Black Water Lilies

by Michel Bussi

  Now, the more I think about it, the more it seems to me that James never existed. I invented him because I needed him, I needed someone to tell me that I was good at painting, that I had to go on, that I was a genius, that I had to think about myself and work, work, work on my paintings.

  That I had to be selfish.

  Mom never tells me that. James told me all the things that a dad should have told me, everything I would have wanted my dad to tell me…

  A dad who’s an artist. A dad who’s a painter. A dad who is proud of me. A dad who, one day, on the other side of the world, will read my name in the corner of a painting displayed in the most amazing gallery, and who will say to himself: I recognize her, she’s my daughter. My little daughter. The most gifted of them all.

  Fanette studies the façades of the dark houses.

  No! No! No! My dad isn’t someone from the village that my mom cleans for. Fat, ugly, old, sweaty, and smelly. It’s impossible.

  And anyway, I don’t care.

  I have no dad. I invented James in his place. Thanks to him, I painted my picture, my Water Lilies. Tomorrow they will leave to take part in the competition. My message in a bottle.

  Tomorrow.

  Fanette smiles.

  That huge moon might be another good omen.

  Tomorrow, it’s my birthday!

  Under the moon, the playground of Giverny School assumes a silvery hue. It’s an enormous moon. Stéphanie tried to explain the phenomenon to the children in her class by using a few simple diagrams. She recommended that they stay up later than usual, in order to witness the spectacle for themselves: she wrote everything on the board, a moon that was fourteen percent bigger and thirty percent brighter than usual.

  The moon is the same circular shape as the skylight of their attic room, as if part of the window has become detached and floated off into the sky. The Rue Blanche Hoschedé-Monet is deserted. The leaves of the lime trees in the Place de la Mairie dance gently in the wind. A silver rain seems to have fallen on the village.

  Jacques is lying in bed beside her. Without even needing to turn round, Stéphanie knows that he isn’t asleep. She guesses that he’s watching her, that he won’t say anything, that he respects her silence. Intimacy between her and Jacques has become harder and harder for her to bear. Jacques hasn’t changed any of his habits. They go on sleeping together, naked, close, even though Jacques hasn’t tried to touch her, hasn’t tried to win her back. Physically, at least.

  Yesterday, they talked for hours.

  Calmly.

  Jacques has said he understands, that he’ll try to change.

  Change what?

  Stéphanie doesn’t blame him for anything. Or perhaps only for not being someone else.

  Jacques says he will become someone else.

  But you can’t become someone else. These discussions are leading nowhere. Stéphanie knows that very well. Her decision is made. She’s leaving him. She’s going.

  Jacques is a balanced man. He is bound to think that waiting patiently is the best way to make Stéphanie begin to doubt her decision. Let the storm clouds pass. Wait there, umbrella in hand, just in case… Ready to hold out that big umbrella as soon as Stéphanie comes back.

  He is mistaken.

  Stéphanie stares out at the playground of the school where she has taught for years, the hopscotch lines drawn on the blacktop, the monkey bars… The shouts of the children at break time ring in her head.

  Stéphanie has arranged to meet Laurenç tomorrow afternoon. Not in the village, of course, not in front of the school, not by the stream, but farther away, somewhere more discreet. She was the one who had the idea: Nettles Island, the famous field at the confluence of the Epte and the Seine that Claude Monet bought, where he set up his canvases, where he moored his boat. It’s a pretty, isolated place, about six-tenths of a mile from Giverny. The more she thinks about it, the more sure she is that Nettles Island, l’Île aux Orties, is the right place. Laurenç will appreciate it. Laurenç has an amazing instinct for all things artistic. In Monet’s house, did he not guess right away that the Renoir painting, Young Woman in a White Hat, was not a reproduction? Even if his reason didn’t allow him to admit it, Laurenç sensed that it was a genuine masterpiece. Like dozens of other forgotten paintings in Monet’s house. Renoir, Pissarro, Sisley, Boudin… even some Water Lilies too. My God, if they had the time, if they were free, Stéphanie would love to show them to Laurenç. Share such an emotional experience with him.

