“All right, we’ll keep tracking his movements from here. When the scandal breaks in the press, your account will be credited in Lausanne. As we agreed. The money will be disbursed to you from Vanuatu National Bank from our link there. Have a nice day,” he finished, making it clear that the brief conversation had ended. Sévérine did not care for his heavy manner and his disparaging behaviour. She was used to giving rather than taking orders. He was beginning to irritate her.
“Very well!” she said with feigned friendliness, concealing her annoyance with another false smile. “Is there anything else that needs to be addressed? Some other little detail that I should check?” If she stalled long enough, she might pick up some hint of the real reason for this secret early morning meeting. The driver said nothing new, just a couple of inane questions that he could just as well have asked of her contact at the commissioner’s private office without any problem.
She tried once again to steal a glimpse of the driver’s features. As though he understood her ploy, he shifted position, so his face was no longer visible in the mirror. He did not reply.
“What the hell is this all about, first thing in the morning?” she asked herself and prepared to open the door and leave. “We’ll be in touch through you-know-who,” she said firmly, with one last vain effort to see his face. Her nerves like taut string, Sévérine darted out the door which she slammed noisily behind her. With agitated steps, she turned back towards Tervuren Avenue. Perhaps she should go home and pick up the Jag and drive to work; she loathed public transport and sharing the cramped space with the great unwashed. Her social status and family background did not permit travelling by trolley buses, metro or trams. However, the frustration of that clandestine meeting was keeping her from thinking clearly.
She immediately changed her mind, deciding that the return home would only be a waste of time. “Well, it’s only a couple of stops, I can put up with it!” she resigned herself to the humiliation of public transport.
At first she meant to catch the No. 22 bus which passed by her office. But when she saw the huge queue at the bus shelter a few metres away, she changed her mind again. She was between two metro stops. “I'll take the metro. Montgomery station is just a few steps off. How many years has it been since I used it? I hope it’s a little cleaner than it used to be! Damn! At this hour it’ll be horribly packed, but I’ll be at the office in only three minutes,” she thought, with a disdainful glance at the crowded bus stop.
Seconds later, she was almost running down the endless station escalators, hearing the train pulling into the noisy underground station, brakes squealing. Taking the final steps two at a time, she reached the platform; the doors to the packed carriage opened right in front of her. She dashed in with the last passengers to board, unaware that her ‘precious’ Keith MacFarland was just a few steps away behind the wall of other passengers simply minding their own business that morning. Nor, for his part, did Keith see her. The same packed crowd of strangers prevented them from realising each other’s presence.
But if vision was limited, the scent of her Chanel No 5 perfume in that claustrophobic environment managed to somehow link her to Keith. Sévérine felt a terrible motion-sickness as the musty air of the crowded wagon filled her nostrils. She turned and stared haughtily around her. At the next stop, a swarthy youth pushed in beside her. She tried to pull away from his touch, her eyes fixed on him with contempt. He did not seem to notice. His hair was uncombed, his eyes bloodshot, his breath reeked as if he had not eaten in the last two weeks. His eyes looked lost in their own eerie environment. Although he wore a very thick winter jacket it was obvious that his body trembled. He was insignificant and repulsive.
“Why can’t they keep these wretched addicts off the trains!” she thought scornfully and made a small movement with her left hand as if trying to clean the foul air from beside her. At the same time, a strong thrill of satisfaction pierced her body. Surrounded by all these inconsequential metro travellers, she felt more superior, powerful and irresistible than ever. The dirty game of trapping the commissioner once more brought back her sense of importance and mastery. To regulate the fortunes and the lives of others and reach out with the tentacles of power and force under her command brought a sensation of rampant pleasure. Supreme now, the diametric opposite of the weak little six-year-old standing trembling and helpless on the edge of the diving board, gazing paralysed into the terrible deep water quivering far below.
“In a few minutes I'll be in my office. The show must go on!” her thoughts concluded triumphantly, as a sardonic smile twisted her thin lips.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Fifth Stop: Montgomery – Sévérine
With the help of old Joséphine, Élodie tugged at the thick bedding. They were trying to tidy the vast surface of the majestic ebony-framed bed dominating the room from its precise centre. Outside the tall windows, dusk was already falling. With immense effort, the two of them managed to complete this task without disturbing the patient lying in the bed. They paused for a moment in silent agreement that it was time to prepare the room for the evening, according to the inexorable rules of daily routine that ruled the mansion. The maid tiptoed to the windows and pulled gently with calloused hands at the heavy drapes until they completely shut out the fading sunlight.
Total darkness swallowed the high ceilings and the hand-made olive-green velvet wallpaper. Élodie bent to light the lamp on the nightstand beside the gold-trimmed bed and cautiously dropped into the leather armchair beside it. Weary and apathetic, she looked at her husband lying on his back. Frédéric Moret, at rest in the middle of the imperial furniture, his hands crossed ceremoniously on his chest and surrounded by a luxurious mountain of puffy pillows stuffed with the best quality down. His eyes were closed. By the head of the grandiose bed, a wheeled stand held the intravenous drip that sustained him; since his stroke he could no longer swallow. His muscles were useless. A half-filled catheter bag hung from the bedside. An oxygen tank lurked out of sight. And under the silken sheets lay a helpless tangle of human bones, unable to speak or even lift a hand to perform the most elementary action.
