Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
Mme Gervais arrived home at 1.20 a.m. The light came on in the bathroom again, and their bedroom lights went out at about 2.00. I waited until 4.00 before I went up. I made a detour to the cloakroom to find her hiking boots, to remove the laces, then retraced my steps. I stood listening to Sophie sleeping for a long time before slowly, silently, creeping through her room. The little boy was sound asleep, his breathing made a soft, high-pitched whistle. I don’t think he suffered much. I wrapped the laces around his throat, pressed the pillow down on his face with my shoulder, and it was all over quickly. But it was horrifying. He writhed and thrashed furiously. I felt that I was going to throw up, tears came to my eyes. And suddenly, with absolute terrible certainty, I knew that in those few seconds I became someone very different. I managed to finish the job, but I could never do it again. Something in me died with that boy. Something of the child in me that I had not realised was still alive.
In the morning, I was concerned when I did not see Sophie emerging from the building. It’s not like her. There was no way of knowing what was happening in the apartment. I telephoned, twice. And a few minutes later, a few interminable minutes later, I saw her suddenly appear, clearly in a blind panic. She took the
métro
. She raced back to her apartment to pick up some clothes, and then called into the bank just as it was closing for lunch.
Sophie was on the run.
The following morning, the headline in
Le Matin
read: “
SIX-YEAR-OLD STRANGLED IN HIS SLEEP. POLICE SEARCH FOR NANNY
”.
January 2004
In
February of last year,
Le Matin
ran the headline: “
WHERE IS SOPHIE DUGUET
?”
It had just been discovered that, after murdering little Léo Gervais, Sophie had bumped off a woman named Véronique Fabre and stolen her identity in order to escape. No-one could know that the following June, she would murder the manager of a fast-food restaurant who was employing her cash in hand.
Sophie Duguet proved more resourceful and determined than anyone imagined. Myself included, and I know her better than anyone. “Survival instinct” is not an empty phrase. For Sophie to get away, she needed a little help from me, though always at a distance, but I suspect she might have managed it without my help. Whatever the case, the fact remains that Sophie is still a free woman. She has moved several times, changing her hairstyle, her clothes, her routine, her job, her friends.
Despite the difficulties posed by her being on the run, living incognito, never staying in the same place for long, I have managed to keep up the pressure on her because my methods are effective. Over the months, she and I were like two blind actors in a tragedy: we were destined to meet, and that moment was fast approaching.
They say that it was by constantly changing tactics that Napoleon won his wars. This is also how Sophie succeeded. She has changed course a hundred times. Recently she has changed her plans again. And she is about to change her name once more. This is a recent development. With the help of a prostitute, she has managed to purchase genuine/forged papers. The papers themselves are forgeries, but the identity is genuine, almost verifiable, irreproachable, the name of someone to whom nothing
much has ever happened. As soon as she had her new identity she moved again to another city. I have to say that, at the time, I could not really work out what good it would do her to spend an exorbitant amount of money on a forged birth certificate, given that they are only ever valid for three months after issue. But when I saw her signing up with a dating agency everything fell into place.
It is an ingenious solution. Credit where credit is due: Sophie may still be suffering harrowing nightmares, shaking like a leaf all day long, obsessively keeping a check on her every action, but I have to admit she has an extraordinarily ability to come up with imaginative ideas. And this one means I need to think on my feet, and fast.
I’d be lying if I said it was difficult. I know her so well. I knew how she would react, what would interest her. Because I was the only person who knew precisely what she was looking for and, I believe, the only person in a position to play the role. To be really plausible, I had to make sure I did not come across as the perfect candidate; it was a matter of striking just the right balance. Initially, Sophie knocked me back. Then time worked its magic. She hesitated, she came back. At that point, I had to appear awkward enough to seem convincing, yet cunning enough not to put her off. As a
sergent-chef
in the Signals Corps, I can pass for an acceptable moron. As of a few weeks ago, Sophie had three short months to seal the deal, so she decided to speed things up. We spent a couple of nights together. Here, again, I think I played my role with admirable delicacy.
As a result, the day before yesterday, Sophie asked me to marry her.
I said yes.
The
apartment is not very large, but it is practical. It is perfectly fine for a couple. This is what Frantz said when they moved in, and Sophie agreed. Three rooms, two with French windows overlooking the building’s small communal garden. They are on the top floor. The place is quiet. Shortly after they moved in, Frantz took her to see the military base twelve kilometres away, though they did not go inside. He just waved to the orderly on duty, who nodded vaguely in response. Since his hours are flexible, he leaves home late and gets back early.
