After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  Then she shrugged. What was the point?

  Her husband had sunk into this vegetative state nearly seventeen years ago. He had managed, with great difficulty, to recover from the first heart attack, but the second one had been too much. It had struck in the middle of the annual general meeting, on the seventh floor of their head office, near Bercy. The emergency services had managed to save his life, but his brain had been deprived of oxygen for too long.

  Mathilde continued examining her plants while observing the shadow of the cross she wore around her neck as it moved over the ground.

  God’s judgement. Once again.

  In the aftermath of the disaster on Mont Terri, her husband had wanted to do everything himself, as usual. And obediently, she had let him. After all, he was the powerful one, the one with all the right connections . . .

  How wrong she had been. After the death of their only son, Alexandre, Léonce had lost his clarity of vision. He had made so many mistakes! The briefcase stuffed full of cash that he had offered to the Vitrals; the bracelet he had refused to mention to the police; poor little Malvina, dragged around by him for weeks so she could testify left, right and centre.

  Not to mention the rest. The shameful secrets.

  Mathilde felt nothing but contempt for her invalid husband. After all these years, the Airbus accident was practically the only thing for which she didn’t blame him.

  Mathilde’s fingers flew from branch to branch. The roses’ thorns offered no resistance and the stems fell one after another.

  Of course, it had been his personal project, that famous Baku– Tbilisi–Ceyhan pipeline. Sending her only son to live in Turkey for months on end, with his pregnant wife, forcing their granddaughter to be born in a foreign country . . . And all for nothing. Now, in 1998, not one single length of that damn pipeline had been laid.

  Léonce de Carville had got everything wrong.

  She watched with disgust as the maple leaves fell onto her husband, dozens of them, covering his hair, his shoulders, his arms, piling up between his legs.

  Mathilde chopped off one last branch and stood back, contemplating her work. The dozen rose plants had been pruned to within an inch of their lives. Mathilde remembered the advice given to her by her own grandmother: ‘You can never prune a rose too much; prune them as much as you can, and then prune them some more; fight the plant’s desire to make you raise your clippers, and insist on pushing them lower. Always prune three inches lower than you think you need to.’

  The Roseraie villa dated from 1857: the year was still engraved in the granite above the porch. Mathilde knew that the roses had been planted that same year, and that the de Carville family had personally looked after them ever since. Dozens of people were employed by the family – to tidy the house, cook the meals, mow the lawn, polish the pots and pans, clean the windows, and guard the property – but for generations, the de Carvilles had looked after the rose garden themselves. Mathilde had been introduced to the art of gardening as soon as she was old enough to walk. In addition to looking after the rose plants, she had also planted a winter garden, not far from the villa. She took one last admiring look at the pruned plants and then, without even glancing at her husband, walked towards the greenhouse.

  She thought again of Malvina’s last words. So, Grand-Duc’s notes, the legacy of his eighteen-year investigation, were in the hands of Marc Vitral . . .

  The irony . . .

  Should she use Malvina to recover the book? Should she continue lying to her, maintain the girl’s illusions? All the evidence she had obtained since the accident, all that evidence provided by Grand-Duc . . . she had never mentioned any of it to Malvina. It would have killed her.

  Mathilde entered the greenhouse and stood there for a long time, as she did every morning, inhaling the wonderful blend of odours. This was her haven. Her life’s work. It was here, in this greenhouse, that she felt closest to God, to His creation. It was here that she was best able to pray, much more so than in any church.

  Malvina . . .

  Her poor, mad granddaughter.

  That, too, was her husband’s fault. She remembered what a lovely little girl Malvina had been at six years old. She remembered her laughter on the staircase, the cunning hiding places she found in the garden, her wonder-filled eyes as she sat with her grandmother and leafed through the herbarium . . . But what could she do for Malvina now, apart from lie to her? Put her in a psychiatric hospital? Malvina’s obsession was the only thing that made her get up in the mornings, made her dress, eat: Lyse-Rose was alive, she had survived, in spite of the judge’s decision eighteen years earlier, and she alone, her big sister, could bring her back to life, even after all these years.

