The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (31 page)

Morel told himself that he had tried to keep Marie Latour out of harm’s way. It wasn’t his fault that she had chosen to return to her house without alerting the police. By the time
her daughter had checked her answering machine and heard her mother’s message, it had already been too late.

They had dozens of bodies out on the streets looking for Le Bellec. He wasn’t alone in this. He reminded himself that there were others who shared the burden of responsibility.

But it was a waste of time. As he headed back up the stairs he could not deny the tide of despair rising inside him. Isabelle Dufour. Elisabeth Guillou. Marie Latour. Their deaths were on his
conscience.

The call from Ivan Golyubov came in the next day just after 2 p.m. Morel had been about to walk up to Perrin’s office. He was bracing himself for another bollocking. The
papers had begun questioning the competence of the police force. Perrin took this sort of negative media personally.

Lila caught him just as he was heading out the door.

‘Morel. It’s for you.’

She looked worn out, like the rest of them. Yet she had a smile on her face. Despite the strain they were all under. Morel wondered whether it had anything to do with the Moroccan-born man who
sat in Marco’s spot now with his head down, going through the case notes. Marco was back on duty at Irina Volkoff’s place. At least during the day. She had lasted one night with her
friend before deciding she’d had enough and wanted to sleep in her own bed.

‘Monsieur Morel,’ came the Russian policeman’s drawling voice. ‘I believe I have some new and interesting information for you.’

‘Really? I could do with some of that,’ Morel said. He stood by Lila’s desk, where he’d picked up the phone, and rubbed his eyes.

‘I have been speaking to a woman who worked as a nursing aide at the orphanage where the boy was staying just before he was adopted. Dima was five when they moved him from the baby home to
the
internat
, the older children’s ward. He was adopted a year later.’

‘Who adopted him?’

‘This was difficult to find out, believe me. I sense a great deal of reluctance on the part of the orphanage director. It was a French man. His name is Armand Le Bellec.’

So far, so good,
Morel thought.

‘Was the adoption legal?’

‘The paperwork looks OK. But that doesn’t mean much. We’ve had a few issues with some of these adoptions. The government is trying to deal with this now. It’s a slow
process but I think we’re getting there.’

‘Where did the boy come from? Can I talk to the woman? The nursing aide?’ Morel asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Akil lean towards Lila from his side of the desk to tell
her something. She leaned back towards him with a smile. She seemed strangely pliant. Nothing like the standoffish Lila Morel knew.

‘I wouldn’t object to it but she says she doesn’t want to speak to any foreign police. She wasn’t that happy speaking to me either, believe me.’

‘OK.’

‘I can ask her, if there is anything else you want to know?’

At 4 p.m. Nina closed the door to the nursery and headed into the nurses’ station to make herself a cup of tea. As she put the kettle on, she ran through the conversation
she had had earlier with the burly police officer. He’d shown up at her work. Luckily she had been due for a lunch break. They had sat in a coffee shop across the road, away from inquisitive
eyes.

He had been nice enough. He’d asked lots of questions but he’d been polite and patient, waiting for her to finish her sentences before he moved on to the next one.

He had wanted so many details about Dima. She had tried her best to answer but really she knew so little about Dima’s past. Where he had come from and why he’d been delivered to the
orphanage. And the stories were always the same, one way or another.

As she poured boiling water into a teapot, she thought how strange it was that the things that mattered most when it came to Dima were the things the police officer hadn’t asked. In any
case she would have found it hard to be truthful. He was a total stranger. How could he possibly understand?

Still, part of her would have liked to unburden herself and to speak of her loss. To try to describe the intimacy she and Dima had shared.

She sat in the kitchen taking small sips of her tea. She imagined the questions she would have asked in his place and the answers he would have received:

HIM: Could you describe your relationship with the boy?

HER: He was like a son to me. Or maybe like a brother. A son, a brother, a friend. I know that seems vague but what I got from him was so intense and so complete. It was more than one thing.

