After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  Was there any point to it?

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She had no choice: she simply had to distance herself from Marc, at least for a few hours, a few days; she had to do this without him, to protect him. Afterwards, when it was all over, perhaps she would have the courage to tell him everything. Marc was so fond of her. But who was she?

  His Lylie, his dragonfly. What she would have given to be known by a single, ordinary first name . . .

  The silver-haired rollerblader brushed past Lylie. She jumped, startled abruptly from her thoughts. A smile played across her lips. In spite of the cold (it must have been less than ten degrees Celsius), the man had now taken off his T-shirt and was dancing bare-chested in front of her, his huge thigh muscles clearly visible through his skintight jeans.

  He was staring at her shamelessly, appraising Lylie’s body. His mating ritual seemed well practised and there was no ambiguity as to his intentions: he was a sexual predator. She wondered how many times he had done this before, how many young women had fallen into his clutches.

  Lylie held his gaze for a few moments, evaluating her seducer. Her expression was almost indifferent. She was used to the attention: her beautiful, slender body often attracted men’s eyes, yet she felt surprised that they would look at her in that way, desire her. She felt as if she were transparent.

  She returned to her ruminations. She should not give in to self-pity. Right now, the important thing wasn’t her name. The important thing was to act, and to do so quickly and alone.

  She was determined. Now she had learned the truth, the awful truth, she had no choice. She had to accept that.

  She had only found out yesterday and her life had been turned upside down in an instant. Everything seemed to have sped up now, but she had committed the irreparable act long before all this. Now she was caught in a vice and her options had been reduced to this: escape or be crushed.

  The rollerblader wasn’t giving up. He skated in wide circles, his eyes fixed permanently on Lylie. But she was thinking about Marc again. Trapped in that bar.

  Trapped by her, and with another fifteen minutes to go. After that, she felt certain, he would try to call her. She picked up her bag and switched off her mobile phone. She had to remain invisible, out of contact, at least for the moment. Marc would be against her plan. He would try to protect her, seeing only the risks, the danger.

  She knew him well. He would call it murder.

  Like a flight of swallows in the moment after a gunshot, the dozen rollerbladers suddenly disappeared towards Les Invalides, following their grey-haired leader, who had either grown weary or annoyed by the failure of his mating dance. The plastic orange cones, the jackets, the T-shirts . . . everything vanished in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the grey, empty tarmac.

  Murder . . .

  Lylie smiled nervously.

  Yes, she supposed, that was one way to look at it.

  A fatal and essential crime.

  Killing a monster so that she would be able to live.

  Or at least to survive.

  10

  2 October, 1998, 9.45 a.m. Marc looked up. 9.45 a.m., according to the Martini clock. Why was time passing so slowly? A strange foreboding rose within him. That present from Lylie, which Mariam had put in her cash register, that matchbox-sized gift . . . it was a trap. A pretext. A decoy. The only point of this interminable hour of waiting was to give Lylie enough time to get away from him, to hide.

  But why?

  He didn’t like this. He felt as if each second was taking Lylie further away from him. Yet his eyes were still drawn back to the notebook. He could guess what was coming next – Léonce de Carville’s second mistake. He had been there when it happened, he’d been told, a witness with tears in his eyes. If Grand-Duc’s version matched the legend told in Rue Pocholle, he would enjoy reading it.

  Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal

  Léonce de Carville believed that money solved everything. The inquiry had stalled. And even if the Minister of Justice, in agreement with Judge Le Drian, had set a deadline of six months for the final decision, the wait was too long for Léonce de Carville.

  All his lawyers urged patience. The longer the inquiry went on, the more likely he was to win it, they said, because of his influence. Slowly but surely, the media, the police, even Vatelier, would fall into line. Without any definite proof on either side, the case would boil down to a squabble between the experts, and that meant the judge’s decision would be final. The Vitral family had no influence, no experience, no support. However Léonce de Carville evidently did not share his lawyers’ confidence, no matter how calm he appeared to be in public. He decided to deal with the problem on his own, once and for all, in the same way he always dealt with business matters: instinctively and autocratically.