  Bring her back to life with a Mauser L110 in her hands . . .

  Mathilde de Carville bent down near a bunch of Kaffir lilies, one of the last plants to flower in autumn. Every year, Mathilde managed to keep them alive in her greenhouse until December; it was a matter of great pride to her, the bouquet on the table on Christmas Eve, a mixture of rose lilies and Kaffir lilies. Mathilde maintained a tight control over the level of water in the soil: adequate moisture was the secret to her lilies’ radiance and longevity.

  Her mind wandered once again to Malvina, her own weapon of vengeance. Well, someone had to defend the de Carvilles’ interests. Why not Malvina?

  Things were going to change in the coming hours and days. Now that Lylie had read Grand-Duc’s notebook, Malvina was no longer the only time bomb walking the streets. Grand-Duc’s birthday present had been a poisoned chalice. The film of her life. All the family secrets revealed in a hundred pages.

  Two families. Twice the pain.

  Enough to make Lylie go mad too – mad with rage.

  Mathilde moved further into the greenhouse. The ‘Red September’ asters in her winter garden were losing their last petals, a few purple sunbeams clinging to the golden core . . .

  A curious image suddenly entered Mathilde’s mind. Almost like a dream, or a premonition. She pictured Lylie entering the Roseraie, armed with a revolver – a Mauser L110 – her finger poised on the trigger. She was walking softly across the lawn.

  And Lylie would have good reason to seek revenge, if GrandDuc had told all in his notebook. Mathilde smiled to herself. One question nagged at her. Would the finger on that trigger be adorned with her ring? The pale sapphire ring with inlaid diamonds . . .

  Gradually, the image faded. Beneath her breath, Mathilde whispered: ‘Happy birthday, Lylie.’

  If only she had known, she would never have hired Crédule Grand-Duc to carry out his stupid investigation.

  Mathilde walked on, turning back to check that she was still alone. She was. No one was watching her through the windows of the greenhouse. She leaned over her secret garden and pushed aside the irises to reveal a few discreet stems and the small yellow flowers of the greater celandine. Mathilde enjoyed looking at the four golden petals, arranged in a cross – ‘swallow-wort’, as it used to be called – but she preferred the celandine’s other side: the four petals concealed a fatal poison, perhaps the most toxic plant of all, with the unique concentration of alkaloids concealed within its sap.

  Her guilty pleasure. Her little weakness.

  God forgive her.

  * She turned around and left the greenhouse. Léonce de Carville was still sitting there, motionless except for the regular trembling of his body. A dead tree, with a twisted trunk.

  Mathilde’s gaze took in the entire property: the rose garden, the villa, the park . . .

  Perhaps all was not yet lost. Their name, breeding, honour.

  Lyse-Rose.

  She was starting to think like Malvina.

  One last hope did remain: that telephone call from Grand-Duc the night before, the last call he made before his death. He claimed to have discovered a new piece of evidence that called into question all his previous convictions. He told her this eureka moment had come two days earlier, in the final minutes of his contract, supp
osedly as he was reading the Est Républicain.

  Was she naïve enough to believe him? Was she stupid enough to be taken in by such an obvious bluff?

  Grand-Duc had not wanted to say any more; he said that he wanted to check a few final details. She thought again about Malvina and her Mauser. Grand-Duc had acted like someone out of a detective novel, the kind of witness who withholds information in search of a reward, but ends up with a bullet through their heart instead.

  And yet, in spite of everything, Mathilde could not help believing Grand-Duc’s last words.

  A way out. A final hope.

  And, as always in this case, fate hung in the balance. For one family to be given hope, the other must be offered despair.

  15

  2 October, 1998, 11.01 a.m. Miromesnil.

  Champs–Elysées–Clemenceau.