HIM: Did you and Dima spend much time together?

HER: As much as was possible without attracting attention. Everyone did their job in such a businesslike way. There was no room for sentimentality.

HIM: Describe the time you spent together.

HER: I talked to him about anything and everything. I took him in my arms and rocked him gently at night. He had trouble sleeping. I didn’t dare walk with him down the hallways or take him
outside, though I could see he pined for movement and for the sensations he was being deprived of. The feel of the wind against his cheek, the sound of his steps on the frosty ground, the
night’s chill against his back. The smells of the forest. But I feared we would be caught and then we would not be allowed to spend that time together any more.

HIM: So what did you do instead?

HER: I did my best to keep him engaged. Even though I could see he was withdrawing further and further into himself. I read to him sometimes. I even let him listen to music, with the headphones
on so no one would hear. But this happened rarely. It was too risky, for both of us.

HIM: You loved him, didn’t you?

HER: Yes. Yes, I did. I still do.

HIM: What about him? How do you think he feels about you?

HER: Now? (A lengthy pause, while she feels her heart break all over again.) Now I’m not sure.

She hesitates, but not for long. She knows the answer. Her heart tells her she’s right.

‘Yes. He loves me too,’ she whispers.

When Morel got home, he went upstairs to see his father but the old man was asleep. He seemed to sleep a great deal more these days. Maybe it was the pills he was taking.

In the kitchen, Morel found a note in Augustine’s hand, next to a bowl of pasta.

‘Don’t forget to eat.’

Morel set the bowl in the microwave and turned to the fridge to see whether it contained an open bottle of wine. The knock on the door startled him. Before opening it to see who it was, he
looked at the time. 9.30 p.m.

Mathilde was standing there, looking at him angrily.

‘Jesus Christ,’ was all he could think to say. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I thought since you seem to enjoy stalking me I should return the favour.’

He couldn’t think of anything smart to say in return and instead just looked at her in silence.

‘So now I’m here, Serge,’ she said, stepping past him into the house. It had been raining and her hair was dripping wet. ‘I’d like to know why you’ve been
sitting outside my house watching me.’

Morel followed her into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine while she looked around, opening the cupboards and the fridge.

‘Do you find this problematic, when I walk into your life like this and examine your things?’

‘No,’ he said, watching her.

‘Well, I do,’ she said, turning to him. ‘I do mind having someone stalking me.’

‘I’m sorry. I know it was wrong and it was intrusive. I just wanted to see you.’

‘In that case, why not pick up the phone and call? Wouldn’t that be the normal thing to do?’

‘Perhaps.’ He shrugged his shoulders. All of a sudden he couldn’t be bothered explaining.

He watched her pour herself a glass of wine and take a long sip from it. She held the glass and stared at him.

‘Do you remember why we split up?’

‘Yes. No. I—’

‘You told me that you needed to experience other things, that it would be a mistake for us to stay together as we were so young. You wanted to meet other women and explore what life had to
offer.’

‘I—’

‘It was perfectly natural, of course. I’m not blaming you. You were probably right. We were so young. I wasn’t too happy about it at the time but eventually I got over you. I
imagine you’ve had plenty of women. I know you’ve done well professionally. So what I don’t get is why you’re following me around now. What is it you want from
me?’

Morel kept silent. What was he supposed to say when he hardly knew himself what he wanted from her? He felt her eyes on him still. She took a step closer and touched his arm. In the ensuing
silence he heard the
ping
of the microwave, reminding him that he had warmed something up and that the food was ready.

‘I need you to leave me alone, Serge. I have enough on my plate without you following me around like this. Either you stay away from me or I’ll have to report you to your
bosses.’

He was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. And by how much her words stung.

‘I know how it looks and I’m truly sorry. I’ll leave you alone, I promise.’

She looked at him carefully. ‘You look like you haven’t slept in weeks,’ she said.

‘I’ve been busy with work.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’

She looked at her watch and sighed. ‘I’d better go,’ she said. She put her glass down.