  Around noon on 17 February 1981, he picked up his telephone (this was not something he would delegate to his secretary) and made an appointment to see the Vitral family the following morning. Well, not the family, but Pierre Vitral. Another big mistake on his part. Later, Nicole would tell me the whole story, in great detail. Triumphantly.

  The next morning, in Dieppe, the Vitrals’ neighbours in Rue Pocholle were amazed to see a smart Mercedes parked in front of Pierre and Nicole’s house. De Carville entered, carrying a black briefcase, like someone from a movie.

  A caricature.

  ‘Mr Vitral, would it be possible for me to talk with you in private?’ Pierre Vitral hesitated. His wife did not. Her reply was unambiguous: ‘No, Mr de Carville, that would not be possible.’

  Nicole Vitral was holding little Marc in her arms. She did not let go of him as she continued speaking: ‘You see, this is a small house and the walls are thin. Even if I went into the kitchen, I would still hear everything that was said. So would the neighbours, for that matter. There are no secrets here. But then, we don’t want to keep secrets from each other.’

  Marc began to cry in her arms. She sat down on a chair and bounced him on her knees, making it clear that she was not going to budge.

  Léonce de Carville seemed unperturbed. ‘As you like,’ he said, smiling. ‘This won’t take long. What I have to propose can be summarised in a few words.’

  He moved further into the room, glancing at the small TV set in the corner, which was showing some American sitcom. The living room was tiny – thirty square feet at most – with orange Formica furniture, as if they were still living in the 1960s.

  ‘Mr Vitral, let us be frank. No one will ever know for sure which baby survived this aeroplane crash. Who is alive now – Lyse-Rose or Emilie? There will never be any real proof: you will always feel certain that it is Emilie, just as I will remain sure that Lyse-Rose was the one who survived. No matter what happens, our convictions will remain the same. That is human nature.’

  Up to that point, the Vitrals could only agree.

  ‘Even a judge or a jury will never be sure,’ de Carville went on. ‘They will be obliged to make a decision, but no one will ever know if it was the right one. Essentially, it is a fifty-fifty chance – heads or tails. Mr Vitral, do you really believe a child’s future should be determined by the toss of a coin?’

  The Vitrals gave no response. They were waiting for de Carville to make his point. Moronic laughter blared from the TV set. Nicole walked over, switched it off, then returned to her seat.

  ‘I am going to be completely honest with you, Mr Vitral. Mrs Vitral. I have gathered information about you. Doubtless you have done the same for me.’

  Nicole Vitral felt a growing dislike for this man’s self-satisfied smile.

  ‘You raised your children with dignity. Everyone says so. It wasn’t always easy for you. I heard about your eldest son, Nicolas – the moped accident, four years ago. I also heard about your back, Pierre, and your lungs, Nicole. I am sure that with a job such as yours . . . What I mean is, you ought to have found something else a long time ago. For your own sake, and for your grandson.’

  So that was
it. Nicole was holding Marc too tightly and he cried out.

  ‘What are you getting at, Mr de Carville?’ Pierre Vitral asked suddenly.

  ‘I am sure you have already grasped my meaning. We are not enemies. On the contrary. We should be friends, in the interests of our Dragonfly. We should join forces.’

  Nicole Vitral stood up. Léonce de Carville did not even notice, so attached was he to his chain of thought.

  ‘Let us be frank,’ he continued. ‘I am sure that you have dreamed of enabling your children, and your grandchildren, to enjoy real holidays, to study in the best schools. Of giving them all that they desire. All that they deserve. A real chance in life. But a real chance has a price. Everything has a price.’

  De Carville was digging a hole for himself, but he was incapable of realising it. Instead, he kept on digging. Horrified, the Vitrals said nothing.