  The stations rushed past. With each one, the carriage became

  emptier. The train would speed up abruptly, only to slow down almost immediately, like a blind sprinter. A pretty girl got on at Invalides. For a moment, Marc thought it was Lylie, with her slender figure and her blonde hair. But only for a moment. The metro was crawling with pretty blondes. And neither chance nor his whining messages on Lylie’s answering machine would help him find her. The only thing that would help was an attentive reading of this notebook.

  Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal An official letter containing Judge Weber’s decision was delivered to the Vitrals’ letterbox, on Rue Pocholle, on the morning of 11 May 1981. The previous night, Dieppe’s vast seafront had been transformed into the scene of one gigantic party. Everyone had sung, drunk, laughed, danced barefoot on the grass. Dieppe, the Red City, the workers’ port, the town devastated by the gradual closure of all its factories, had celebrated the election to the French presidency of François Mitterrand the way other towns celebrate Bastille Day. Finally, the Left was in power. Finally, there were communists in the government. Change: the word was on everyone’s lips. The grand old lady of French seaside towns had donned her ballgown for one night only, and it suited her to perfection.

  Pierre and Nicole Vitral took part in the celebration, in their own way. They had been waiting for this – fighting for it, marching in support of it, distributing pamphlets – for a generation. Their van stayed open almost all night, selling champagne and cider along with their usual fare of crêpes, waffles and other snacks. But the Vitrals had not been able to abandon themselves wholly to the city’s joy. They were waiting for the judge’s letter, the final decision; they still feared that the de Carvilles would appeal, that some last-minute development would arise. They had not wanted to celebrate such an incredible victory until the official document was in their hands and they could hold little Emilie (who was still being kept at the nursery in Montbéliard) in their arms.

  They didn’t dare believe it. But, then again, who – even in Dieppe – had truly believed that the Left would win the election?

  It was about eight in the morning when Pierre opened the judge’s letter. His hands were trembling. He had slept for only two hours that night. Judge Weber’s letter left no room for doubt. The name of the sole survivor of the Mont Terri crash was Emilie Vitral. Her paternal grandparents were now her legal guardians. They could go to Montbéliard to fetch her that very morning.

  In Pollet, there was still plenty of champagne and food to be shared around. The celebrations would continue.

  The tenth and eleventh of May, 1981, were the most wonderful days of their lives.

  Mathilde de Carville waited until darkness fell before she approached the Vitrals’ van. She had watched patiently while the last customers were served. She had also made sure that Nicole Vitral was alone: her husband was in Pollet, for the district meeting – as he was every Wednesday evening. He was thinking seriously about standing for local government. It was a warm May night, though windy, as always.

  Mathilde de Carville made her move on 13 May 1981, exactly two days after the euphoria. It is not easy for me to write impartially about her, as you will soon understand. If the portrait I paint of her does not seem objective, you must at least believe in my sincerity.

  Mathilde had trusted in her husband all the way through the hearing; in her husband and in God. Until that point, she had never had cause to complain about God, nor her husband for that matter. Born into an aristocratic family in Angers that had moved to the chic Parisian suburb of Coupvray, she was a gracious, intelligent, humane young woman, with a dash of malice à la Romy Schneider. In her early twenties, Mathilde was admired, envied, courted . . . but not for long. She put her trust in God, fell in love with the first man heaven set in her path, and swore eternal fidelity to him. This was Léonce, a brilliant, ambitious and penniless young engineer. Little by little, the engineer destroyed every gracious and humane impulse Mathilde had in her. But if God had willed it thus . . .

  With Mathilde came a dowry of inestimable value: her family name. Mathilde de Carville. A name redolent of privilege and noble blood. Léonce took his wife’s name, which is, of course, rather unusual. In order for a husband to do that, you need a genealogical tree that goes all the way back St Louis. So, Mathilde gave her husband her name, along with the several million francs in French treasury bonds that he needed to found the de Carville company. Léonce’s industrial genius did the rest: hence the company’s commercial success, the huge profits, the legal patents, the subsidiaries all around the world. Up to that point, Mathilde must have believed that her name had been wisely invested.