  Jacques has turned out the light and turned onto his side as if he is sleeping. The moonlight lends the room the appearance of a fairy grotto. Stéphanie’s eyes rest on the bedside table, on the book that lies there.

  It hasn’t moved.

  Aurélien.

  Louis Aragon.

  Inevitably, this phrase comes back to haunt her. The crime of dreaming, I agree to its creation. The message discovered on the birthday card found in Jérôme Morval’s pocket.

  To make dreaming a crime…

  As if the phrase had been written for her.

  All those who don’t know the lines that follow, all those who don’t know the rest of the long poem by Aragon, “Nymphée,” are mistaken. No, of course Aragon wasn’t condemning dreams.

  What a misunderstanding.

  It’s the opposite; the poet was obviously expressing the opposite ideal.

  She whispers the lines that she teaches the village children every year.

  The crime of dreaming, I agree to its creation.

  If I dream, it’s about what I’m told I mustn’t do

  So yes, I’ll plead guilty, I’m pleased to be wrong;

  In reason’s eyes dreaming is criminal too.

  Stéphanie silently repeats the four lines of the verse as fervently as if it were an indecent secular prayer.

  If I dream, it’s about what I’m told I mustn’t do…

  Yes, dreams are outside of the law.

  Yes, Stéphanie enjoys being a cruel woman.

  No, she has no remorse.

  Yes, in the eyes of reason her dream is criminal.

  Her dream of Laurenç Sérénac taking her in his arms, of the two of them making love on Nettles Island and of him taking her away, far away…

  Tomorrow.

  DAY THIRTEEN

  May 25, 2010

  (Chemin de l’Île aux Orties)

  Denouement

  68

  I am walking slowly along the track that begins just behind the Moulin des Chennevières and continues in a straight line across the meadow: a path that is full of ruts, dug year after year by tractor wheels.

  Inspector Sérénac can’t have enjoyed himself very much on his Tiger Triumph just now. I won’t go into the details, but I’m not sure that his antique is very well suited to motocross. I saw him passing by a few minutes ago, turning off behind the mill and then plunging into the fields, surrounded by a cloud of dust.

  There are a number of paths that lead out of Giverny and into the meadow, but they all meet at the same dead end: Nettles Island. After that, if you go straight on, there is nothing but the Epte and the Seine. This path is a direct route, and it even stops a few yards before the rivers meet, on the banks of the Epte, by a row of poplars that Monet knew well; they are protected by the pharaohs of Impressionism, every bit as much as the pyramids of Egypt.

  If you want to reach the Seine, you have to continue on foot.

  Neptune gallops ahead of me. He knows the path by heart; he’s stopped waiting for me now. He has worked out that it is taking me longer and longer to struggle along that little half mile that separates the Moulin des Chennevières from Nettles Island. Those ruts are a nightmare. Even with my cane, I nearly fall over every ten feet or so.

  Luckily this is the last time that I will ever go to that wretched “island.” It’s not suitable for my age, this kind of stroll along country lanes. And to crown it all, the heat this afternoon is suffocating. It’s the finest day so far in May and there isn’t a hint
of shade from my mill to the Epte, except perhaps halfway, against the metal walls of the water tank. At least my scarf protects me from the sun. Out in the open, amid the sun-bleached plain, I feel like I’m an Arab woman walking in the desert.

  My God, you can’t imagine, it’s going to take me an eternity to reach the confluence of the Epte and the Seine, that damned Nettles Island.

  And to think that Neptune must already be there!

  69

  4:17 p.m. Laurenç Sérénac’s Tiger Triumph T100 leans against the trunk of a poplar. The inspector has reached Nettles Island a little early; he knows that Stéphanie’s class doesn’t finish until 4:30. After that, she has a good half mile or so to walk in order to join him.

