by Paul Colize
When the train came to a halt, I waited for a couple of hours as instructed.
I emerged from the wagon. I had finished the bottle. I was blind drunk. I walked the streets in the direction of the station. The Tour du Midi towered above the blackened walls and run-down façades. I had watched it being built, just before I left.
Night fell. The sky was heavy with the promise of rain.
After forty-eight years of wandering, I had come home.
96: THE WORD WAS INCOMPLETE
Bernier seemed not to have heard.
Dominique took his hand and quietly repeated what he had said.
‘We need to talk, my friend.’
The man stared straight ahead.
‘You’re going to get a visit from someone you know.’
Dominique was sure the man could hear what he was saying. He let the information sink in.
X Midi batted his eyelids several times and seemed to wake up.
‘Dr Taylor is coming here tomorrow. You know him. He says he treated you in the summer of 2009.’
X Midi seemed to search back into his past. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and Dominique saw the first signs of alarm.
His temples were beaded with sweat. After a while, the man seemed to calm down.
He stared at Dominique, then shifted his eyes to the cupboard.
Dominique was quick to respond.
‘You want to talk to me?’
Yes.
Dominique opened the cupboard, took out the alphabet board and placed it in front of X Midi.
He began listing the vowels and consonants, forcing himself to be patient.
Bernier seemed to hesitate. Dominique ran through the whole alphabet, with not a letter chosen.
Dominique began the series over, from the beginning.
‘Take your time, Jacques. I’ll take it slowly, I’ll ask you to confirm or refuse each letter.’
This time, X Midi chose the letter F.
Next came the I, the N, and the K.
‘FINK. Is that your first word?’
A blink for ‘yes’. He seemed exhausted.
‘Do you want to stop?’
The man refused. He wanted to continue.
M.
He closed his eyes and paused for a long while.
‘Shall we go on?’
A.
Y.
He was sweating more and more profusely. The sweat trickled down his neck, despite Dominique’s efforts to sponge his skin.
‘MAY? Want to stop?’
The man signalled ‘No.’
B.
E.
‘MAYBE?’
The man closed his eyes.
Dominique stopped listing the letters.
He had no idea if X Midi had finished, or if the word was incomplete.
97: MY MISTAKE
He never treated me. He never spoke to me. He would cross the courtyard, straight as a ramrod, looking at no one. If he thought he might be interrupted in his work, he would have put me to death without a second thought.
Now, the truth lies in the two words I couldn’t complete. This is the end of my road. Journey’s end. I have failed.
If it hadn’t been for the car racing the wrong way outside the station, I would have reached my goal. Everything would have been different.
I would have gone to see my mother in the cemetery, and she would have forgiven me.
I would have seen my brother again, and told him I loved him. I would have taken him in my arms, the way Sonny showed me. I would have asked him to forgive me for the wall of silence I hid behind so often, and he would have forgiven me. He would have told me about his life, and I would have told him some of mine. We would have shared our childhood memories. He would have talked about the wild beasts that lurked under my bed. I would have reminded him of the porn magazines he used to read under the covers. We would have remembered the mounted police parading by, the soup-seller’s van and the baker’s horse. I would have talked to him about my coloured crayons, and our mother’s smile. We would have laughed about our wild afternoon dancing rock’n’roll, our father’s cold rages and my jumbled words.
And then I would have turned myself in. I would have confessed my crimes. Perhaps my sins, too. Upright in the face of God and men, I would have taken responsibility for my actions, and paid my debt.
I’d have taken up reading again. Made up for lost time. I would have reread the classics and discovered new masterpieces. Listened to my old rock tracks and relived my memories.
Later, I would have gone to see Sonny at Stone House.
He would have explained what happened, the conjuring trick that got him out of there. I would have told him about my weeks in London, my time with Jonathan and Roger. We’d have made an indestructible four-piece.
When everything was settled, I would have gone looking for Mary.
I would never have mentioned the back-up gig again, the recording session, my research, my notes, the ghost words, or the dead who walked with me along the way.
I paid a heavy price for my mistake.
98: WE’RE LOSING HIM
Dominique was concerned after his talk with Bernier. He continued his rounds, but without his usual ebullience. Towards noon, a nurse came to tell him Marie-Anne Perard was looking for him.
He saw from the moment he entered her office that the news was not good.
Marie-Anne Perard was waiting for him with Gérard Jacobs. Both wore closed, anxious expressions. Dominique saw no sign of Dr Taylor.
The director greeted him dully and asked him to sit down.
‘Dominique, what I have to tell you is not pleasant. Dr Taylor has just left this room.’
‘I knew he was coming today. I’m guessing he hasn’t brought good news.’
‘Indeed. Dr Taylor is the chief consultant at a psychiatric hospital near London. M. Bernier was one of his patients.’
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘M. Bernier escaped almost two years ago, in August 2009. They have been looking for him ever since. They found him thanks to our announcement in the paper.’
She picked up a cardboard folder lying on the desktop.
‘You’re the only person who has managed to get through to him, and I know you like him.’
Dominique smiled.
‘Dominique likes everyone.’
