by Michel Bussi
Several dozen visitors are sitting around tables outside the Hôtel Baudy, on green cast-iron chairs, under orange parasols, seeking to recapture the same emotion the colony of American painters felt when they landed here more than a century ago. That’s strange too, when you think about it. Those American painters came here, to this tiny village in Normandy, all those years ago, in search of peace and concentration. The very opposite of what Giverny is today. I don’t think I understand very much of what Giverny is today.
I sit down at a free table and order a black coffee. A new waitress brings it to me, a seasonal worker. She’s wearing a short skirt and a little Impressionist-style waistcoat, with mauve water lilies on the back. To me, that seems bizarre too.
Having seen all changes that have taken place in the village over the years, I sometimes have the feeling that Giverny has become a giant theme park. And I sit here sighing and grumbling to myself like a mean old woman, no longer understanding anything about anything. I study the crowd around me. A pair of lovers reading the same Green Guide in duet. Three children, less than five years old, squabbling in the gravel; their parents must be thinking that they’d be better off by a pool than by a pond full of toads. A faded American woman tries to order her café liégeois in Hollywood French.
They’re here.
The two of them are sitting three tables away from me. Fifteen yards. I recognize them, of course I do. I’ve seen them from my window at the mill, from behind my curtains. The inspector who paddled in the brook by the corpse of Jérôme Morval and his shy deputy.
Of course, they’re looking in the other direction, at the little waitress. Not in the direction of an old black mouse.
5
Inspector Sérénac’s sunglasses lend the façade of the Hôtel Baudy an almost sepia tint, in the style of the Belle Époque, and the legs of the pretty waitress crossing the street turn the color of a golden croissant.
“OK, Sylvio. I want you to supervise new searches along the brook for me. Of course, everything has already been sent to the lab, the footprints, the rock, Morval’s body… But we might have overlooked something… the washhouse, the trees, the bridge, I don’t know. You’ll see when you get there. Take a walk around and see if you can find any witnesses. As for me, I must pay a visit to the widow, Patricia Morval. Can you brief me about this fellow Jérôme?”
“Yes, Laur… er, Chief.”
Sylvio Bénavides takes out a file from under the table. Sérénac watches the waitress.
“Would you like something? A pastis? A white wine?”
“Ah, no, no. Nothing for me.”
“Not even a coffee?”
Bénavides prevaricates.
“Go on, have some tea.”
Laurenç Sérénac raises an authoritarian hand.
“Mademoiselle? A tea and a glass of white wine. A Gaillac, if you have such a thing?”
He turns back toward his deputy.
“Is it so hard to call me by my Christian name? Sylvio, I’m what—seven years, ten years older than you? We’re the same rank. You don’t have to be formal with me just because I’ve been in charge of the station for the past four months. In the South, even the new recruits call inspectors by their first name.”
“In the North, you have to know how to wait… It’ll come, Chief. You’ll see…”
“I’m sure you’re right. They say I have to give it time, to acclimatize…”
Sylvio fidgets with his hands, as if hesitating to contradict his superior.
“If you’ll forgive me, I’m not sure it is a question of differences between the North and the South. For example, my father is retired now, but he spent his whole life building houses in Portugal and France for clients younger than himself, who all called him by his first name, while he had to use their surname. I think it has more to do with, I don’t know… ties versus blue overalls, manicured hands versus hands covered with grease—do you see what I’m getting at?”
Laurenç Sérénac spreads his arms, parting his leather jacket and revealing his gray T-shirt.
“Sylvio, do you see a tie anywhere? We’re both inspectors, for God’s sake.”
He laughs.
“Well, as you say, it will just take time. I like your humble, second-generation Portuguese thing… Anyway: this guy Morval?”
Sylvio lowers his head and studiously reads his notes.
