by Michel Bussi
THE ROSALBA FAMILY LEAVES GIVERNY: THEY HAVE NEVER BELIEVED IN THE THEORY OF AN ACCIDENT.
Hugues and Louise Rosalba, who have worked for over fifteen years in the foundries of Vernon, have decided to leave the village of Giverny. Let us recall that they were touched two months ago by a tragic incident: their only son, Albert, drowned after an unexplained fall in the brook which runs along the Chemin du Roy. The drowning provoked a brief controversy in the municipal council concerning the drying up of that arm of the Epte and of Monet’s gardens. Explaining their departure, the Rosalbas spoke of their inability to go on living in the setting where their child had met his end. But there is one more awkward detail: Louise Rosalba claims that what is driving her to leave the village most of all is the troubling silence of the residents. According to Mme. Rosalba, her son, Albert, never walked about alone in the village. She confirmed to me what she had said several times to the gendarmes: that, according to her, “Albert never played alone beside the stream. There must be witnesses. There must be people who know.” According to Louise Rosalba, “This accident affects everyone. No one wants a scandal in Giverny. No one wants to confront the truth.”
A moving conviction on the part of a distressed mother. We give the Rosalbas our very best wishes for rebuilding their lives far from these disturbing memories.
Chief Inspector Laurentin reads the article through several times, closes the newspaper, and then studies all the other copies of Le Républicain de Vernon for 1937, but there are no other articles devoted to the Rosalba case. He pauses. For a moment he wonders what he is doing here. Has his life become so empty that he is willing to spend his days pursuing the first fantasy that comes along? He looks around the room at the dozen or so other readers, all concentrating on their piles of yellowed documents. To each his own quest… The chief inspector’s pen glides over his notepad. 2010–1937 = 73.
Little Albert was eleven years old in 1937, which means that he was born in 1925 or 1926. The Rosalbas would now be over a hundred years old. A light appears in front of Laurentin’s eyes.
Could they possibly still be alive?
The girl watches him coming toward her. She wears the expression of an official meeting a client who has turned up at closing time. Except that it’s only 11 a.m., and the archives are open all day. Chief Inspector Laurentin tries out the kind of suave charm you might associate with the actors from Hollywood’s golden age. A mixture of Tony Curtis and Henry Fonda.
“Excuse me, do you have an online directory? I’m looking for an address; it’s quite urgent.”
The girl takes an eternity to look up, before saying: “Have you checked if—”
The chief inspector erupts, holding his identity card under her nose.
“Chief Inspector Laurentin! From Vernon police station! Retired, I grant you, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go on doing my job. So, young lady, if you could kindly get a move on…”
The girl sighs. No panic, no apparent anger. As if she’s used to the eccentricities of the pensioners who scour the archives and who, every now and again, God knows why, become hysterical. She does, however, visibly speed up the rhythm of her fingers on the keyboard.
“What name are you looking for?”
“Hugues and Louise Rosalba.”
The girl’s fingers dart across the keys. Allegro.
“Have you found an address?” Laurentin asks.
“For Hugues Rosalba it’s not worth it. I always check before contacting Interpol. It’s a habit. Hugues Rosalba died in 1981, in Vascoeuil.”
Laurentin thinks for a moment. There’s nothing he can add. The girl at the counter is organized.
“And what about his wife, Louise?”
She taps again.
“No mention of a death… But no known address either.”
Dead end.
Laurentin studies the white room, trying to come up with an idea. At random he decides to try some Sean Connery–style spaniel eyes. The girl gives an exasperated sigh in response.
“Generally,” she says wearily, “to find people of a certain age, rather than using the directory you’re better off looking among the residents of old people’s homes. There are plenty of those in the Eure region, but if your Louise lived in Vascoeuil, we could start with the closest ones…”
Sean Connery gets his smile back and the girl, who could maybe now just about pass for Ursula Andress, begins tapping away on the keyboard like a mad thing. Minutes go by.
