In between one stay in the hospital and another, the child aged rather than grew. The cost of relief and comfort from the arthritic pain was to give up normal growth, normal muscle mass, a normal skeleton, a normal childhood. The others, friends from elementary school, then junior high, then high school, grew, played football, threw parties, kissed the girls sitting next to them in class, and eventually distanced themselves from the pale schoolmate who did not want to grow, and who would disappear from the classroom for weeks on end in order to be treated for nobody knew what exactly at the Necker Hospital.
Through this lasting nightmare that had taken him from childhood to adulthood with more or less the same body, young Kern had had three true friends.
The first was his old Bayard alarm clock, which he’d taken apart and put back together about ten thousand times, every evening hoping to forget about the pain or the itching, trying to understand why fate had somehow decided to put a definitive stop to the passing of time sometime around the age of five or six.
The second was actually the person who’d given him the alarm clock, bought from a secondhand shop with his pocket money, broken, rusted, and in a bad state. His older brother was as blond as he himself was dark, as vigorous as he himself was puny. And yet in all those years, this very different older brother had never, so to speak, let go of his hand during the nights of attacks when young Kern could no longer contain the fire burning inside him.
The third he’d met later in life, at the end of his aborted adolescence, at an age when boys are more interested in what goes on under girls’ skirts than in spiritual matters. And as though by another turn of fate, by a strange pendulum effect, it was when young Kern discovered God that his older brother swung into delinquency.
The diminutive priest reached out for the switch above his bed and put out the light. The only hope now, the only thing left to do was to get through the night like a long, dark, silent, frightening tunnel, and wait for morning. At the first rays of the sun, the itching and pain would subside. Daybreak would mark, at least for a few hours, the end of his torture. That, he knew. He believed in it wholeheartedly. It was not a question of faith but of experience of pain.
His thoughts strayed, then focused on the young blond man they’d arrested in the middle of the confessional, and who was now resting in a drawer at the morgue. He opened his eyes and, in the fading daylight, looked again at the photo of his brother. He couldn’t help but notice the resemblance. In the blond hair, in the going astray, in the madness, and in death.
Once again, he’d failed. He’d not been able to prevent Thibault’s tragic end, which rang like a sinister echo to that of his older brother. He could have banged his head against the wall, screamed with anger against his Lord and God.
Kern let himself drown in pain. It was as though four steel nails had pierced through his ankles and wrists. He, too, was locked in. A life sentence. He was no better than Djibril deep in his prison, but this time the bars were made of suffering, of his family history, of his condition as a man. He would relive again and again the moment when he’d been sentenced to life, and the verdict had to be repeated to him over and over and over again. You lost your brother; you abandoned him in the face of death; and your burning will never be extinguished.
Outside, the August light was deserting this portion of the earth’s surface. It must have been about ten o’clock. He closed his eyes again, put his head back on the pillow, and listened to the last city sounds vanish along with the day. Then he thought, “Here we go, I’m entering the tunnel. This time, I have no choice, it’s the moment of truth.”
They’re now walking in single file, ten-yard intervals between them. They’ve not said a word for nearly two hours, not since the Sikorsky unloaded them in an ocher and beige whirlwind without taking the time to land, suspended three feet above the ground, letting out of its obese flanks the clusters of men in camouflage outfits. The column is now stretching along the hillside like a snake quietly slithering over the dust of the track. Shadows fall. The temperature is dropping by the minute. The sun has hidden behind the mountains. It’s like a wave of ink swallowing up the entire area, slowly rising from the bottom of the neighboring valleys. The colleague in front of you is already no more than a form barely distinguishable from the heaps of sand and khaki in the landscape. They will soon have to go down a level and keep walking following the thalweg, at the bot-tom, along the partly dried-up wadi they’ve been ordered to comb before they reach the village.
Ahead, the sergeant has raised his arm. The column immediately halts, every man’s eyes fixed on the one in front of him. The young second lieutenant goes up to his sergeant and pulls a map out of his pocket. Together they assess the location. They speak in a whisper, just a thread of voice that dissolves immediately in the immense setting, like the silly little brook that flows down below in a bed that looks too big for it. After a while, the second lieutenant puts his map back in his pocket and drinks from his flask. He hands it to the sergeant, who refuses with an imperceptible sign of the head. The young lieutenant empties the flask and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The sergeant watches him for a moment, the blink of an eye, saying nothing, his eyes expressing a slight reproach that the other man pretends not to notice, then he raises his arm again, indicating the bottom of the valley to the dozen men who are calmly waiting. Still in silence, the column begins its descent. The long human serpent now curls down the slope. A tiny cloud of dust rises in its path now that it has veered off the track. The men take care to keep their distance. They slide more than walk toward the abyss, their leg muscles tensed to the maximum, their eyes and the barrels of their weapons pointing at that unknown area, its outlines blurred and already plunged in darkness. As they progress downward, night seems to be coming up to greet them. The tiny brook has suddenly turned into a black river about to burst its banks. Just a few more yards, ten at most, and they’ll all be swallowed up.
