Night

by Bernard Minier

  ‘I’m the better marksman of the two of us, don’t forget!’ shouted Vincent, following close behind.

  A laugh rang out a bit further away, beyond the fir trees, and Servaz recognised Hirtmann. He went even faster, his head spinning, his stomach burning.

  After they’d passed the tall fir tree they saw the four of them: the two dead men, one tied naked to a tree, and the other, the one who had attacked him in his hospital room, lying in the snow, while Kirsten had her gun pointed at Hirtmann.

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Espérandieu behind him.

  From further down the slope, on the far side of the clinic, came the wailing of sirens, very near.

  ‘Martin,’ said Kirsten when she saw him, and for a moment it seemed to him that she was not at all pleased. ‘You should be in bed.’

  ‘Martin,’ said Hirtmann in turn. ‘Tell her not to shoot me.’

  He saw the gun hanging at Hirtmann’s side.

  ‘He killed my sister,’ said Kirsten, her voice vibrant with hatred. ‘He deserves to die.’

  ‘Kirsten,’ Servaz began.

  ‘He tortured her, he raped and killed her.’ Her lower lip was trembling, as was the barrel of her gun. ‘I don’t want him to spend the rest of his days in a psychiatric hospital, do you understand? All pampered and talking to journalists and shrinks. That’s not what I want.’

  ‘Kirsten, put down your gun,’ he said, taking aim at her with his own gun.

  ‘She’s going to shoot,’ said Hirtmann. ‘Stop her, Martin. Fire first.’

  Martin looked from Kirsten to Hirtmann, then back at Kirsten.

  ‘Her name is Kirsten Margareta Nigaard,’ said Hirtmann quickly. ‘She is my mistress and my accomplice. She has a tattoo that goes from her groin to her hip. Did you sleep with her, Martin? Then you know that—’

  Suddenly, he saw the barrel of her gun edge away from Hirtmann and swing in his direction. Trigger, flex index finger, press … Her hand was trembling – from the cold, exhaustion, stupefaction, pain, rage – trembling far too much to take proper aim. Trembling far too much to win the duel.

  The details appeared to him in shattering snapshots: the boughs of the fir trees heavy with snow, suddenly swaying in a gust of wind; the naked body tied to the tree; the other body with its arms spread, looking up at the sky; the cold wind biting his bare calves, and Kirsten’s gun, turning, turning …

  He fired.

  He felt the recoil in his shoulder, the pain in his belly, he heard the ‘flop’ of a clump of snow loosened by the sound wave, or perhaps the wind. He saw Kirsten’s incredulous gaze upon him. Her arm falling, her hand letting go of the gun. Her lips forming an ‘O’. Then her knees gave way, a tremor went through her as if she were shivering, and she fell, her beautiful features face down in the snow.

  ‘Well done, Martin,’ said Hirtmann.

  He heard shouts behind him, or rather cries. Guttural, in German.

  He supposed this meant he ought to drop his gun. It would be stupid to get shot now, wouldn’t it? He looked at the three bodies in the snow, his gaze lingering on Kirsten’s. Once again he felt the sting of betrayal.

  He felt stupid, naïve, credulous, devastated, exasperated, sick.

  Once again, life had reclaimed what it had given him. Once again blood had been shed, and there was anger and remorse. Rage and sorrow. Once again darkness had triumphed, and the shadows had returned, more powerful than ever, and daylight had fled, frightened, far from there, to a place where normal people led normal lives. Then everything disappeared. He no longer felt a thing. Only immense fatigue.

  ‘But you needn’t have fired,’ added Hirtmann.

  ‘What?’

  Behind him, the cries in German had become more urgent, more imperious. They were right nearby. These were orders, no doubt about it. Drop your gun. They were going to fire if he didn’t.

  ‘She only had one bullet in the gun. And she’d already fired it. The magazine was empty, Martin. You killed her for nothing,’ said Hirtmann, showing him the magazine he had just removed from his pocket.

  He wanted to lie down in the snow and watch the snowflakes drift down from the sky, right onto him, and fall asleep.