“Thank you, Joséphine, that’s all we need,” said Élodie to the elderly servant, who, without comment, opened the door and quietly left the room. Élodie remained in the chair with her head resting on its back, staring indifferently at her husband. His expression seemed calm, but his face had not lost for one moment the familiar harsh air of arrogance he had worn throughout his life. She looked at the closed sockets of his eyes, and the face scored by deep grooved furrows, once again conscious of the years separating them. Frédéric had already passed his seventieth birthday, and she was just forty-six. But inside she felt a hundred years old. Her life with this arrogant, difficult and demanding man had burnt her out. She was immeasurably weary.
She felt suffocated. She tried to take a few deep breaths but the atmosphere in the closed and stately room seemed airless. It was all too familiar. She had shut down years ago, even before she had first met him. Shy, timid, he had been too much for her, rolled over her and crushed her flat. That assertive body of his had brought no pleasure, only pain and fear. She stayed for her daughter, for the security, because to leave would require too much effort. She felt not the slightest pity for the man who lay before her, his breathing heavy and stertorous.
Two months ago it had hit him as he was reading the newspaper over his breakfast, as usual, cursing the useless in his view Belgian politicians and how, according to his always infallible opinion, the country would collapse due to their incompetence. He reaffirmed his theory that the ‘peasant and ingrate”’ Flemings who, until yesterday, were without the wherewithal to buy breeches, had now made some money and were ready to renounce the Belgian state, formally declaring their independence.
But he never finished his libellous tirade; he stopped in mid-sentence with a strange grimace on his face. His head fell face down on the table. There was a sharp crack as a porcelain cup broke into pieces
under the weight. Fragments cut into his gaunt face, creating rivulets of blood that ran down to form three huge red stains on the snow-white tablecloth.
The ambulance had rushed him unconscious to hospital, where doctors diagnosed a massive stroke. He was immediately transferred to the more expensive private clinic of the hospital, where even the truly super human efforts of doctors, nurses and physiotherapists could only bring about regained consciousness after a fortnight.
After a month, the hospital reported that they had done all that could be done. There was a possibility of small improvements in future, but the doctors were sure that the damage was significant, permanent and irreversible. His hands and feet could move slightly, but he would never stand nor have full control of his hands. He had regained contact with the environment, vision and hearing, but his speech was still very weak. He uttered unintelligible sounds with great effort, apparently trying to join syllables. The booming obnoxious voice that had terrorised everyone was reduced to a series of grunts. This irritated him so much that he renounced any attempt at speech and stopped talking altogether. At least vocally. But other modes of communication were still available to him: the expression on his face, gestures slight but clear, body language and the furious glare when he opened his eyes. Even a few steps away from death, he retained the same arrogant and contemptuous manner towards those who had the misfortune to be around him.
When suddenly faced with this unexpected blow, Elodie decided to stand by him and not let him rot slowly in the expensive private clinic. Not that she was sorry for him, far from it; she hated him with all her soul. She simply accepted her formal duty as a wife, as dictated by elementary dignity, social rules and circumstances. So she tried with the necessary concentration to feed the sick man with the help of servants and duty nurses and to carefully monitor the proper administration of his medication. Perhaps because she considered it her final – at last! – task to the desiccated remnant of her husband, now a pitiful vegetable planted in his opulent bed. Perhaps because she knew that his days were numbered. Though forced to be near him, she showed not a trace of compassion nor uttered a word. And when sometimes he opened his eyes and looked towards her, Élodie turned her gaze elsewhere as though she had not noticed.
It had been twelve years since that terrible episode at the swimming pool. Life in the Moret-d’ Ydekem family of had changed radically since that day. The mansion was large enough for the wife and daughter to take over one wing, leaving the master to berate the servants, entertain whom he pleased, and reign over his empty kingdom. They did not entertain; there were no friends or visitors. Élodie had not spoken to her husband since, unless it was absolutely necessary. For whole weeks, not a word might be exchanged between them. Sévérine had turned eighteen and was now a first-year student at the university. Like her mother, she avoided contact with her father.
When the stroke hit him, she too performed her daughterly tasks, but that was all. And with much less willingness than her mother; she did it only because Élodie had asked her to. She sometimes helped to feed him with the shift nurse, and if necessary, force him to swallow his countless pills and drugs, often with great effort. He had a daily routine for meals, medicines and nursing, observed with absolute mathematical precision under the watchful eye and guidance of his estranged wife. Three shifts of nurses covered days and nights.