  Laurenç strolls along under the trees. The landscape here is odd: the Epte, surrounded by these straight trees lined up like a regiment standing to attention, looks more like a canal than a natural river. The confluence of the Epte and the Seine reinforces that impression still further: the huge river flows gently onward, blithely ignoring the pathetic contribution made by this small stretch of water. While the banks of the Epte seem frozen in an immutable eternity, toward the Seine there are signs of bustling life: the town, factories, barges, the railway line, shops. As if the Seine were a noisy highway crossing the countryside, and the Epte a forgotten secondary road leading nowhere.

  A sound behind him.

  Stéphanie, already?

  He turns around, smiles.

  It’s Neptune! The German shepherd recognizes the inspector and comes and rubs himself against him.

  “Neptune! Lovely of you to come and keep me company. But you know, old pal, this is a romantic assignation, a discreet tryst, so you’re going to have to make yourself scarce.”

  A branch cracks behind him. A rustle of leaves.

  Neptune isn’t alone!

  Laurenç Sérénac spots the danger instantly, without even thinking. A policeman’s instinct.

  He looks up.

  The barrel of a gun is leveled at him.

  For a moment he thinks that everything’s going to end like this, without any further explanation. That’s he’s going to die, shot down like some common game bird; that a cartridge is going to blow up his heart and that his corpse will float down the Epte, then into the Seine, and wash up farther downstream.

  But the fingers don’t pull the trigger.

  A reprieve? Sérénac dives into the breach with apparent self-assurance.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Jacques Dupain pointedly lowers the gun.

  “I think I’m the one who should be asking you that question, don’t you think?”

  Laurenç Sérénac’s anger gives him fresh confidence.

  “How did you know?”

  Neptune has sat down a few yards away, in a ray of sunlight passing through the poplar trees, and seems uninterested in their conversation. Jacques Dupain’s rifle is now pointed at the ground. His face twists with contempt.

  “You’re really very stupid, Sérénac. As soon as I saw you turning up in the village, like some kind of godsend with your leather jacket and your motorbike, I knew. You’re so predictable, Sérénac.”

  “No one could have known. No one apart from Stéphanie. She couldn’t have told you anything. Did you follow me, is that it?”

  Dupain turns back to face the meadow. The village of Giverny can be seen in the distance, amid a heat haze that distorts the horizon. Dupain laughs.

  “You wouldn’t understand. There are some things that are beyond you. I was born here, Sérénac. Like Stéphanie. In this village. On the same day, or nearly. Only a street away. No one knows Stéphanie better than I do. As soon as you started turning her head, I noticed. The slightest detail, a book missing from a library, Stéphanie glancing at the sky, a silence… I have learned to interpret all the signs. A crease on a blouse, a crumpled skirt, an undergarment that she doesn’t usually wear, a tiny nuance in the way she puts on her makeup, a slight change in her facial expression. When Stéphanie arranged to meet you, I knew it, Sérénac. I knew when she had arranged it for, and where.”

  Laurenç Sérénac adopts a weary, irritated expression and turns toward the Epte. Dupain’s long monologue has reassured him; he is dealing with a jealous husband. It was only to be expected, after all, and it’s the price he must pay. The price of Stéphanie’s freedom. The price of their love.

  “Right,” he says. “What’s next on the agenda? Do we wait for Stéphanie to arrive and have a three-way conversation?”

  A new grimace of disdain twists Jacques Dupain’s features.

  “I don’t think so, no. You were right to turn up early, Sérénac. This is what you are going to do. You are going to write a short letter, a word of farewell; you’ll know how to come up with something nice and elegant, you’re clever enough to do that. Otherwise I can prompt you. You will leave the letter at the foot of a tree, in plain sight, then you will get on your motorbike and you will disappear.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Inspector, you’ve got what you wanted. Stéphanie gave herself to you yesterday, in the classroom in Giverny. You have attained your goal. Hats off. Many people have dreamed of doing just that, but you’re the first to actually achieve it. So this is where we are. You will disappear from our lives. I won’t cause a scandal, I won’t go and see a lawyer and tell him that the inspector in charge of the Morval case is sleeping with the wife of a suspect, a suspect that he even had the forethought to put in jail the previous day. In plain terms, I won’t destroy your career. We are quits. I’m a good sport, don’t you think, for someone the people of Giverny see as a husband driven mad by jealousy?”