“Jérôme Morval is a child of the village who managed to make a good life for himself. He was born in Giverny, but his family moved to Paris when he was still a boy. Papa Morval was a doctor too, a GP, but he didn’t make a huge amount of money. Jérôme Morval married quite young, one Patricia Chéron. He was less than twenty-five. The rest is a success story. Little Jérôme pursues his medical studies, specializing in ophthalmology, first opening an office in Asnières with five other colleagues and then, when Papa Morval dies, he invests his inheritance in his own ophthalmological office in the sixteenth arrondissement. Things seem to have gone rather well. From what I understand, he is a well-known specialist in cataracts, which means he has quite an elderly clientele. Ten years ago, he bought one of the finest houses in Giverny, between the Hôtel Baudy and the church…”
“No children?”
The waitress sets down their order and walks away. Sérénac interrupts his deputy just before he can answer.
“Pretty girl, no? She has cute legs under that skirt, don’t you think?”
Inspector Bénavides hesitates between a weary sigh and an embarrassed smile.
“Yes… I mean no… Well, as I was saying, the Morvals. They’ve never had any children.”
“Right… And enemies?”
“Morval led quite a limited life as a local dignitary. No politics. No responsibilities in local associations or anything like that… No real network of friends. On the other hand, he had—”
Sérénac turns round abruptly.
“Hang on! Hello, you…”
Bénavides feels the hairy shape sliding under the table. This time he sighs openly. Sérénac holds out his hand and Neptune comes to rub himself against it.
“My only witness, for the time being,” whispers Laurenç Sérénac. “Hello there, Neptune!”
The dog recognizes his name. He presses against the inspector’s leg and enviously eyes the sugar sitting on the saucer of Sylvio’s cup of tea. Sérénac lifts a finger toward the dog.
“Behave yourself, now. We’re listening to Inspector Bénavides. So, Sylvio, you were saying?”
Sylvio continues in a monotone. “Jérôme Morval had two passions. All-consuming ones, as they say. To which he devoted most of his time.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Sérénac, still stroking the dog.
“So, two passions… art and women. As far as art is concerned, apparently we’re dealing with a serious collector, a gifted autodidact, with a strong preference for Impressionist paintings, of course. And he had an obsession, from what I’ve been told. Jérôme Morval dreamed of owning a Monet! And if possible, not just any old Monet. He wanted to discover a Water Lilies. That was what your ophthalmologist had in mind.”
Sérénac whispers in the dog’s ear:
“A Monet no less! Even if he managed to give every fine bourgeois lady in the sixteenth back her sight, a Water Lilies would still seem to be beyond the means of our good doctor. These passions, you were saying… Heads, art. And tails, women?”
“There are rumors. Apparently Morval was less than discreet. His neighbors and colleagues were particularly keen to mention the situation of his wife, Patricia. Married young. Financially dependent on her husband. Divorce out of the question. Condemned to turn a blind eye.”
Laurenç Sérénac drains his glass of white.
“If that’s a Gaillac…” he says, pulling a face. “I see what you’re getting at, Sylvio, and I’m finally beginning to like this doctor. Have you been able to get hold of the names of any of his mistresses, jealous husbands…?”
Sylvio sets down his tea
. Neptune looks at him with moist eyes.
“Not yet. But apparently, as far as mistresses are concerned, Jérôme Morval also had an obsession.”
“Really? An impregnable citadel?”
“You could put it like that… it’s the village schoolteacher. She’s the most beautiful girl in the area, apparently, and he’d got it into his head to add her as another trophy in his collection.”
“So?”
“So, that’s all I know. That’s all I got from a conversation with his colleagues, his secretary, and the three principal art dealers he worked with.”
“Is she married, this teacher?”
“Yes. To a particularly jealous husband, or so they say.”
Sérénac looks down at Neptune.
“Now we’re getting somewhere, my old friend. Sylvio’s good, isn’t he? He might look a bit awkward, but he has the brains of a computer.”
He gets to his feet. Neptune runs off down the street.