“I’ve looked up retirement homes on Google Maps,” the girl says at last. “The closest one to Vascoeuil is Les Jardins, at Lyons-la-Forêt. We should be able to find out some information on the residents. What was the name again?”
“Louise Rosalba.”
The keys rattle.
“They must have a website. Oh, here it is.”
Laurentin cranes his neck to get a view of the computer screen. Several more minutes pass, then the girl looks up triumphantly.
“Got it! I’ve found the complete list of residents. It wasn’t so complicated after all. The woman you’re after, Louise Rosalba, went into the home in Lyons-la-Forêt about fifteen years ago, and she’s still there… aged one hundred and two! I should warn you, Chief Inspector, that I can’t guarantee the after-sales service…”
Laurentin feels his heart speeding up dangerously. Rest, rest, his cardiologist keeps telling him… My God! Is it possible? That there’s still a witness?
One last witness?
And she’s alive!
56
The three police vans return down the Rue Blanche Hoschedé-Monet, sirens wailing. They don’t even bother skirting the village, but take the shortest route, Rue Blanche Hoschedé-Monet, Rue Claude Monet… Chemin du Roy.
Giverny streams past.
The town hall.
The school.
When they hear the sirens, all the children in the class turn their heads. They all want to do one thing: run to the window. Stéphanie Dupain restrains them with a calm gesture. Not a single child has noticed her distress. To keep her balance, the teacher rests her hand on the desk.
“Children, please calm down, right now. Let’s get back to our lesson.”
She clears her throat, the police sirens still echoing in her head.
“So, children, we were talking about the competition for promising artists organized by the Robinson Foundation. I should remind you that you have only two days to hand in your paintings. I hope a few of you will give it a go this year.”
Stéphanie is unable to dismiss the image of her husband smiling at her that morning while they lay in bed, kissing her, then resting a hand on her shoulder. “Have a good day, my love.”
She continues with the spiel she’s been repeating for quite some time.
“I know that no child from here has ever won the competition, but I’m also sure that when the international jury sees that a candidate is from Giverny itself, then it will give you a huge advantage!”
Stéphanie sees Jacques slipping on his cartridge belt, Jacques unhooking his hunting rifle from the wall…
“Children, Giverny is a name that stirs the imagination of painters all over the world.”
Two other blue police cars pass through the village. Stéphanie starts involuntarily, panicked. Powerless. The cars didn’t slow down either.
Laurenç?
Stéphanie tries again to concentrate. She looks at her class, studies each of the faces in front of her, one by one. She knows that some of her pupils are particularly gifted.
“I have noticed that some of you are very talented.”
Fanette lowers her eyes. She doesn’t like it when the teacher looks at them like that. It’s embarrassing.
I think that may have been meant for me…
“I’m thinking particularly of you, Fanette. I’m counting on you!”
What did I say?
The little girl blushes to her ears. A moment later, the teacher turns back to face the board. At the back of the class, Paul wi
nks at Fanette. He stretches across the desk in front of Vincent, who is sitting next to him.
“Fanette, Miss is right! You’re going to win that competition. You and nobody else.”
Mary is sitting in front of them, sharing a desk with Camille. She turns around.
“Shh…”
All heads suddenly freeze.
There’s a knock at the door.
Stéphanie opens it. She finds herself looking into Patricia Morval’s distraught face.
“Stéphanie… I need to talk to you. It’s… it’s important.”
“Wait here for me, children.”
Once again, Stéphanie tries to ensure that none of her gestures betrays her terrible fear to the children.
“I’ve only got a moment.”
Stéphanie goes outside. She shuts the door behind her and walks into the square in front of the town hall, beneath the lime trees. Patricia Morval doesn’t even try to hide her agitation. She is wearing a crumpled jacket that clashes with her bottle-green skirt. Stéphanie notices that her chignon, which is normally impeccable, has been hastily done. It’s almost as if Patricia had hurried out into the street in her dressing gown…
“Titou and Patrick told me,” Patricia begins breathlessly. “They’ve arrested Jacques, at the bottom of the Astragale path, when they came back from hunting.”