  Sérénac bursts out laughing. The wind stirs the leaves of the poplars, the walnut and the chestnut trees.

  “I don’t think you’ve understood a single thing, Dupain. This isn’t about me or my career. And it’s not about you and your pride either. It’s about Stéphanie. She’s free. Do you understand that? You and I have nothing to talk about. We’re not going to make any decisions on her behalf. Do you get that? She’s free… free to make her own decisions.”

  Dupain grips the rifle with both hands.

  “I didn’t come here to make polite conversation, Sérénac. You’re wasting precious time. The words of farewell that you choose may be important to Stéphanie; she’ll have to live with them afterward…”

  Laurenç feels profound irritation welling up inside him. He doesn’t like the situation. The man disgusts him. Behind him, the fields of nettles stretch all the way to the confluence. The place is deserted. No one will come here apart from Stéphanie. He has to get this over with.

  “Listen, Dupain, don’t force me to be cruel.”

  “You’re wasting more time…”

  “You’re a mediocrity, Dupain,” Laurenç Sérénac cuts in. “Open your eyes! You don’t deserve Stéphanie. She deserves so much more than a life lived beside you day after day. She will leave, Dupain, one day or another. With me or with someone else.”

  Jacques Dupain merely shrugs. Laurenç Sérénac’s salvo seems to slide off him like drops of water on a slate roof.

  “Inspector, is that how you managed to get to Stéphanie, with grotesque clichés like that?”

  Sérénac takes a step forward. He’s taller than Jacques Dupain by at least eight inches. Suddenly he raises his voice.

  “Let’s stop this little game, Dupain. Right now. Let me be clear, I’m not going to write your stupid note. I don’t care about your mean little attempt at blackmail, what you’re threatening to say to your lawyer about my career.”

  Jacques Dupain hesitates for the first time, and he stares at Sérénac with renewed attention. The inspector looks away and sees in the distance the bell tower of the Church of Sainte-Radegonde with the roofs of Giverny all around it, like the idealized village in a model train set.

  “Mea culpa, Inspector,” Dupain replies. “So, are you saying I underestimated you? That, in your own way, you are sin
cere?”

  His face tenses into wrinkled fissures.

  “Well, you leave me no choice. I’m going to have to resort to more convincing measures.”

  Slowly, Dupain aims the barrel of the rifle at the inspector’s forehead. Laurenç Sérénac remains motionless, staring him down. Sweat drips from his hair.

  “So here we are, Dupain,” the inspector hisses. “The mask has fallen and the true face is revealed. The face of Morval’s murderer…”

  The barrel of the rifle comes level with his eyes. It is impossible not to squint into the dark opening of the metal tube.

  “Stick to the subject, Inspector!” Dupain raises his voice. “Don’t muddle everything up. We’re here to sort something out between the three of us: you, me, and Stéphanie. Morval has nothing to do with that.”

  In his excitement, Dupain has shifted the rifle slightly in the direction of the policeman’s ear. Sérénac knows he has to negotiate, gain some time, find the weak spot.

  “What are you going to do, then? Kill me, is that it? Kill me here, beneath the poplar trees? It won’t be hard to trace the gun. A hunting rifle. And your wife’s lover shot at point-blank range. A rendezvous at Nettles Island. Everyone saw me passing through the village on my Triumph Tiger. If you end up in jail, even if you’ve got rid of me, it won’t be the best way of keeping Stéphanie beside you.”

  The rifle comes closer still, and the barrel is lowered until it’s level with his mouth. Sérénac isn’t sure if he should try anything. On the one hand, it would be easier to intervene now, to grab the gun and get it over with. He’s stronger, faster than Dupain. It’s the right moment. But the inspector hesitates.

  “You’re a smart one,” Dupain replies with a rictus grin. “And you’re right about that, Sérénac. But only about that. It wouldn’t be very clever on my part to kill you here in cold blood. It would be like leaving a signature. But time is marching on, so let’s speed things up a little. You will write that letter.”