no intention of stopping her. What else could she do? She was hardly going to murder the poor girl. Perhaps it would have been better to have waited a few hours yesterday, until Linda had gone home. She would have been alone with Léonce then, as she was every evening. It would have been much simpler. But she had not been able to wait—not after she read that newspaper, and understood the truth. So many times, throughout the years, she had believed that her cause was righteous, just. And yet, in the end, the only just act she had performed was to cut short the sufferings of an old man. God had already rendered His justice.
Now it was her turn to show the weight of her own remorse. She thought of the scandal it would bring, the police in the house… but what did it matter? She wouldn’t have to face it.
Mathilde’s finger touched the water again. It was nearly boiling now. She sighed with relief. Soon, it would all be over. She switched off the gas, poured the water into a large terra-cotta bowl, put the bowl on a silver tray alongside the bottle and a small spoon, and left the kitchen.
After climbing the staircase, Mathilde opened the first door to her right—the door to Lyse-Rose’s bedroom. She gazed at the large room, filled with toys and presents. Irrespective of how much they cost, each one—bought every year, for every birthday, every Christmas—had been a message of hope. Lyse-Rose was not forgotten. Each fragile candle flame was a symbol of the slender possibility that she was still alive. The spark. But that flame had been extinguished yesterday afternoon—forever.
Léonce had killed for nothing.
Mathilde put the silver tray on the bedside table. To get to the bed, she had to move a sky-blue, lace-trimmed stroller and step over a miniature Chinese tea set. Pushing aside the large teddy bear that was sleeping on Lyse-Rose’s bed, she lay down in its place; in this bed, where Lyse-Rose should have been sleeping all these years, and where, now, she would never sleep. She uncorked the bottle and poured all the yellow liquid into the bowl of hot water.
It was her favorite. Her secret. The celandine she had kept for an important occasion.
Mathilde stirred the mixture with the silver spoon, creating an herbal tea that she knew to be lethal.
She had learned that it was impossible to murder someone with celandine. Even her husband had refused to drink it, because the taste was unbearable. That was why accidents with celandine were so rare—just one death, in Germany, according to what she had read.
Mathilde placed the spoon carefully on the silver tray and unhooked the cross from around her neck.
Even for suicide, celandine was not recommended. At least not for people without extremely strong willpower. She smiled. Mathilde was not the type of person to kill herself by swallowing a bottle of tranquilizers or injecting herself with painkillers… An easy, comfortable suicide. To her, nothing could be more hypocritical.
Mathilde de Carville grimaced at the first sip of her concoction. But then she drank the entire contents of the bowl, down to the last drop.
It was disgusting, but she wasn’t going to complain.
In other ages, to atone for her sins, she would have demanded that they flog her until she died, or drive a stake through her heart, or burn her alive.
Mathilde stretched out on Lyse-Rose’s bed. The bed of a dead child.
She held the cross tightly in her hand.
It would not be long now…
53
October 3, 1998, 6:22 a.m.
Marc walked around the parking lot while Malvina read the five pages in the van. He took a package of cookies and a carton of orange juice from his bag and began to eat and drink. A truck had parked about fifty yards away, and the driver was drinking from a Thermos. Coffee, probably. Marc thought about asking him for a sip.
Malvina jumped down from the van, the pages in her hand.
“All right, I’ve read them. Happy now? I was eight years old when your granddad died. What was the point of showing me these pages? To warn me not to sleep in this death trap? Don’t worry, I have no intention of spending the night with you.”
Marc did not reply. Maybe he was getting used to Malvina’s dark irony. It seemed to be her only mode of communicating; she probably found it therapeutic. And maybe he did, too, after all these years of silence and taboos. Marc went back to the van, rummaged around in his bag, and then took out the binder containing his course work.
“Now read this,” he told her.
“What, all of it?”
“No, not all of it. Just the notes for February 12, about Turkey.”
Malvina sighed. “Give me some orange juice and a few cookies first.”
Marc handed her the remains of his breakfast and watched her devour it. If she was anorexic, she hid it well.
“All right, so what is all this crap?”
She grabbed the binder, opened it at the page Marc had indicated, and pulled a face. “Sorry, I can’t read your scrawl. I bet they think you’re a real dope at the university, don’t they? Especially compared to Lylie…”
“And what qualifications do you have, Malvina?”
“The world record for the highest number of private tutors,” Malvina replied. “Thirty-seven in fifteen years. The last one didn’t stay more than two days.”
“So you’re hardly in a position to have a go at me, are you?”
Malvina began to laugh. She dropped the empty juice carton on the ground.
“It’s not my fault. I’m just too special for all those teachers. I don’t fit into any of their neat little boxes… Jesus Christ, I can’t make heads or tails of your notes!”
“Just read the dates. Or are you too special to do that?”
“God, you’re a prick…”
&nb
sp; “Just read it!”
“OK. ‘October 1923: Ataturk’s Turkey becomes a republic; September 17, 1961: the prime minister, Adnan Menderes, is executed for violating the Constitution.’ What exactly is the point of this?”
“Keep going!”
“For God’s sake…‘Twelfth of September, 1980: coup d’état and return of military to power; seventh of November, 1982: national referendum on the return to democracy…’”
“Right,” said Marc. “Now take another look at those pages from Grand-Duc’s notebook. The very first lines.”
“Fucking hell, you’re unbelievable!” Malvina threw the pages to the ground. “Let’s just get out of here. Otherwise it’ll be Christmas before we make it to Mont Terri…”
Ignoring her, Marc calmly picked up the pages and began to read: “‘I spent that Sunday—November 7, 1982—in Antalya, on the Mediterranean coast, a place where the sun shone three hundred days of the year. I was at the residence of a high-ranking official from the Turkish Home Office…’ I’ll skip the next bit. Listen to this: ‘The official thought I was crazy, of course. After weeks spent chasing him, he had finally given in and consented to see me at his beach house one weekend when all the bigwigs of Turkish national security would be there. Nazim was not with me, for once: Ayla had insisted he go home. He had fallen ill, if I remember correctly… This was extremely inconvenient for me, as I needed an interpreter to explain what it was that I wanted, and it was especially difficult as the others were there to relax in the sun with their wives and were not remotely convinced by the urgency of my requests. Then again, neither was I.’”