‘I know, Dominique, it’s one of your great qualities. Your patients feel it, and it helps them enormously. M. Bernier has a long psychiatric history. Dr Taylor has passed me his medical records.’
She opened the file and glanced down one sheet.
‘It’s in English, but here’s the gist. Jacques Bernier suffers from heboidophrenia, a particular form of schizophrenia. The illness generally manifests itself in adolescence. Diagnosis is by listening and observation, there are no lab tests. Often, the patient’s entourage will detect the first signs that something is wrong. Which explains why nothing was found when Bernier was seen by doctors at Petit-Chateau. He would have been in the very earliest stages.’
Dominique sighed.
‘I know the condition. I treated one or two young sufferers in France. One boy was seventeen. He had been drinking since the age of ten. When he was drunk, or had taken drugs, he became violent, and suffered hallucinations. No one wanted him. His parents rejected him, and residential homes wouldn’t take him in.’
‘Violent reactions are quite frequent,’ Perard continued, ‘but the illness presents differently in different people. Generally, there are behavioural problems. Sufferers think people are plotting against them. They suffer visual or aural hallucinations. There is an absence of expressivity or emotion, problems with concentration, memory problems, confused thinking or speech, difficulty expressing themselves and sometimes ticks or repetitive movements. During psychotic episodes, the patient’s perception is disconnected from reality. In Bernier’s case this led to instances of criminal psychopathology.’
Gérard Jacobs spoke next. ‘Dr Taylor has
outlined Bernier’s past history for us. He’s had a fairly extraordinary life. Until the age of eighteen his difficulties were not especially noticeable, though he was profoundly introverted and often spoke incoherently. The problems worsened later. As you know, he disappeared on the day he was due to enter military service. He took a train to Paris and became involved with a group of beatniks. He became a drug dealer, sold drugs to lycée students and was implicated in a rape case that led to a suicide in circumstances that were suspicious to say the least. He escaped arrest and fled to London. He fell in with a new crowd, drank heavily and took drugs. He changed his identity and became Jacques Berger. He came to light again in Berlin, where he used LSD and claimed to have taken part in a recording session organised by a government agency. Back in London, he seriously injured a small-time dealer, and attacked and stole money from a man in whose house he had previously stayed. He had false identity papers made, called himself René Schnegg and fled to Switzerland. His delusions worsened, and he evolved a global conspiracy theory. Despite this, heaven knows how, he found work as a night porter in a grand hotel in Montreux. A few months later, he fled yet again. The police caught up with him and arrested him when he tried to return to London. There was no trial. Expert psychiatric examination declared him irresponsible for his actions, and he was interned.’
Dominique looked doubtful. There was a piece missing from the story.
‘Did Dr Taylor tell you anything about a journalist named Michael Stern?’
Both seemed surprised. Marie-Anne Perard reached for the folder and leafed through it.
‘Absolutely. When Bernier travelled back to London he was in possession of a daily newspaper that reported a killing spree that had occurred in Belfast. When he was arrested, he told the police he had arranged a meeting with Michael Stern, the journalist who committed the murders. A diversionary tactic that proved his alienated mental state.’
‘And that proves there was definitely no actual contact between him and the journalist?’
‘There was none. Only what existed in his own head.’
Dominique shook his head sorrowfully.
‘Poor Jacques! He’s still talking about it forty years on. I’m surprised by what you’ve told me, but that doesn’t change anything as far as I’m concerned. His past is his own affair. For me, he’s a patient, and it’s my job to ease his pain.’
Marie-Anne Perard spoke up.
‘That’s entirely to your credit, Dominique.’
She rose, signalling the end of their interview. The police officer spoke up.
‘In any case, you have done a great job. Without you, we would never have identified this man.’
Dominique got to his feet.
He glanced around the room with a questioning air.
‘And where is this Dr Taylor now?’
‘He wanted to see M. Bernier before he left. Lydia went with him. I wanted to introduce you, but he was in a hurry. He’s probably left by now, his train is at 2:00p.m.’
The telephone rang as they moved to the door. Marie-Anne Perard apologised and turned back.
Dominique left the office and accompanied Jacobs to the exit.
The police officer shook his hand.
‘Thank you for your help. This hasn’t turned out the way we imagined, but that’s life.’
He left, and crossed the car park to his vehicle.
Dominique was staring after him when he heard Marie-Anne Perard calling him.
‘Dominique!’
She hurried towards him.
‘Come with me, it’s Bernier!’
Their pace quickened.
‘What’s up?’
‘Something’s happened to him.’
There were people hurrying, and voices raised. Footsteps rang out along the corridor.
They pushed their way into the room. The resuscitation trolley was installed, and a doctor was bending over X Midi. An oxygen mask had been placed over his face. The doctor was pushing down, one hand over the other on the man’s chest, to the precise rhythm used for cases of cardiac arrest. Two nurses were assisting him.
Marie-Anne Perard jerked her head at one of the two, and shot her a questioning look.
The nurse looked back miserably.
‘I think we’re losing him.’