  When God took her son Alexandre from her in that plane crash, Mathilde did not doubt. That might seem strange to you, but years of experience have taught me that misfortune tends to intensify religious belief rather than shake it. Divine injustice causes not revolt, but submission, just as punishment leads to obedience. Mathilde took the veil and atoned for her sins – only God knew what they were. She trusted in God’s justice, and in the justice of men.

  However, when Judge Weber decreed the death of her granddaughter, Mathilde doubted for the first time. Not in God, of course, but she lost her belief in the justice of men. Her belief in her husband, too.

  Her faith changed. It was no longer simply contemplative, passive, submissive. Mathilde had now become aware that she was God’s representative on Earth, that her faith was her strength, her weapon. It gave her direction, a divine mission. She knew she had to act.

  I know where this kind of thinking can lead. All over the world, people are busy killing each other on behalf of gods that never asked them to do a thing. I had a taste of that in another life, before I became a private detective.

  Happily for Mathilde, her transformation went smoothly. She simply believed that some men were deaf to the word of God, and that the reason the Almighty had given her so much money was not to undermine His decision, but so that she might use it to change the order of things.

  Filled with these new convictions, Mathilde de Carville made two decisions. The first was that she would go to see Nicole Vitral, that May evening on the seafront in Dieppe; a meeting that Nicole Vitral still remembered in astonishing detail when I met her twenty months later.

  Nicole Vitral was instinctively cautious when she saw Mathilde de Carville arrive. The two women had seen each other, weighed each other up, during the hearing. Now, everything had changed. Nicole Vitral knew her rights. Emilie was her granddaughter. No one, not even a de Carville, could take that away from her. For that reason, and that reason only, she agreed to hear what Mathilde de Carville had to say.

  Mathilde stood in front of the Citroën van. Nicole, standing inside the vehicle, was a good seven inches taller than her. Mathilde’s voice was emotionless.

  ‘Madame Vitral, I will get straight to the point. Some bereavements are harder to bear than others. As I’m sure you will realise, Judge Weber’s verdict was like a death penalty for us. In giving life to one child, he has killed another.’

  Nicole Vitral looked irritated, as if all she wanted to do was close the metal
shutter and leave it there.

  Mathilde raised her voice slightly: ‘No, no, please hear me out. You see, today, so soon after the verdict, we don’t realise what it will be like. You have a baby to look after. Lyse-Rose is still fresh in our memory. But in five, ten, twenty years? Lyse-Rose will never have existed, never have played, never have gone to school. Emilie will exist; she will live. The crash will be forgotten, and so will the agonising doubt. She will be, forever, Emilie Vitral, and even if she wasn’t really Emilie Vitral, that is who she will become. No one will care anymore about what happened just after her birth.’

  A gust of cold wind made the orange-and-red canvas awning flap noisily against the van. Nicole Vitral felt embarrassed, ill at ease, but she did not interrupt.

  ‘Nicole . . . May I call you Nicole? Yes, some bereavements are harder to bear. I will never have a gravestone where I can leave flowers, no slab of marble with her name engraved on it. Because if I did that, Nicole, if I grieved for Lyse-Rose as if she were dead, if I prayed for her soul, I would be a monster! Because I would be burying someone who is, perhaps, alive . . .’

  ‘Here we go!’ said Nicole Vitral coldly.

  ‘No, Nicole, you don’t understand. Hear me out before you judge me. I do not want to take Emilie away from you. It’s all quite simple from your perspective. If she really is your granddaughter, then everything has worked out perfectly. If she is not yours, then you will raise her like an adopted child. The uncertainty no longer matters to you. But for me, that uncertainty, that doubt . . .’

  ‘What is your point?’ Nicole demanded. She had grown in confidence since this case began, through her dealings with the media, the lawyers, the police. In the same loud voice, she said: ‘Do you want the child to call you “granny”? To phone you from time to time? You want to invite her on the first Sunday of each month for biscuits and tea?’