Stéphanie rests her hand against the trunk of the nearest lime tree. She doesn’t understand.
“What? What are you saying?”
“Inspector Sérénac… He’s arrested Jacques. He’s accusing him of Jérôme’s murder!”
“Laurenç?”
Patricia Morval gives Stéphanie a strange look.
“Yes, Laurenç Sérénac. That policeman.”
“My God. And Jacques didn’t—”
“No, don’t worry, your husband didn’t do a thing. But from what I’ve been told, it was a good thing that Patrick was there. And Sérénac’s deputy too, Inspector Bénavides. They only just averted a bloodbath. You realize, Stéphanie, that that lunatic Sérénac thinks that Jacques killed my Jérôme.”
Stéphanie feels her legs crumbling beneath her, and her body slumps against the pale trunk of the tree. She needs to breathe. She needs to think calmly. She has to get back to her classroom; the children are waiting for her. She has to run to the police station. She has to…
Patricia Morval’s hands tug at the collar of her creased jacket.
“It was an accident, Stéphanie. Right from the start, I’ve always tried to believe that it was an accident. But what if I am mistaken, Stéphanie? What if I am mistaken, and someone really did kill Jérôme? Tell me, Stéphanie: it couldn’t have been Jacques, could it? Tell me it couldn’t have been Jacques…”
Stéphanie turns her water-lily eyes on Patricia Morval. Eyes like that can’t lie.
“Of course not, Patricia. Of course not.”
57
I’m spying on the two women. Well, spying is a big word. I’m just sitting opposite them on the other side of the street, a few yards away from the Art Gallery Academy, and not too close to the school. Not completely invisible, but discreet; close enough not to miss anything of the scene. I’m quite good at this, as you may, I think, have realized. It’s not too difficult anyway—Patricia and Stéphanie are speaking in loud voices. Neptune is lying at my feet. He’s waiting for school to finish, as he does every day. He has whims, my dog has. And because I like to spoil him, I give in to him, I come here almost every day to wait with him.
As we sit there, another class is released, but this one is much less likely to make Neptune wag his tail: the students leaving the Art Gallery Academy. About fifteen artists in all, and about as promising as a bench of senators. They are pulling their paint caddies and wearing their red badges, in case they get lost. School’s out for the pensioners! The international brigade: Canadians, Americans, Japanese.
I try to concentrate on the conversation between Stéphanie Dupain and Patricia Morval. They’re about to reach the denouement, the last act of the Greek tragedy. The sublime sacrifice.
You no longer have any choice, my poor Stéphanie.
You will have to…
I don’t believe it!
A painter plonks himself right in front of me: a typical American octogenarian, with a “Yale” baseball cap wedged on his head, wearing socks with leather sandals.
What does he want from me?
“Excuse me kindly, miss…”
He pronounces each word with a Texan accent, putting a three-second pause between each syllable.
“I assume you’re from around here, miss? You must surely know an original spot where I can paint…”
“Up there, fifty yards away, there’s an information board. It has a map with all the paths, all the views.”
I’m barely polite, but the American is still smiling.
“Thank you very much, miss. And you have a good day now.”
He wanders off. I rage inwardly at this unwarranted invasion. The Texan has made me lose the thread of the scene. Patricia Morval is now standing by herself in the Place de la Mairie, and Stéphanie has already gone back to her classroom. Overwhelmed, inevitably. Plainly torn apart by the supreme dilemma.
Her devoted husband collared by her handsome police inspector.
My poor darling, if only you knew… If only you knew that you are stepping onto a plank that’s been made especially slippery just for you.