99: MY EYES
The outline of a shadow behind him. He stands up. I see Sonny’s silhouette in the semi-darkness. Stepping forward. He looks like he always did. He’s young, smiling, well dressed. He looks back, and stretches out a hand. Mary comes forward. Her dazzling beauty bursts into the light. She shrugs one shoulder and smiles at Sonny. They have an understanding. Mary strokes her hand over my hair. She signals behind her and my mother comes forward, smiling. All three seem to be playing some kind of prank. I feel their hands on my chest. Ma kisses me on the forehead. I know her sweet smell. I’ve waited so long. I don’t want to hurt you any more. She places her hand on my face, and closes my eyes.
EPILOGUE
Dominique and Léna emerged from JFK airport on Wednesday, June the twenty-second, 2011, at noon.
Contrary to their friends’ dire warnings, the flight hadn’t seemed unbearably long, and the passport formalities took barely twenty minutes.
They climbed into a taxi and headed for Manhattan. The freeway and the Queensboro Bridge were busy with traffic, and it was 2:00p.m. before they reached their hotel.
The summer tourist crowds hadn’t yet arrived in New York. Dominique had searched online and found a comfortable hotel on the Upper West Side, opposite the Lincoln Center.
They found their room, unpacked and decided to stretch their legs with a walk in Central Park.
Since that February weekend in Le Coq, Dominique and Léna had been inseparable. Both said it had been love at first sight. They shared an infectious zest for life, and a great deal else besides. They adored one another’s company, and were the best of friends. They planned to move in together in September, when the lease on Léna’s apartment was up.
As expected, the news spread like wildfire at the clinic, but the couple’s their professionalism, and their undimmed enthusiasm for their work, had stopped the wagging tongues soon enough.
They strolled for two hours in Central Park, marvelling at the quiet shade in the midst of the bustling city. They reached the Reservoir, left the park on the east side, strolled down Fifth Avenue and took a look around Columbus Circle mall before returning to their hotel to freshen up.
Around 6:00p.m. – feeling the effects of the jet lag – they ate a light meal in a restaurant near the hotel and got to bed around eight, where they fell fast asleep.
They woke together at dawn, bright and refreshed. They made love, and took a long shower. They left the hotel around eight, and ate breakfast in a Starbucks nearby.
They began their programme for the day: they would walk down Broadway to the Empire State Building, and kiss on the terrace of the forty-sixth floor, as promised ever since they had watched Sleepless in Seattle.
Dominique stopped every few paces to take pictures or marvel at the tiniest details of everyday life. Léna laughed, and poked gentle fun.
It was their first holiday together, and New York fascinated them.
Jacques Bernier’s death had been recorded on Tuesday, February the twenty-second at eight minutes past one in the afternoon. The medical examiner’s report gave pulmonary embolism as the cause of death. He concluded that there was no connection between the cause of death and the patient’s emotional shock following Dr Taylor’s visit.
The next day, Dominique organised a collection among the staff at the clinic. He had used all his charm and powers of persuasion to secure the amount needed. But he still had to persuade Marie-Anne Perard and Gérard Jacobs, to help overcome a few administrative hurdles.
It took about a week, but ended in success. Jacques Bernier was buried in Ixelles cemetery, beside his mother.
Dominique, Léna, Marie-Anne Perard, Gérard Jacobs and two nurses attended the c
eremony. When the coffin was lowered, Dominique was invited to say a few words.
Taken unawares, and uncomfortable speaking in public, he said simply:
‘Rest in peace, Jacques, my friend.’
They stopped by their hotel towards the end of the morning, and devoured the sandwiches they had bought. Around 2:00p.m., Léna headed for Times Square to go shopping, and Dominique set off in the opposite direction.
He crossed Central Park and walked up Fifth Avenue towards the Metropolitan Museum.
He paid the ‘suggested’ admission fee, glanced at his watch and checked the museum map. Room 915 was on the first floor, on the mezzanine level.
He walked through a series of rooms filled with priceless artworks, sculptures and glass cases loaded with objects. He crossed a broad terrace flanked by marble columns and climbed a monumental staircase.
Dominique had pored over Jacques Bernier’s file for weeks. He had analysed the sequence of events, studied the facts and examined the doctors’ conclusions.
He was intrigued by a number of details. Some of the facts didn’t concur, or were flatly contradictory. He had decided not to make contact with Dr Taylor, nor to bother Gérard Jacobs with his doubts and questions. For them, the case was closed.
He had spent a long time pondering Bernier’s last two words.
What did FINK and MAYBE mean? The names, if they were indeed names, were absent from the case file.
He had contacted the human resources manager at the Palace hotel in Montreux, to find out the dates on which Jacques Bernier, a.k.a. René Schnegg, had started work, and left. The man told him that Bernier had left Montreux on March the eleventh, 1968, not the eighteenth. He tried asking if the names Fink or Maybe meant anything to him. That was when he discovered who Fink was.
According to the file, Bernier had taken a morning flight to London on the eighteenth of March, 1968, from Vienna, to cover his tracks. There was a six-day blank in the chronology. What had Bernier been doing?
The second word, Maybe, remained a mystery.