  He obeyed; he let go of his gun.

  And passed out.

  Epilogue

  The snow fell all day long, and on the days that followed, over Hallstatt and the surrounding area. Hirtmann was interrogated at the tiny police station that looked like something straight out of The Sound of Music. Reger and his men began the interrogation in German, until Espérandieu asked them if they couldn’t do it in English. Then a guy showed up from Vienna or Salzburg, and took control of the situation.

  It would take a few more days for them to decide what to do with Hirtmann (he had killed a man on Austrian territory, so it was a matter for Austrian law), and they decided to empty out the cells of the little police station.

  Servaz did not attend the interrogations. He had been transferred to the hospital in Bad Ischl, as had all the patients from the clinic. It was temporarily or permanently closed, and the director was nowhere to be found. At the hospital, Servaz was initially placed in intensive care, then kept under observation. His untimely departure from the clinic had caused damage – less, however, than anyone had expected, or than he had feared, but they had to open him up a second time all the same, to make sure. The Austrian police came to interrogate him at length about what had happened in the forest: what Espérandieu, Servaz and Reger – and even Hirtmann – had said seemed to tally almost perfectly, but the investigators were finding it very difficult to comprehend the chain of events that had led four people to shoot each other and a renowned conductor to end up naked, bound to a tree and killed.

  In his hospital bed Servaz received a number of telephone calls: from Margot, three times a day, and then Samira, Judge Desgranges, Cathy d’Humières and even Charlène Espérandieu – plus Alexandra, his ex-wife. As for Vincent, he left after two days, but he had stopped off morning, afternoon, and evening to see him.

  ‘They won’t let me go,’ said Servaz, smiling vaguely from his bed, as Vincent had just told him he was going back to France. ‘How far have they got with Hirtmann?’

  ‘They’re still interrogating him. He did kill a man on Austrian territory, after all – they’re not going to hand him over to us all that soon.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Take care of yourself, Martin. And come back quickly.’

  He mused that this final point did not depend solely on him, but he didn’t say anything. Somewhere outside bells were ringing. The landscape was completely white. All that was missing were Christmas carols, but he had no doubt that at some point there would be a ‘Stille Nacht’ at the hospital. He hoped he would be done with the place before then.

  His phone rang shortly after Vincent left.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ asked a voice that was all too familiar.

  ‘What do you want, Rimbaud?’

  ‘I have good news and bad news. Where should I begin?’

  ‘Don’t you have anything less clichéd?’

  ‘The good news is that we received a flash drive. It would seem that it was sent on the very day you had your operation. From Austria. Do you want to know what’s on it?’

  Servaz smiled. Rimbaud could not help torturing people one way or another.

  ‘Out with it,’ he said.

  ‘A film,’ replied the inspector. ‘A film shot with a GoPro fastened to the cameraman’s chest. The night Jensen was killed. It shows everything: the attempted rape, the filmmaker rushing at Jensen, shooting him point blank in the temple, then vanishing into the woods. After that, he turns the GoPro around and waves at us, stupid bastard.’

  ‘Hirtmann?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  Servaz let his head fall back against the pillow and took a deep breath, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘This clears you of Jensen’s murder, Servaz,’ said Rimbaud. ‘Although I really do wonder why Hirtmann sent it to us
.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But it does not exonerate you for behaviour unworthy of a member of the French National Police: fleeing from police headquarters, entering Austria under a false identity, murdering Kirsten Nigaard, an officer of the Norwegian police, with a gun that was not your service weapon …’

  ‘Self-defence,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well well, it seems you’re not so quick to jump to conclusions now.’

  ‘I’m going to ask for your dismissal,’ said Rimbaud. ‘The French police can no longer allow itself to have people like yourself in its ranks. And your friend Espérandieu will also be disciplined.’

  After that, he hung up.