The wedding took place at Château-Luc town hall. Frantz took responsibility for finding two witnesses. Sophie was rather expecting him to ask two of his colleagues from the base, but he said no, he would rather it remained private. (He must be pretty creative: he managed to get one week’s leave.) Two men of about fifty who seemed to know each other were waiting for them on the steps of the town hall. They shook Sophie by the hand a little self-consciously, but when it came to Frantz they simply gave a curt nod. The deputy mayor ushered them into the wedding hall and when she saw there were only four of them, asked “Is that
all?”, then bit her lip. She seemed keen to get the ceremony over with.
“She turned up the wick a bit, but at least she got the job done,” Frantz said.
A military expression.
Frantz could have got married in uniform, but he preferred to wear civvies which means that Sophie has never seen him in uniform, not even in a photograph; she bought herself a print dress that accentuated her hips. A few days earlier, blushing to the roots of his hair, Frantz had shown her his mother’s wedding dress. Though somewhat threadbare now, Sophie had been spellbound: a lavish creation of chiffon as insubstantial as snow, which had since been in the wars. There are patches of darker fabric that looked like ancient stains. She realised that Frantz had an ulterior motive in showing her the dress, but when she saw the condition it was in, she dismissed the idea. Sophie expressed her surprise that he had kept the relic. “Yes,” he said, startled, “I’m not sure why myself . . . I should probably throw it out, it’s just an old thing.” Then he carefully packed it away into the hall cupboard, something that made Sophie smile.
When they emerged from the town hall, Frantz handed his camera to one of the witnesses and explained how to focus. “Then all you have to do is press this button.” Reluctantly, she stood next to him on the steps of the town hall. Then Frantz wandered off a little way with the witnesses. Sophie turned her back, she did not want to see the money changing hands. “It’s still a marriage,” she thought a little foolishly.
Now that he is her husband, Frantz seems quite different from the impression Sophie had of him when he was her fiancé. He is more subtle, less boorish in his manner. As often with simple
souls, Frantz will sometimes say things that seem particularly astute. Though he is more reticent now that he does not feel he has to keep up the conversation, he still gazes at Sophie as though she were one of the wonders of the world, a dream come true. He calls her “Marianne” with such tenderness that Sophie has become accustomed to the name. He is the epitome of a caring, attentive husband. Sophie is surprised to find herself noticing his good qualities. The first, and the most unexpected, is that he is a powerful man. Sophie has never fantasised about muscular men, but on their first night together, she was thrilled by his strong arms, his taut stomach, his well-developed pectorals. She was naïvely charmed when one night he smiled and effortlessly lifted her up and set her on the roof of a car. She felt a sudden longing to be protected. Something deep within her, something weary and worn out, slowly began to relax. Events in her life have robbed her of the hope that she might be truly happy; in its place she feels a contentment that is almost enough. Many marriages endure for decades with just that. She had felt a little contemptuous when she chose him because he was simple, ordinary. Now she is relieved to feel a certain respect for him. Without thinking, she curls up with him in bed, lets him take her in his arms, allows him to kiss her, to make love to her.
So the first weeks passed, still in black and white, though the ratio was different. On the black side, though the faces of the dead did not fade, they appeared less frequently now, as though distancing themselves. On the white side, she was sleeping better, and if she did not exactly feel completely alive, she could feel a certain stirring: she took a childlike pleasure in doing the housework, cooking the meals – like a little girl playing at having a tea party – and looking for a job – though half-heartedly since
Frantz assured her that his salary was enough to keep them both.
At first, Frantz would leave for the base at 8.45 a.m. and come home between 4.00 and 5.00 p.m. In the evenings, they would go to the cinema or have dinner at the Brasserie du Templier, a short walk from where they lived. Their path was the reverse of that of other couples: they had started by getting married, now they were getting to know each other. Even so, they did not talk much. Sophie would have been unable to explain what made their evenings together pass so smoothly. But then again . . . One subject did come up regularly. As with every couple in the early days, Frantz was very interested in Sophie’s life, her past, her parents, her childhood, her studies. Had she had many lovers? How old was she when she lost her virginity? All the things that men claim are not important but never stop harping on about. So Sophie created plausible parents, talked about their divorce (this part was based largely in reality), invented a new mother who had little in common with her real mother, and of course she made no mention of her marriage to Vincent. As for her lovers and losing her virginity, she drew upon stock clichés, which seemed to satisfy Frantz. As far as he is concerned, Marianne’s life seems to stop abruptly five or six years ago and begin again on the day they were married. Between the two, there is still a yawning gap. She knows that sooner or later she will have to come up with a credible story to cover this period. But she has time. Frantz may be an inquisitive lover, but he is no sleuth.