THURSDAY
“LOOK, FATHER, I HAD A REALLY BAD DAY YESTERDAY, A REALLY bad night and, in addition, there’s a heap of problems waiting for me today. So I can’t spare you very much time. You wished to see me? What is this concerning? Unfortunately, we don’t have any coffee. Would you care to sit down anyway?”
His limbs still numb after his night’s ordeal, Father Kern leaned with both hands on the back of the chair opposite the deputy magistrate’s desk, but did not sit down. It was not nine yet but the room was already stiflingly hot, a remainder of the previous day’s soaring temperatures. Back to the wall, legs crossed, her hair in a tight bun, Claire Kauffmann was looking at the priest with a seemingly cold, detached expression. She knew it only too well: the calm was just a façade. For the past eight hours, she’d done nothing but turn over in her mind, to the point of obsession, that parenthesis of a few seconds, that brief lack of attention, that very slight inclination to empathy that had allowed the blond angel to free himself from his handcuffs and jump out of the open window. Naturally, she hadn’t slept a wink. What had possessed her to inform him in person of the extension of his custody period? What had possessed her to go and make a show to him—him, the little sexual pervert—of her power as a magistrate? Usually, it was the police officers who took care of such formalities and didn’t need a deputy to be present. Usually, the public prosecutor’s office watched things from a distance. Why did she have to butt in, and open a chink in the armor she’d spent years assembling piece by piece?
“Mademoiselle Kauffmann, I’ve come to convey to you some important information. I would have much preferred to do it yesterday.”
Claire Kauffmann did not blink, motionless on her chair. However, she swallowed with difficulty, and saw that Father Kern had noticed. “What information are you talking about, Father?”
“A witness’s testimony. A vagrant. He spoke to me yesterday morning, shortly after opening time.”
“Yesterday morning? Why didn’t you immediately go to the police?”
“I don’t know,
madame. Instead of going to the Crime Squad, I chose to come to the Palais de Justice.”
The deputy magistrate looked away and stared out the window. “You made a mistake there, Father.”
“I know that only too well.”
Claire Kauffmann grew a little tense on her chair. “What do you know, exactly?”
“I know, madame, that your principal suspect is dead.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since yesterday. Yesterday, late afternoon. The rector of the cathedral told me.”
This time, Claire Kauffmann did not try to conceal her annoyance. “I see news travels fast between the Palais de Justice and Notre Dame de Paris.”
Father Kern rubbed it in. “I know that he killed himself in the middle of the day by jumping out of the window of the police office where he was being questioned.”
“In that case, Father, you also know that it’s now too late, and that the testimony of your vagrant, whatever it contains, is no longer of any use to us.”
“Excuse me?”
“The case has been shelved.”
“Shelved? By whom?”
“By the public prosecutor’s office. They decided that there was no more reason for any follow-up.”
“The public prosecutor’s office? Who, exactly? You?”
“I don’t have to answer that.”
“Did you receive the order from above?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions, Father.”
“Who ordered you to shelve it?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions! Do I need to remind you that it’s the prosecution’s prerogative? The public prosecutor has decided that the suspect’s suicide was tantamount to a confession. Case closed. Neither you nor I can do anything about it.”
“The public prosecutor? Since when is fear the equivalent of a confession? Since when are bewilderment and mental illness equivalent to a confession? Since when is death the equivalent of a confession? Did you even listen to that boy? Did you even talk to him?”
“Father, we’re not in a confessional but at the Palais de Justice. Here we deal with criminal matters. We don’t ask ourselves if a decision is moral but whether it’s legal. The law. That’s our gospel.”
“Can’t you make an exception?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re not here to hand out pardons by the shovelful.”
“Mademoiselle Kauffmann, I’ve come to bring you positive proof—positive, do you hear?—that the boy who died yesterday was innocent.”
“Innocent? What’s all this about?”
“The night of the murder, at about ten o’clock, when it was already dark, a young woman dressed in white went into the cathedral gardens. In order to do that, she opened the gate in Rue du Cloître, a gate secured with a padlock the combination to which is known only to cathedral staff. She walked through the darkness, and climbed the few steps that lead to a little door at the back of the building. That door immediately opened. Apparently, somebody was waiting for her. The young woman walked into the cathedral. She came back out only the following morning, on your medical examiner’s stretcher, on her way to the morgue. Now, a man saw the scene at night which I’ve just described. His name is Krzysztof, he’s a down-and-out Polish man who sleeps on Square Jean-XXIII every night, right next door to the cathedral. From his makeshift bed he has an unrestricted view of the cathedral gardens and apse. Madame, you, who at this point are convinced you have your culprit—would you be kind enough to answer just these few questions of a simple parish priest, an insignificant priest who’s trying to see clearly in the darkness: Why did the victim enter through the back of the cathedral? What mysterious meeting was she going to? How did she know the combination of the padlock in Rue du Cloître? And who opened the door to let her in?” Mademoiselle Kauffmann, it’s up to you now, and I’m listening.”