But on this particular day, the second-shift nurse had called at the last minute to announce that her daughter was in the delivery room and because it was a difficult birth, she could not leave her alone. So Élodie was forced to spend the entire afternoon alone with the sick man. She had to change the drip and catheter bag, to exhaust her patience wetting his lips with water now and then massaging his useless legs. These tasks done, she sat in the leather armchair and let her mind wander. “Sévérine is almost grown up, and she’ll go away soon.” She sighed. She had not understood her daughter for some years now. She seemed to be living in another world. She was so seldom at home, so busy with her studies, so inaccessible. Other women complained of the same thing with their teenagers; maybe it was only to be expected. But Sévérine was so silent, so remote, and sometimes Élodie thought there was something a little feral in her. She avoided the thought that kept coming back to her. What does it do to a young child when its parent refuses to accept what she is? Sévérine could not help being a girl, or being shy. Who knew what she might have become if she had been cherished, just for being Sévérine? It was as though Fréderic had succeeded in killing that little person twelve years ago... “Water under the bridge…”, she sighed. “Sévérine will go into her future as she is now. She looks strong and ambitious and what would be would be.” Instead, Elodie dreamed of retreat, somewhere peaceful and quiet and simple, among kind women. The convent would ask chastity and obedience which she knew all too well. And she would welcome the poverty. “Sévérine can have everything... Sévérine…” she sighed. Sometimes she was almost afraid for her. And of her...
The loud metallic bong! of the grandfather clock outside the bedroom resounded through the halls and echoed through all ten bedrooms, confirming the hour. The door opened to admit Sévérine holding a silver tray. On the tray steamed a brimming porcelain teacup with thick gold edging, a matching teapot and a sugar bowl. She set the tray gently on a table at the foot of the bed. “Go down to rest, Maman, enough for today. I'll give him his tea and evening meds till the nurse comes,” she whispered into her mother’s ear, gently patting her shoulder. Élodie pulled herself out of the deep armchair, touched her daughter’s cheek in silent thanks and shut the door quietly behind her.
Frédéric’s eyes opened wide. He stared at his daughter. She was smiling, a smile that chilled him. She draped a towel over his chest and began feeding him tea a spoonful at a time, careful that not a drop should fall on the sheets.
“Ah, mon cher Papa,” said Sévérine, soft as silk, in a low steady voice. Her eyes glittered. “You can’t imagine how much I am enjoying these little chats we’re having. Such a pity we have so few opportunities...” Shoving the filled spoon between his teeth, she went on, “I have wanted for so long to thank you” – another spoonful – “for all the things you have taught me! I know you must be proud of me now!” Another spoonful, a careful wipe of his flaccid lips. “In your own words – when someone offends you, never forget. Bide your time and strike at the right moment. How many times you have explained the right way to do business? I can watch, and wait, and – do not spit out your tea, you dirty pig!” She gazed into his face and smiled with vicious delight. He eyed her warily…
“You know, dear Papa, you are using up money at a great pace these days, and you produce nothing. Perhaps it’s time to retire for good, don’t you think?”
His eyes widened and followed her movements as she refilled the cup and began feeding him spoonful after spoonful of the hot tea. As though he suspected that something was wrong he made a vain attempt to turn his head away and dodge the hot spoonful.
“Drink it! Swallow!” shouted Sévérine malevolently and her eyes blazed when she realised that the patient was trying to resist. “Having trouble, you poor dear?” She continued to stuff his mouth giving him no chance to breathe. He began to make gurgling sounds, staring at her in wild panic. He had no strength to turn his head away from that terrible spoon. “Now, now, I've put your favourite orange blossom honey in your tea,” she purred and dipped up another spoonful. He was gagging now, dribbling the tea onto the towel. Her voice had taken on a sly, eerie overtone. Frédéric Moret tried to speak, staring with terrified eyes. He clamped his lips shut with all his remaining power and refused to part them. In a desperate attempt to force him to open his mouth, Sévérine mercilessly closed his nostrils with the fingers of her right hand. The weak man, choking, struggled to open his mouth and gasped for air.
“You don’t need to answer!” said Sévérine, continuing to stuff his mouth quickly with successive spoonfuls, giving him little chance to breathe. “This will help you rel
ax and sleep calmly... for a long, long time,” she added.
A rattle escaped from him as he stared at her with eyes imploring pity. Frédéric’s body gave one violent convulsion and his mouth opened wide trying to say something, staring at the ceiling, his face fixed in a final expression of fear and agony, his eyes open and bulging.
Humming to herself, she wrapped the towel around his face. “We wouldn’t want the nurse to see all this mess, would we now?” She held the towel firmly in place for some minutes. His head shook several times gasping for air. When he made no further movement, she unwound it and with distaste, wiped his mouth and neck of saliva and spilt tea.
“Good night forever, mon très cher Papa! Rest in peace!” Sévérine said in a voice full of scorn, as she gently deposited the cup on the silver tray and stood for a while motionless, her eyes fixed on infinity. The mission was carried out to perfection. The great carved clock in the hallway struck eight times.
The night nurse would be here any minute. “I shall take care of this later!” She pushed quickly the murderous towel in the bottom of the linen pile in the corner of the room cupboard.
At that moment she heard steps in the hall. She began to scream in a frightened voice, “Papa! Papa! Speak to me!” The nurse burst into the room. “Help! Do something! Do something, please!” Sévérine cried in a voice as tragic as she could make it. The nurse ran to the bedside. Her first move was to place her fingers on his right wrist to seek a pulse.
The Next Stop Page 15
