Black Water Lilies

by Michel Bussi

  “No, mademoiselle. We have no one staying here who resembles your James.”

  The waiter’s beard covers his mouth, and it’s hard to tell whether he’s amused or appalled.

  “You know, mademoiselle, we don’t see as many Americans here as we used to in Monet’s day…”

  Idiot! You’re an idiot, Renoir!

  Fanette reemerges into the Rue Claude Monet. Paul is waiting for her outside—she told him everything at break time.

  “So?”

  “Nothing, no one!”

  “What are you going to do? Try the other hotels?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know his surname. And I think that James slept outside most of the time.”

  “We could talk to the others. Vincent. Camille. Mary. If we all work together, we could—”

  “No!”

  Fanette is almost screaming. Some of the guests at the Hôtel Baudy, sitting at the terrace on the other side of the road, turn around.

  “No, Paul. Vincent, with that sly look of his—I’ve been staying out of his way for the past few days. And if you tell Camille, he’ll only go and list the name of every American painter who’s been to Giverny since prehistoric times. As if that’s going to help.”

  Paul laughs.

  “Mary’s even worse. The first thing she’ll do is cry, and then she’ll go and tell the police everything she knows. Do you want my mother to scratch out my eyes?”

  “So what are we going to do?”

  Fanette studies the park in front of Hôtel Baudy that stretches all the way to the Chemin du Roy: the round bales of hay that cast a bit of shade over the short-mown grass, the meadow stretching behind them all the way to the mouth of the Epte and the Seine, the famous Nettles Island.

  These are the landscapes that made James dream. The landscapes for which he left everything. Connecticut, his wife, and his children.

  “I don’t know, Paul. You think I’m mad, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “He was dead, I swear it.”

  “Where did you find him, exactly?”

  “In the wheat field, past the washhouse, after the witch’s mill.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They walk down the Rue des Grands Jardins. The height of the stone façades of the houses seems to have been calculated to make sure the maximum amount of shade floods the alleyway. The cold almost makes Fanette shiver.

  Paul tries to reassure his friend: “You told me James always set up four easels. Plus there would be all of his palettes, his knives, his paint box. There must be some kind of trace up there.”

  Fanette and Paul spend over an hour in the wheat field. All they can find are some flattened ears of wheat, as if someone had died there…

  At least I didn’t dream up the straw coffin…

  … or, Paul suggests, as if someone had lain down there for a while. But how could you tell the difference? Paul and Fanette also find ears of wheat stained with paint. Some of them are colored red—it might be blood, but they don’t know. How can you tell the difference between a drop of blood and a drop of red paint? There are also some crushed tubes of paint. But again, that proves nothing; nothing at all, apart from the fact that someone painted here. But Fanette already knew that.

  I’m not insane.

  “Who else could have seen your painter?”

  “I don’t know, maybe Vincent?”

  “And apart from Vincent? Could an adult have seen him?”

  Fanette looks toward the mill.

  “I don’t know, a neighbor? Maybe the witch in the mill. From the top of her tower, she must be able to see everything.”

  “Let’s go!”

  Give me your hand, Paul. Give me your hand.

  50

  I don’t want to miss them. Here they come, the children! They cross the bridge over the stream and barely glance at the riverbank. This is the very place where the police have just fished out that paint box.

  Now there isn’t a single policeman there, no yellow tape, no bespectacled man with his funnels. Now there is only the brook, the poplars, the field of wheat. As if nothing was going on, as if nature didn’t care.

  And now, coming this way, those two children, who don’t suspect a thing. Innocent. If only they knew what danger they were in, the poor things… Come closer, my pretties, don’t be scared, dare to enter the witch’s house. Like all those children’s stories, like Snow White. Don’t be afraid of the witch. Come closer, children… But do be careful all the same, it isn’t my apple that’s poisonous. It’s the cherries.

  Eventually I leave my window. I’ve seen enough.