She held out five, perhaps ten seconds without stirring, without saying anything, almost without breathing. Then, suddenly, she started to cry, and her tears came falling down on the knees she kept obstinately together. Briefly disconcerted, Father Kern finally let go of the chair back he’d been digging his fingers into, leaving a mark on the orange plastic. He walked around the desk, took a handkerchief out of his pocket, and held it out to the young magistrate. She swiveled sideways on her chair, blew her nose, and finally managed to control her sobs.
“Your handkerchief smells of pipe tobacco.”
“That’s possible. I’m sorry about that.”
“No, on the contrary, it reminds me of my father. He, too, smoked a pipe. His gown was always steeped in the smell of tobacco.”
“His gown?”
“He was a lawyer.”
Father Kern decided to sit opposite the young woman. “I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I got up on my high horse earlier. You must have been deeply affected by this tragic death.”
“He jumped right before my eyes. I saw him vanish through the window. Immediately afterward, somebody started screaming down in the courtyard.”
“Are you going to get into trouble now?”
She sniffed, and blew her nose again. “The public prosecutor has asked for a preliminary inquest to be opened. Later this morning, I have to appear before the PIC and the LIC.”
“That’s a lot of initials for just one person to come up against.”
“It’s the Police Inspection Committee and the Legal Inspection Committee. Afterwards, they’ll decide whether or not to start disciplinary procedure.”
“But you weren’t on your own in that office. There must also have been a police officer? Wasn’t the young man his responsibility?”
“There was Landard, of course, but you know ... Landard is Landard. I think it was he who reported me.”
“Why would he implicate you?”
“Because it’s my fault, you see. I insisted that the window be opened. I insisted that his handcuffs be removed. It all went wrong.”
“You couldn’t have foreseen that he’d jump.”
“It’s all gone wrong. Since the beginning. I realize that now. From the moment I saw that girl’s body. I’ve taken this whole case too much to heart. I contributed to the turning of this machine that mangled him in less than two days. I also wanted him to confess. I was sure that there was a pervert under that angelic expression. It was too good to be true. A regular madman. The ideal culprit. That’s what he was. For the police, for the media, for the public prosecutor’s office. The ideal culprit. And he still is. His death changes nothing.” She started to laugh and, after her bout of tears, the laugh made her look like a child again. “Good God. I’ve been on the side of the police for so long. Me, the little thirty-year-old magistrate who goes off on a crusade against ogres, monsters, and sexual predators. It’s absurd. Absurd and an illusion. It fixes nothing. Never. What’s done is done.”
Kern waited. His experience as a confessor had taught him to be patient and silent when faced with a door that was slowly opening by itself, after being locked for a long time.
“You’re going to think I seek absolution. Against all expectation, the little public prosecutor turns to religion. What should be done, then? Give me instructions, Father. What should be done? Beat one’s chest and say, ‘I confess to God almighty?’”
Silence fell over them. The image of a bird banging against the bars of its cage briefly flashed before the priest’s eyes. “Tell me, Claire. When did it happen? Was it a long time ago?”
The young woman’s eyes froze. At first, Kern thought that they were lost in the void but then immediately realized that they were looking to the past.
“The summer when I was sixteen. One evening, on the beach.”
“Have you ever talked about it to anyone?”
“The sound of waves has made me want to vomit ever since. I tell people I get seasick. It’s my excuse for never going to the shore. No, Father, never. I’ve never told anyone about it.”
She brushed an invisible speck of dust from the fold in h
er skirt.
“It’s not too late, Claire.”
“How would you know?”
“We all carry our burden. That part of us that’s dead forever, and that we have to drag around wherever we go. Christ also carried his cross a very long way. He carried it to the end of his suffering. Three days later he was resurrected and, with him, the hope of a new life. The cross isn’t the goal but the baggage, Claire. Sooner or later one must resolve to put it down.”
Once again, the magistrate’s eyes grew misty. She chose to look away as Kern stood up.
“You know where to find me if you need me, don’t you? I’m here if you want to talk. Don’t hesitate.”
“Thank you, Father. But it won’t bring our innocent man back from the dead, you know.”
She looked much older now, and her childhood seemed to have vanished forever. She took a pencil and a notepad. “So, your Polish vagrant—where can one find him?”
Kern hesitated for a brief moment. “It’s of no importance. The case is shelved anyway, you said so yourself. Only a miracle could reopen the investigation and there will be no miracle, I think I can safely assure you of that.”
“What makes you suddenly so certain? If you have an important piece of information in your possession, it could contribute to reopening the case.”
“Who insisted that the case be shelved? The Paris prosecutor?”
“Yes. He called me very early this morning. I was still at home.”
“And the prosecutor probably received the same phone call from the Ministry.”
“I don’t understand. What has the Ministry got to do with this?”
“Mademoiselle Kauffmann, do you know who the Knights of the Holy Sepulcher of Jerusalem are?”
“I came across that name in the file.”
“They don’t just carry the statue of the Virgin Mary once a year on the day of the Assumption, you know. It’s an order that dates back to the medieval Crusaders. Naturally, they no longer defend a fortress with a sword. Their aim is to support the Christian community in the Holy Land through charitable deeds. And also to evangelize modern Western society. Their network extends over thirty or so countries, including France.”
The Madonna of Notre Dame Page 9