  The next day, Servaz lay in his bed and watched the snowflakes falling. He could not possibly get up or walk around. The doctors kept telling him that his survival was a miracle: after the operation on his heart he should never have had an operation on his liver so soon. As for the fact that he went out to shoot and kill someone less than an hour after he’d regained consciousness, it was an exploit that would go down in the annals of Austrian medical history. He now had two huge scars that made him look like a regular Frankenstein’s monster: one on his chest, the other that started below his sternum, went straight down for 6 centimetres, then suddenly veered off to the side. He asked regularly for news of Gustav, who was in an adjacent ward: Gustav was fine, but he kept asking to see his papa – Hirtmann, in other words.

  On the morning of the fifth day Servaz was finally able to get up. His first visit was, of course, to see his son. The boy did not look well, and the shadows under his eyes were deeper than ever, but the physician on duty was reassuring: the initial signs were encouraging, and Gustav seemed to be tolerating the immunosuppressant treatment they’d administered to reduce the risk of transplant rejection. Servaz’s mind was not fully at ease: there were still so many things that could go wrong.

  Gustav was asleep when Servaz entered the room. He had his thumb in his mouth and his long blond eyelashes were quivering slightly. Servaz thought that his sleep must be full of dreams, and he wondered if they were pleasant. He looked for a long while at the calm little face, the sheet and blanket tucked under his chin, his narrow ribcage rising and falling – at that moment, Gustav seemed to be resting peacefully – then he left the room as silently as he had come.

  Servaz and Gustav spent Christmas Day in hospital, among the cheerful chatter of the nurses, the blinking lights, and the little synthetic Christmas trees. Then came a freezing January, both in Austria and in France. At last in February Servaz was able to go home. He was immediately called before the disciplinary council, and got off with a temporary three-month unpaid suspension, and demotion to the rank of captain. He devoted months to doing all he could to obtain custody of Gustav, who had been placed with a foster family. France had a new president by the time his wish was granted and he found himself trying to win over the new member of his family. They were difficult days: the boy wept, called for his real father, threw tantrums. Servaz was distraught; he felt completely out of his depth, and totally incompetent. Fortunately Charlène, Vincent and their two children came to the rescue: Charlène dropped by almost every day, while Servaz gradually went back to work, and bit by bit Gustav seemed to adapt to the new situation; even to enjoy it. This made Servaz happier than he had been in a long time.

  In Austria, Julian Hirtmann was transferred to the prison in Leoben, an ultra-modern glass prison commonly referred to as ‘the five-star prison’. France was calling for his extradition, but Hirtmann had to be tried in Austria first. Another Christmas was approaching when, one night, he complained of nausea and stomach cramps. The doctor was sent for. He could find nothing to explain such stomach pain other than a slight swelling and, so he thought, stress. He gave Hirtmann two tablets and made out a prescription. Not long after he left, Hirtmann asked the young guard on duty for another glass of water.

  ‘How are your children, Jürgen?’ he asked, reaching for the glass of water and making sure no one else could hear. ‘How are Daniel and Saskia?’

  He saw the young officer turn pale.

  ‘And your wife, Sandra, is she still teaching little ones?’

  Beyond the dark windows it was snowing. The faraway drone of the wind accompanied Hirtmann’s all-too-distinct voice. Somewhere a laugh rang out, then silence returned.

  ‘How do you know the names of my children?’ asked Jürgen, giving a start.

  ‘I know everything about every one of you here,’ answered Hirtmann, ‘and I know a great number of people outside. I’m sorry, I was just trying to be polite.’

  ‘I don’t think so, no,’ said the young guard in a voice that tried, but failed, to sound assertive.

  ‘Indeed, you are right. I have a little favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Forget it, Hirtmann. I’m not doing you any favours.’

  ‘I have a lot of friends outside,’ hissed Hirtmann, ‘and I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to Daniel or Saskia.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s really only a tiny favour. If you could just get me a Christmas card, and then send it to the address I will give you. Nothing at all bad, you see.’

  ‘What did you say before that?’ growled the young man, furious. ‘Go on – repeat it.’