  From outside, no one can spot me, no one can know whether I’m here or not. Whether my mill is deserted or inhabited. No light gives me away. I’m not bothered by the dark, quite the contrary.

  I turn toward my black Water Lilies. Increasingly now, I like looking at them this way, in the dark. In the gloom, the water depicted on the canvas seems almost to disappear, the few reflections on the surface on the pond dim, and all you can see are the yellow flowers of the water lilies at night, like lost stars in a faraway galaxy.

  51

  “There’s no one here, I’m telling you,” says Fanette.

  The little girl looks carefully around the courtyard of the mill. The worm-eaten blades dip into the water of the stream. On the edge of the stone well there is a rusted bucket, eaten away by moss. The shadow of the large cherry tree engulfs almost the entire space.

  “Let’s go and check,” Paul urges.

  He knocks on the heavy wooden door, then lingers in the shadows. It’s as if all the things in the courtyard, the walls and stones, have been abandoned there, to wither in the sun, for all eternity.

  “You’re right, this mill’s pretty scary,” says Paul.

  “It isn’t really,” Fanette replies. “To be honest, I think I’d love to live somewhere like this one day. It must be nice to live in a house that isn’t like all the others.”

  Sometimes Paul must think I’m bizarre.

  Paul walks around the mill and tries to look through a window on the ground floor. He looks up toward the keep and then turns back toward Fanette, clumsily miming a twisted mouth and clawed fingers.

  “I’m suuuure there’s a witch living heeeeere, Faaaanette… She hatesssss painting, she’s going to—”

  “Don’t say that!”

  He’s terrified, Paul is. I can see that. He’s showing off, but he’s scared stiff.

  Suddenly a dog howls on the other side of the mill.

  “Shit, let’s get out of here.”

  Paul grabs Fanette by the hand, but the little girl bursts out laughing.

  “Idiot! That’s Neptune; he always sleeps here, in the shade of the cherry tree.”

  Fanette is right. A few seconds later, Neptune comes over, yelps once more, then goes and rubs himself up against the little girl’s legs. She bends down to the German shepherd.

  “Neptune, you knew James, you saw him yesterday in the field. You found him. You smelled where he was. Where is he now?”

  At least you know, Neptune, that I’m not insane!

  Neptune sits down. He studies Fanette for a long time. His gaze flicks toward a passing butterfly, then, weary as a lizard on a stone wall, he drags himself back to the shade of the cherry tree. Fanette watches him. She realizes with horror that Paul has climbed up into the tree.

  “You’re mad, Paul! What are you doing?”

  No reply.

  “The cherries aren’t ripe,” Fanette insists. “You’re off your head!”

  “No, it’s not that,” Paul pants.

  A moment later he’s clambering back down. Two silver ribbons shine in his right hand.

  Sometimes Paul is stupid. If he thinks he has to be Tarzan to make me love him…

  “It’s…” Paul explains, getting his breath back. “It’s to get rid of the birds that gather around the prettiest fruits!”

  He lands on both feet, throwing up a light
cloud of dust. He steps forward, rests one knee on the ground, and holds out his arms in the attitude of a medieval knight.

  “For you, my princess, some silver to make your hair shine, and to protect you always from wicked vultures when you are far away, when you’re famous, on the other side of the world.”

  Fanette tries to hold back her tears, but she can’t. It’s too much, far too much for a little girl like her: the disappearance of James, the arguments with her mother about her painting, about her father, about everything, the Robinson Foundation competition, her Water Lilies, and most of all that idiot Paul with his funny, romantic ideas.

  You’re too stupid, Paul! Too stupid!

  Fanette holds the silver ribbons in one hand, and with the other she strokes Paul’s cheek.

  “Get up, you idiot.”

  But she’s the one who bends down, all the way down to his mouth, where she deposits a kiss.

  Long, long, long. As if it was for ever.

  Now she’s crying like she’s fit to burst.