“Enjoy your paddle in the Ru, Sylvio. I hope you haven’t forgotten your boots and your fishing line! I’m off to present my condolences to the widow Morval… 71, Rue Claude Monet, that’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You can’t go wrong. Giverny is a tiny village built on the side of a hill. It consists of two long parallel streets: the Rue Claude Monet, which runs through the whole village, and the Chemin du Roy, the main road at the bottom of the valley, which runs alongside the brook. There’s a series of small alleyways that climb quite steeply between the two main streets, but that’s it.”
The waitress’s tanned legs cross the Rue Claude Monet and head toward the counter of the bar. The hollyhocks lick at the terra-cotta brick walls of the Hôtel Baudy like pastel-colored flames. And Sérénac thinks the scene is very picturesque.
6
Sylvio wasn’t wrong. Number 71 Rue Claude Monet is without contest the most beautiful house on the street. Yellow shutters, a Virginia creeper devouring half of the façade, a deft mixture of freestone and half-timbering, geraniums dripping from the windows and spilling from huge clay pots: an Impressionist façade par excellence. Patricia Morval must have green fingers, or at least she must know how to field a small army of competent gardeners. There can’t be a shortage of those in Giverny. A brass bell hangs on a chain by a wooden gate. Sérénac tugs on it. A few seconds later, Patricia Morval appears at the oak door. She has clearly been waiting for him. The policeman pushes the gate open and she steps aside to let him in.
Inspector Sérénac always enjoys this moment in an investigation. The first impression. Those few instants of pure understanding, of instinctive psychology, captured live. Who is he going to be dealing with? A woman desperately in love, or a crisp and indifferent matron? A lover struck down by fate or a merry widow? Rich, now. Free, at last? Avenged, after her husband’s indiscretions. Feigning grief and pain, or not? At that moment it’s hard to say, as Patricia Morval’s reddened eyes are hidden behind large, thick glasses.
Sérénac steps into the hall. In fact, it is a vast vestibule, narrow and deep. He suddenly stops, dumbfounded. Covering the entirety of the two walls, which are over fifteen feet long, are two enormous paintings of water lilies reproduced in a rather rare variant: in tones of red and gold, with no sky or willow branches. If Sérénac is right this is probably the reproduction of a painting Monet produced during the last years of his life, the final series, after 1920. It isn’t hard to work it out. In his later years, Monet followed a simple creative logic: narrowing his gaze, eliminating scenery, focusing on a single point in the pond, a few square yards across. The hall is doubtless intended to recall the walls of the Orangerie, even if it is far from the several hundred linear feet of Water Lilies displayed in the Paris museum.
Sérénac goes into a room. The interior decoration is classical, with a few too many knickknacks of different kinds. The visitor’s attention is particularly drawn to the paintings on display. About ten of them. Originals. As far as Sérénac can tell, there are some names that suggest real value, both artistic and financial. A Grebonval, a Van Muylder, a Gabar… Apparently Morval had taste and a good nose for an investment. The inspector reflects that if his widow can keep at bay the vultures who will sniff out the scent of paint, then she will be sheltered from poverty for a long time to come.
He sits down. Patricia won’t stand still. She nervously moves the perfectly arranged ornaments around. Her purple suit contrasts with her rather dull, milky skin. Sérénac puts her at about forty, perhaps younger. She isn’t really pretty, but a kind of stiffness in her bearing gives her a certain charm. More classical than classy, the policeman would say. The appeal is minimal, but well looked after.
“Inspector, are you absolutely sure that it was murder?” she says in a sharp, slightly disagreeable tone. She adds: “I’ve been told about the scene. Isn’t an accident a possibility? Jérôme might have tripped and fallen onto a rock, or a flint, and then drowned…”
“Anything is possible, madam—we have to wait for the forensic report. But as the investigation stands, I must admit that murder seems the most likely option. By a long way.”