Overcome by her new sense of calm, Sophie has begun to read again. Frantz regularly brings home paperbacks from the newsagent’s. Being out of touch with what has been published in recent years, she has had to trust to chance – to trust to Frantz – and he has proved very lucky in his choices: he has brought home
some potboilers, of course, but also Citati’s
Portraits de femmes
and, as though he sensed her passion for Russian writers, Vasily Grossman’s
Vie et destin
and Ikonnikov’s
Dernières nouvelles du bourbier
. They watch films together on television, and he brings home videos. Here, too, his choices are sometimes fortuitous: this is how she finally got to see the famous “Cherry Orchard” with Michel Piccoli. As the weeks passed, Sophie felt overcome by an almost voluptuous lassitude, something approaching the marvellous marital numbness sometimes felt by wives who do not go out to work.
The numbness was misleading. Far from being a symptom of new-found tranquillity, as she imagined, it was a precursor to a new bout of depression.
One night, she began thrashing about in the bed, turning this way and that. And Vincent’s face suddenly appeared.
In her dream, Vincent was a huge, distorted face, as though photographed with a fish-eye lens or reflected in a concave mirror. It was not really the face of
her
Vincent, the man she had loved. It was of Vincent after the accident, the eyes perpetually tearful, the head lolling to one side, the mouth half open but robbed of words. But no, Vincent does not communicate with grunts. He speaks. As Sophie tosses and turns in her sleep, trying to get away, he stares at her and speaks in a soft, deep voice. It is not really his voice, just as it is not really his face, but it is him, because he says things that only he could know. His face barely moves, his pupils dilate to become huge, hypnotic saucers,
I am here, Sophie my darling, I am speaking to you from beyond the grave, where you consigned me. I have come to tell you how much I loved you, to show you how much I love you still
. Sophie struggles, but Vincent’s eyes pin her to the bed, her thrashing arms are ineffective.
Why did you
send me to my death, my darling? Not once, but twice, remember?
In the dream, it is night-time.
The first time, it was simple fate
. Vincent is driving carefully along the road in the driving rain. Through the windscreen, she watches as he becomes tired, sees his head drooping, his eyelids fluttering, watches him screw up his eyes to ward off sleep as the rain lashes harder, flooding the road ahead, and the blustery wind plasters sycamore leaves against the windshield.
I was just tired, Sophie my dream, I was not dead then. Why did you want me dead?
Sophie tries to answer, but her tongue is heavy, numb, it seems to fill her mouth completely.
You’ve got nothing to say, have you?
Sophie would like to say something, to tell him: My darling, I miss you so much, I miss life now that you are dead, I am dead now you are gone. But no words come.
Do you remember how I was? I know that you remember. Since my death, I do not move nor speak, I simply drool, you remember how I drooled, my head is heavy, my soul, my soul is heavy, and how heavy my heart is to see you stare at me tonight. I picture you exactly as you were on the day of my second death. You are wearing the blue dress I never liked. You are standing by a fir tree, Sophie my gift, your arms folded, and so silent
(move, Sophie, wake up, do not be a prisoner of memory, it can only bring you grief. Do not accept it),
you look at me and I merely drool, I cannot speak, but I gaze lovingly at my Sophie, while you look at me with such cruelty, such bitterness, such loathing, I know that now my love can no longer move you: you have begun to hate me, I am the dead weight hung about your life for centuries to come
(don’t accept this, Sophie, turn over, do not allow the nightmare to engulf you, these lies will kill you, this is not you, wake up, whatever the cost, force yourself to wake up)
and you calmly turn, to grasp one of the branches of the Christmas tree, to stare at me, your eyes vacant as you strike a match, and
you light one of the candles
(don’t let him say such things, Sophie. Vincent is mistaken, you could never have done such a thing. He is in pain, his suffering is great because he is dead, but you are still alive, Sophie. Wake up!),
the tree flares, a vast, all-consuming blaze and at the far end of the room, I see you disappear behind the wall of flames licking at the curtains and, terrified but paralysed in my wheelchair, I tense every muscle, but in vain, I watch you leave, Sophie, my flame
(if you cannot move, Sophie, scream!),
Sophie my vision, I see you now at the head of the stairs, standing on that wide landing from which you hurled my wheelchair. You have just performed your act of mercy. How headstrong you look, how single-minded
(resist, Sophie, don’t allow yourself to be consumed by Vincent’s death).
Before me, the abyss of the stone staircase, broad as a cemetery path, deep as a well, and you, Sophie my death, you gently stroke my face, this is your last farewell, your hand upon my cheek, you tense your lips, you clench your jaw and behind my back you grasp the handles of the wheelchair
(resist Sophie, fight, scream louder!)
and with a shove, the chair takes wing and I with it, Sophie my killer, and I am in heaven because of you, and here I wait, Sophie, because I need you here beside me, soon you will be here beside me
(scream, scream!),
scream if you will, my love, I know that you are on your way. Today, you resist, but tomorrow you will come to me for solace. And we shall be together for centuries to come
. . .