‘Goodbye, Serge,’ she said.

Morel waited a while, as though she might come back.

After five minutes, he took the bowl from the microwave and emptied the contents into the rubbish bin. Then he went to his room, taking the open bottle of wine and a glass with him.

When it happens he is two weeks short of his fourth birthday. One minute he is living with his grandmother in the village, playing in the street, chasing the chickens and dogs
with the other children. The next he is whisked away to a place where he is deprived of everything he knows.

He likes his life. At mealtimes he sits by the stove with his
babulya.
She rarely speaks but the silence between them is comfortable. There is no need for words. The house is very small
with only one bedroom and Dima has to sleep in the kitchen by the stove at night. He doesn’t mind it because this is the warmest room in the house. He likes the house, even though he’s
heard his
babulya
say that it could do with some renovation because it sinks into the ground a bit further each spring. What they need is a pair of strong arms to take on some of the
manual work. But there is no one to ask. The men in the village are useless, his grandmother says, in a rare fit of anger. When she speaks like this it’s like she is addressing an invisible
presence in the room.

He has no idea where his mother and father are, or whether they are alive. And his grandmother has never spoken about them. If he had lived with her longer, if she hadn’t died, then maybe
he would have asked. But he is three and a half years old. This is all he knows and he is not fully conscious yet that it might be less than what other children have.

One day in the middle of summer his
babulya
dies. He doesn’t remember when he realizes that she is gone. And when he does he doesn’t tell anyone straight away. Not until the
smell drives him out of the house.

He doesn’t remember how he got to the
dom rebyonka
, the baby house. This is where they put the children who have no one to look after them. He is one of the lucky ones in a way,
because his grandmother is dead. There are those whose parents and grandparents are still alive but who’ve given them up anyway. He doesn’t know this yet but he learns a great deal as
the years go by.

For example, he doesn’t understand yet that because of his muteness, he is classified as an idiot. Medically this transcribes as someone with the most profound degree of mental
retardation. Someone who is helpless and requires supervision. Again this is something he will understand later. That’s when he will realize the extent to which the label has branded him.

There is no reason for him to be bedridden but despite this they assign him to the lying-down room, with the other bedridden children. What else are they to do with this child who never says a
word and instead stares at them with great unblinking eyes? He never smiles. Later, he understands that he makes the adults uncomfortable.

Many of the other children in the baby house are younger. Most of them in fact are infants. It is always noisy and always smelly. There is nowhere to escape from the incessant presence of
others.

Here at the
dom rebyonka
, he learns to soundproof his mind.

It takes a long time. Many weeks go by during which he lives in a state of fear and incomprehension. Sometimes, when he is lying in the dark on his filthy cot, his terror builds to a point where
he thinks he might not be able to draw another breath. He is convinced he will die.

Later he will come to experience the same terror when he is baptized.

He is desperately lonely. But then gradually he adjusts. He does this by chipping away at himself, the way a sculptor might chisel a block of limestone, until all feeling is carved out and only
a grey stillness remains.

He builds a wall of silence around himself. The only trouble with that is that the more he isolates himself, the harder it is to re-enter the real world. Soon the world of his thoughts, this
silent, sterile world, is the one he is most familiar with. The one he would call
real
, if anyone were to ask and if he knew how to respond.

Shortly after his fourth birthday they move him to the
internat.
It is full of bigger and older kids. Some of them make a habit of taunting and abusing the young arrivals. But Dima is
left to himself. In the lying-down room here it is mostly quiet.

Most of the time he has no idea what time it is. He dozes through the day and sometimes when he wakes he is only partially aware of where he is. Sometimes they come and feed him. Usually with a
bottle, even though he is too big for it. Sometimes they come and change his cloth nappy. Every once in a while they have to lift him to turn the rubber-covered mattress underneath. He does not
notice how bad the smell is, though sometimes his eyes sting from the disinfectant they use.