  ‘Pierre, Nicole, I don’t know if our little Dragonfly is my granddaughter or yours, but I want to give her everything she could ever want, to satisfy her every desire. I swear I will make her the happiest girl in the world. In fact, I will go even further: I have a high regard for your family, and I would like to offer you financial help, so that you are better able to bring up your grandson Marc. I am well aware how difficult this tragedy has been for you, as well as for me, and that you will be forced to continue working for many years in order to feed another mouth . . .’

  Nicole Vitral moved closer to her husband. Her rage was building.

  Léonce de Carville finally hesitated for a moment, then continued: ‘Pierre, Nicole, if you agree to give up any claim to the child, to Lylie, if you acknowledge that her name is Lyse-Rose de Carville, I solemnly undertake to look after you and Marc. You will be able to see Lylie as often as you like – nothing will change in that sense. It will be as if you are still her grandparents . . .’

  The look on de Carville’s face was imploring, almost human.

  ‘I beg you to accept. Think of your future. Of Lylie’s future.’

  Nicole Vitral was going to say something, but it was Pierre who responded first. His voice was astonishingly calm.

  ‘Mr de Carville, I would prefer not even to reply to your question. Emilie is not for sale. Nor is Marc. Nor is anyone here. Money can’t buy everything, Mr de Carville. Didn’t the death of your son teach you that?’

  Taken aback, Léonce de Carville suddenly raised his voice. It was a rule of his never to remain on the defensive. Marc was now screaming in his grandmother’s arms. The whole street must have heard what followed.

  ‘No, Mr Vitral! Don’t start lecturing me, on top of everything else. Perhaps you don’t realise how humiliating it has been for me, to come here and make this proposal to you. I have offered you a genuine opportunity to escape your situation, and you can’t be bothered to take it. Pride is a wonderful thing . . .’

  ‘Get out!’

  De Carville did not budge.

  ‘Get out of here right now! And don’t forget your briefcase. How much is inside? What price were you offering us for Emilie? A hundred thousand francs? The cost of a nice car. Three hundred thousand – a bungalow with a sea view, for our retirement?’

  ‘Five hundred thousand francs, Mr Vitral. With more to come after the judge’s decision, if you wish.’

  ‘Get the hell out of my house.’

  ‘You are making a mistake. You are going to lose everything. You know as well as I do that you haven’t a chance of winning this battle. I have dozens of lawyers who are on first-name terms with the experts and the policemen in charge of this investigation. I am personally acquainted with half of the judges in the Paris High Court. That isn’t your world. The game is rigged, Mr Vitral, and you know it. The miracle child will be called Lyse-Rose, even if irrefutable evidence is found proving the opposite. Lyse-Rose is the one who survived; it is a fait accompli. That’s just how it is. I have not come here as your enemy, Mr Vitral. I was under no obligation to offer you anything. I came here simply to help you.’

  Marc was still wailing in Nicole’s arms.

  ‘I told you to get the hell out of my house.’

  De Carville picked up his briefcase and walked towards the door.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Vitral. At least I have eased my conscience. And it hasn’t cost me a penny!’

  He left.

  Nicole Vitral held Marc tightly. She was weeping into his hair. Weeping because she knew that de Carville had not been lying. Everything he had said was true. The Vitrals knew the workings of fate; they had faced up to it so many times. With pride. She also knew perfectly well that they had no chance of winning.

  Pierre Vitral stood for a long time staring at the soundless television. At that moment, his back was not troubling him. He was suffering from something else, a different pain that blocked it out.

  Pierre Vitral looked at the little television screen one last time. Finally, a glimmer of resistance appeared in his expression. Almost to himself, he mumbled: ‘No, Mr de Carville. No, you won’t win.’

  My own opinion of this incident, looking back at it years later, is that de Carville made a huge mistake that day. He awakened the Vitrals’ anger. Without that, he probably would have won the case, and no one would have paid any notice. The Vitrals would have cried foul, and the world would have turned a deaf ear.

  The Mercedes had not even left the Pollet island as Pierre Vitral took a newspaper from the cluttered cupboard shelf.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ his wife asked.

  ‘We’re going to fight. We’re going to crush him.’

  ‘How? You heard him. And he’s right . . .’