Once again, I hesitate. I don’t want to hide the fact that I, too, am plagued by a dilemma. Should I say nothing, or catch the bus to the Vernon police station and tell all? If I don’t do it now, then I will probably never have the courage. I’m aware of that. The police haven’t a clue… They haven’t questioned the right witnesses, they haven’t dug up the right corpses. Left to their own devices, they will never find out the truth. They won’t even suspect it. Be under no illusion; no policeman, however brilliant, could put a stop to this accursed chain of events.
The Americans scatter around the village like sales reps for a cheap housing complex. Yale cap, without rancor, even gives me a little wave. Patricia Morval stands thoughtfully for a while in the Place de la Mairie, then heads back toward her house.
Inevitably, she passes in front of me.
She has the closed expression of a woman resigned never again to know a love like the one that has just been taken from her. She must be thinking once more of our conversation, the one we had a few days ago. The things I told her… the name of her husband’s murderer. What has she done with that? Did she at least believe me? One thing is certain, she hasn’t told the police. I would already know.
I force myself to say something to her; I don’t talk much these days, as you will have noticed, even when Americans try to pick me up.
“Are you well, Patricia?”
“Yes, I’m fine… I’m fine.”
The widow Morval isn’t very chatty either.
58
“Where is my husband?”
“He’s in Évreux prison,” Sylvio Bénavides replies. “Don’t worry, Madame Dupain. It’s just an initial charge. The investigating magistrate will have to go through all the facts again.”
Stéphanie stares at the two men in front of her, Inspectors Sylvio Bénavides and Laurenç Sérénac.
“You can’t do that!”
Sérénac looks up at the walls of the office and allows his gaze to linger on the paintings hanging there: his eyes lose themselves in the meandering play of light on the bare back of the red-haired woman painted by Toulouse-Lautrec. He will let Sylvio reply. His deputy will do it so much better, since he is also trying to convince himself.
“Madame Dupain. We have to face facts. The accumulation of evidence points toward your husband. First of all that pair of boots that disappeared…”
“They were stolen!”
“The paint box found at the scene of the crime,” Bénavides goes on, unperturbed. “Threats carved inside it, written in your husband’s hand, as most o
f the experts have confirmed.”
This last statement has rattled Stéphanie Dupain. Apparently she hadn’t heard about the paint box, and she now seems to be probing the darkest corners of her memory. She turns her head and studies the posters fixed to the walls, lingering on the reproduction of Cézanne’s Harlequin with his crescent-moon hat, as if seeking strength there.
“I must have gone out walking with Jérôme Morval twice, maybe three times. We just chatted. The most daring thing he did was take my hand. I clarified the situation with him, and never saw him again on my own. Patricia Morval is a childhood friend, and she will be able to confirm that. Inspectors, it’s ridiculous, there is no motive…”
“Your husband has no alibi!” It’s Laurenç Sérénac who speaks this time, cutting short Sylvio’s explanations.
Stéphanie wavers for a moment. Since the start of the conversation, Laurenç has made sure that their eyes do not meet. She coughs, clenching the sides of her skirt with both hands, and then says, in a neutral voice: “My husband couldn’t have murdered Jérôme Morval. That morning he was in bed with me.”
Inspectors Bénavides and Sérénac freeze in position. Bénavides sits with one hand in the air, the one holding his pen. Sérénac has one elbow on the desk, his open palm supporting the weight of an unshaven chin and a head that suddenly feels too heavy. Room 33 is suddenly as quiet as a museum. Stéphanie decides to press home her advantage.
“If you want more details, Inspectors, Jacques and I were making love that morning. At my instigation. I want a child. We were together on the morning of Jérôme Morval’s murder. It is impossible that my husband is guilty.”
Sérénac has risen to his feet. His reply is sharp:
“Stéphanie, a few days ago you told me something totally different. You said that your husband had gone hunting that morning, as he did every Tuesday.”
“I’ve been thinking since then. I was upset at the time. I got the day wrong.”
Sylvio Bénavides decides to come to his boss’s aid.