  “Idiot. Three times an idiot. You’ll have to put up with these silver ribbons in my hair for the rest of your life. I’ve already told you we are going to get married!”

  Paul stands up and takes Fanette in his arms.

  “Come on, let’s go. This is madness. Someone died yesterday. And someone else was murdered a few days ago. We should leave it to the police. This is dangerous, we shouldn’t be here.”

  “And James? I have to f—”

  “He’s not here… there’s no one here. Fanette, if you are sure of your story, then I think you need to talk to the police! You never know, James’s death may be connected with that other murdered guy they found, you know the one I mean, the murder everyone in the village is talking about.”

  Fanette’s answer is final.

  “No!”

  No! Don’t put doubts in my head, Paul. No!

  “So who’s going to believe you, Fanette? Nobody! James lived like a tramp. No one paid him any attention.”

  They stop for a moment by the Chemin du Roy, wait until the main road is clear, and then cross. A few clouds are starting to cling to the tops of the hills overlooking the Seine. They set off for the village, in no particular hurry. Suddenly Paul stops.

  “And Teacher? Why don’t you talk to her? She likes painting. She launched the Robinson Foundation’s whatsitsname competition. She might have bumped into James… She’ll understand you. She’ll know what to do…”

  “You think so?”

  Several people pass the two children in the street.

  “I’m certain! It’s THE best idea.”

  He leans toward Fanette.

  “I’m going to tell you a secret, Fanette. I noticed one day that Teacher was wearing silver ribbons in her hair. To tell you the truth, I think that’s how you can recognize a princess in the streets of Giverny.”

  Fanette takes his hand.

  I wish time would stop here. I wish that Paul and I would never move again, that the scenery would just keep moving ceaselessly around us, as if in a film.

  “You’ve got to promise me something, Fanette.”

  Their hands intertwine.

  “You’ve got to finish your painting. You need to win the Robinson competition, whatever happens. That’s the most important thing.”

  “I don’t kn—”

  “You know what James would have said, Fanette, you know that very well. It’s what James would have wanted…”

  52

  The children will turn toward the Rue du Château d’Eau, and I’ll lose sight of them. Already, through the drawn curtain, their outlines are a little blurred… Neptune doesn’t care about any of it. He’s sleeping under the cherry tree.

  That poor little girl must think she’s going to get away. Don’t make me laugh! She thinks she’s painting a masterpiece, the one she has hidden under the washhouse; she must think she’s about to fly away over Monet’s pond. Subsume the weightlessness of her only art, her genius that everyone’s always going on at her about.

  Rainbow Water Lilies! Poor little Fanette. How ludicrous!

  I turn toward my black Water Lilies. The yellow corollas gleam among the shades of mourning set down by the brush of a desperate painter.

  What vanity!

  A fall in the pond, that’s what awaits little Fanette. Drowned, trapped beneath the surface of the water lilies, like the thick layer of ice in a lake in winter.

  Soon, very soon, now.

  Everyone will have their turn.

  DAY ELEVEN

  May 23, 2010

  (Moulin des Chennevières)

  Hostility

  53

  For once, I’m not spying at my window. You see, in spite of appearances, I don’t just spend my days spying on my surroundings. Not just that.

  This morning, outside, the noise of the chain saws was infernal. I learned about this not long ago. Apparently they’ve decided to cut down fourteen hectares of poplars. Yes, felling poplars. Here, in Giverny! From what I understand, these particular poplars were planted in the early 1980s, tiny saplings at the time, probably to make the landscape look even more Impressionist. Except that since that time some specialists, probably different ones, have explained that these poplars didn’t exist in Monet’s time, that the landscape of the meadow that the painter admired from the window of his house was open, and that the more these poplars grow, the more their shade will cover the garden, the pond, the lilies. And the less recognizable the background on the horizon of Monet’s paintings will become for the tourists. So apparently it’s been decided, after planting the poplars, that they must all be cut down. And why not, after all? Some Givernois complain, others applaud. I can tell you, today, I don’t give a damn.