  ‘No . . . No, Nicole. Emilie is not dead yet. He forgot something. Everything he said was true before . . . before Dragonfly, before Pascal and Stéphanie died. But not anymore! Because we are important now too, Nicole. People are interested in us. We’re newsworthy. Our names are in the newspapers, on the radio . . .’ He turned towards the corner of the room. ‘And on TV too. I bet de Carville never watches TV. He has no idea. These days, TV, newspapers, they’re just as important as money.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Pierre Vitral underlined a telephone number in the newspaper.

  ‘I’m going to start with the Est Républicain. They know the case better than anyone. Nicole, you remember that journalist who wrote all those articles about the inquiry?’

  ‘Articles? The last one was barely five lines long!’

  ‘Exactly. All the more reason to start with her. Can you find her name for me?’

  Nicole Vitral put Marc on a chair in front of the television. From under the living-room table, she took a binder in which she had methodically collected every newspaper article about the Mont Terri crash. It took her only a few seconds.

  ‘Lucile Moraud!’

  ‘OK. We’ve nothing to lose. Let’s see where this gets us . . .’

  Pierre Vitral picked up the telephone and dialled the newspaper’s main switchboard.

  ‘Is this the Est Républicain? Hello, my name is Pierre Vitral. I’m the grandfather of the miracle child of Mont Terrible . . . Yes, “Dragonfly” . . . I would like to speak to one of your journalists, Lucile Moraud. I have some important information to give her about the case . . .’

  Pierre Vitral sensed a sudden urgency on the other end of the line. Less than a minute later, he heard a voice – slightly out of breath, and surprisingly deep for a woman’s – that sent a chill down his spine.

  ‘Pierre Vitral? This is Lucile Moraud. You have some news for me? Is it serious?’

  ‘Léonce de Carville has just left my house. He offered us five hundred thousand francs to drop our claim.’

  The three seconds of silence that followed seemed interminable to Pierre. Then the journalist’s husky voice broke the silence again, making him jump: ‘Do you have witnesses?’

  ‘The whole neighbourhood . . .’

  ‘Jesus Christ . . . Don’t move. Don’t speak to anyone else about this. We’re going to send s
omeone over right now to interview you.’

  11

  2 October, 1998, 10.00 a.m. Ten a.m. exactly.

  Marc had been reading with one eye on Grand-Duc’s words and

  one on the clock.

  He closed the green notebook and shoved it into his rucksack,

  among his folders. He walked up to the counter of the bar with a

  satisfied smile. Mariam was busy rinsing glasses, her back to him.

  Marc pressed an imaginary bell on the countertop. ‘Ding-dong!’ he

  said loudly. ‘Time’s up!’

  Mariam turned around and calmly dried her hands on a dishcloth, before folding it neatly and hanging it up.

  ‘Time’s up!’ Marc repeated.

  ‘All right . . .’

  Mariam looked up at the clock.

  ‘Well, you don’t waste any time! I bet you never overslept on

  Christmas morning, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But please hurry up, Mariam! You heard what Lylie

  said earlier: I have a class now . . .’

  ‘You can try that with other people, not with me,’ said Mariam.

  ‘Anyway, here it is . . . your present.’

  She opened a drawer, picked out the tiny packet, and handed it

  to Marc. He grabbed it eagerly and turned towards the exit. ‘Aren’t you going to open it now?’

  ‘No. Imagine if it’s something private. A sex toy, or some lacy

  lingerie . . .’

  ‘I’m not joking, Marc.’

  ‘So why would you want me to open it in front of you?’ ‘Because I can guess what’s in that package, smartass. And I’d like

  to be able to help pick you up after you fall.’

  Marc stared at Mariam, shocked.

  ‘You know what’s in this package?’

  ‘Yes . . . Well, more or less. It’s always the same thing. When . . .’ A customer standing behind Marc was drumming his fingers

  impatiently on the counter and staring at the row of Marlboro

  cigarettes.

  ‘When what?’

  Mariam sighed.