Between her fingers, Patricia Morval is torturing a small statue of Diana the Huntress that is resting on a side table. A bronze. Sérénac resumes charge of the discussion. He asks questions, Patricia Morval replies, seldom using more than three words, and often the same ones, barely varying the same high, sharp tone.
“He had no enemies?”
“No, no, no.”
“You didn’t notice anything in particular over the past few days?”
“No, no.”
“Your house looks enormous; did your husband live here?”
“Yes… Yes. Yes and no.”
This time Sérénac doesn’t give her the choice. He needs to understand the nuance.
“You’ll have to tell me more, Madame Morval.”
Patricia Morval slowly utters the syllables, as if counting them.
“Jérôme was rarely here during the week. He had a flat beside his office, in the sixteenth. Boulevard Suchet.”
The inspector notes the address, remembering that it is a stone’s throw from the Musée Marmottan. Surely not a coincidence.
“Did your husband often sleep elsewhere?”
A silence.
“Yes.”
Patricia Morval’s nervous fingers rearrange a freshly picked bouquet of flowers in a long vase covered with Japanese motifs. A striking image comes to Laurenç Sérénac’s mind: those flowers will rot on their stems. Death will congeal this sitting room. The dust of time will settle on this harmony of colors.
“You had no children?”
“No.”
A pause.
“And your husband didn’t either? On his own, I mean?”
Patricia Morval compensates for her hesitation with a tone of voice that has dropped an octave.
“No.”
Sérénac takes his time. He extracts a photocopy of the Water Lilies postcard found in Jérôme Morval’s pocket, turns it over, and holds it out to the widow. Patricia Morval is obliged to read the five typed words: “ELEVEN YEARS OLD. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.”
“This card was found in your husband’s pocket,” the inspector explains. “Perhaps you have a cousin? A friend’s child? Can you think of any child your husband might have intended to give this birthday card to?”
“No, I don’t think so. Honestly.”
Nevertheless, Sérénac gives Patricia Morval time to think before he starts again:
“And this quotation?”
Their eyes slide over the card and read the strange words that follow: The crime of dreaming, I agree to its creation.
“I’ve no idea. Sorry, Inspector.”
She seems genuinely indifferent. Sérénac puts the card down on the table.
“It’s a photocopy, you can keep it. We have the original. If anything occurs to you…”
Patricia Morval’s agitated movements have slowed, like a fly trapped in a jam jar that has wo
rked out it can’t escape. Sérénac goes on.
“Did your husband have any enemies from a professional point of view? I mean an operation that went wrong, or an unhappy client? Someone who made a complaint?”
The fly suddenly becomes aggressive again.
“No! Never. What are you insinuating?”
“Nothing, I assure you.”
He looks at the paintings on the walls.
“Your husband had a good eye for a painting. Do you think he might have been implicated in, how can I put it, some kind of smuggling operation, receiving stolen goods, perhaps without even knowing it?”
“What do you mean?”
The widow’s voice rises to the heights again, even more unpleasant than before. This is classic, the inspector thinks. Patricia Morval is shutting herself away by denying it was murder. To admit that her husband was murdered would be to admit that someone could hate him enough to kill him… And that would mean admitting the guilt of her husband, to a certain extent. Sérénac has learned all this—how to shed light on the dark side of the victim without pointing his gun directly at the widow.
“I don’t mean anything by it, nothing specific. I can assure you, Madame Morval, I’m just trying to find a lead. I was told about his… let’s call it his quest… to own a painting by Monet.”
“You are quite right, Inspector. It was a dream. Jérôme was known as one of the best experts on Claude Monet. And so yes, he had a dream to own one for himself. He worked hard for it. He was a highly gifted surgeon and he would have deserved it. He was a passionate man. And it wasn’t just any painting, Inspector. He wanted to own a Water Lilies. I don’t know if you can understand, but that was what he was searching for. A canvas painted here, in Giverny. His village.”