  He was staring angrily at Hirtmann, but his anger quickly turned to fear, then a wave of pure terror, when he saw how Hirtmann’s features changed before his eyes, a literal metamorphosis, the dark shadow entering his eyes and the evil spark in his gaze. And how this horrible change lent his gaze, in the cold, surgical beam of the neon light, an unbearable intensity, and gave him the face of someone who is no longer human, a face that only madness could engender. The voice that emerged then in a powerful murmur from those almost feminine lips uttered words Jürgen would never forget:

  ‘Let me tell you that if you don’t want to find your pretty little Saskia dead in the snow, her skirt pulled up by some monster like me, you’d better listen to me.’

  Resilience is a mysterious quality. It refers to the faculty of the body, the mind, an organism, or a system to return to a state of balance after a serious change, to continue to function, to live, and to move on, while overcoming a traumatic shock.

  Martin Servaz needed some time to return to a state of balance, but he recovered. And one event helped in particular. On Christmas Day 2017, the doorbell rang at the Espérandieus’ house. Many people were gathered that morning by the Christmas tree in the living room, along with an even greater number of presents, but most spoiled of all, beyond a doubt, was Gustav.

  His biological father watched him opening his presents one after the other, his little face lit with joy; there to encourage him were Margot – holding her baby in her arms – Vincent, Charlène, and their two children. With his little fingers he tore off the colourful wrapping paper, opened the boxes with quick, impatient gestures, and pulled out the toys with somewhat exaggerated exclamations of surprise. And every smile on his face was a smile in Servaz’s heart. But a moment afterwards Servaz’s thoughts turned darker, and all of a sudden he felt the crushing burden of responsibility on his shoulders, a responsibility that was far too great, in all honesty, for a man like him.

  That Christmas morning he also thought about Kirsten. He had been thinking about her every day for a year, in fact. Yet again he had been deluded. He was angry with himself for having lowered his guard, for having let falsehood come into his life wearing a disguise; he was angry with himself for having nurtured absurd hopes, hopes that could only be disappointed. At the same time, he wondered if Kirsten Nigaard had ever been sincere. The truth was that she had come to him to guide him towards her lover and master. She had lured him into a trap, the way she had lured the orchestra conductor and his hitman. He tried not to think of those moments of shared intimacy, tried to erase them from his memory. But did he have to deny his own feelings, simply because the other person had not felt the same thing?
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  ‘Martin, Martin!’ said Charlène joyfully.

  He looked up. Gustav was standing before him, handing him his Transformers truck. Servaz smiled, reached out for the toy. The doorbell had just rung. Vincent left the room.

  He heard someone talking in the hall, and Espérandieu saying, ‘Just a moment.’

  He was fiddling with the toy, holding it every which way before Gustav’s attentive and, so it seemed, slightly sceptical gaze, when Vincent called to him from the door:

  ‘Martin, can you come?’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said to his son.

  He stood up and walked over to the front door.

  He looked at the man standing there: an employee wearing a brown UPS uniform. Apparently the delivery company had decided to make their personnel work on 25 December.

  Then he saw his assistant’s face and he felt his pulse quicken.

  ‘It’s from Austria,’ said Espérandieu. ‘It’s addressed to you. Someone knows you’re here.’

  Servaz looked at the envelope. Took it. Opened it.

  It was a Christmas card: holly, garlands, shining baubles. A cheap one. He opened it.

  Merry Christmas, Martin

  Julian

  Inside there was a photograph. He recognised her at once. She was wearing the same khaki tunic dress with a woven belt as she had on one of the last times he had seen her; she had the same curly blonde hair, the same strands falling over the left-hand side of her face, the same subtle lipstick. She did not seem to have changed in all those years, in spite of the newspaper she was reading which clearly indicated that the picture had been taken scarcely three months earlier. She was smiling.

  ‘That fucking scumbag,’ roared Espérandieu next to him. ‘Bastard. On Christmas Day! Throw that thing out. It’s been Photoshopped.’

  Servaz stared at his assistant, not seeing him. He was certain that Vincent was wrong: that it hadn’t been Photoshopped, and that analysis would prove as much. It was indeed Marianne there before his eyes.

  Reading a newspaper from 26 September 2017.