  I have other things on my mind. This morning, I tidied some old mementos, things from before the war, black-and-white photographs, the kind of relics that interest only old women like me. You’ve worked it out; I finally decided to empty my garage and find that crumpled old cardboard box tied up with twine. It was hidden under three layers of videocassettes, one layer of vinyl records, and several inches of bank statements from the Crédit Agricole. I folded the tablecloth into four and spread out the photographs.

  After the chain saws an hour ago, this time it was a siren that quickly brought me back to reality, the way the ringing of an alarm clock scatters your morning dreams.

  A police siren, wailing along the Chemin du Roy.

  The moment before, my tears were wetting the only photograph that has any importance in the end. A school photograph. Giverny. 1936–37. It’s hardly yesterday, I grant you. I studied the portrait of around twenty pupils, all with their bottoms pressed obediently against three wooden steps. The names of the children are written on the back, but I didn’t need to turn the photograph over.

  On the bench, Albert Rosalba is sitting next to me. Of course.

  I’ve looked at Albert’s face for a long time. The photograph must have been taken sometime around Halloween.

  Before the tragedy.

  That was when the police siren pierced my ears.

  I got up, as you can imagine. As if a prison warden, however distracted, wouldn’t run to his lookout post the moment the alarm sounded. So I ran to my window. Well, ran is a figure of speech. I picked up my cane and hobbled toward the glass, discreetly pushing the curtain aside with my stick.

  I didn’t miss a thing. It was impossible to miss the police. The cavalry was out in force. Sirens and flashing lights.

  I couldn’t deny it, Inspector Sérénac was outdoing himself!

  54

  Sylvio Bénavides looks up at the keep of the mill, which is flashing by on his right-hand side.

  “Now,” Sylvio murmurs between two yawns. “I stopped by the mill, Chief. You know you told me not to neglect a single witness, particularly the neighbors?”

  “And?”

  “It’s strange. You would think the mill was deserted. Abandoned, if you prefer.”

 
“Are you sure? The garden looks as if it’s being maintained, and so does the façade. Sometimes, when we were at the crime scene, I thought I spotted some movement there, particularly toward the top, on the highest floor of the tower… A curtain moving at the window, or something like that.”

  “Me too, Chief. I had the same impression. But no one answered the door, and the neighbors tell me that no one has lived there for months.”

  “Strange. You’re not going to tell me it’s that village omertà again, like there was over that eleven-year-old boy?”

  “No…”

  Sylvio hesitates for a moment.

  “To tell you the truth, the locals all call that place the witch’s mill.”

  Sérénac smiles, watching the reflection of the tower disappearing in his rearview mirror.

  “It’s more like a ghost’s mill, isn’t it? So, leave it, Sylvio. We have other urgent matters to take care of.”

  Sérénac accelerates again. Monet’s gardens pass by on their left in half a second. Neither passenger could ever have had such an Impressionist view of the garden.

  “Now,” Laurenç continues. “While we’re on the subject of the village omertà, do you know what Stéphanie Dupain told me yesterday, about Monet’s house and the studios?”

  “No.”

  “That if you looked properly, you would find, hidden away, dozens of paintings by great artists. Renoir, Sisley, Pissarro… and, of course, some undiscovered Water Lilies by Monet.”

  “Did you find them?”

  “A pastel drawing by Renoir. Perhaps…”

  “She was pulling your leg, Chief!”

  “Of course. But why tell me a story like that? She even added that it was a kind of open secret in Giverny.”

  Sylvio thinks once again about the conversation he had with Achille Guillotin on the subject of Monet’s lost paintings. A painting that had been lost and found again by a stranger—why not? Like the famous black Water Lilies. But dozens of them.

  “She’s playing with you, Chief. She’s taking you for a ride. I’ve been telling you that from the very beginning. And I don’t think she’s the only one, here in the village.”