The Madonna of Notre Dame

by Alexis Ragougneau

  Father Kern was fidgeting in his chair. Sometimes, the cameras would ignore the altar and sweep across the dense crowd of worshippers. Kern studied the screen and searched again through his recollections, hoping that seeing these images would dig up fleeting impressions registered that evening during the Mass, then stored away deep in his memory. However, nothing was surfacing, nothing connected with the murder that, a few hours later, would stain the cathedral. On the monitor, the rector, Monsignor de Bracy, came to read from the Book of Revelation. It was a passage about a woman with the sun for a cloak, the moon at her feet, a crown of twelve stars on her head, pregnant and suffering birthing pains. A fiery red dragon with seven heads and ten horns was trying to snatch her child away from her as soon as he was born, in order to devour it. However, the woman finally gave birth to a male child who would become the shepherd of all the nations, and lead them with a scepter of iron.

  They read one of Saint Paul’s Epistles to the Corinthians, then the auxiliary bishop climbed the pulpit and read a passage from the Gospel of Saint Luke featuring Elizabeth and Mary. Then the homily began. The prelate encouraged his flock not to let their fervor weaken, and to follow Mary in their internal struggle against the modern world.

  Father Kern’s fidgeting increased. At the end of the sermon, the camera swept over the congregation and Mourad pointed at the corner of the screen. “Look, Father, there she is. The girl in white, sitting in the front row, off to the side, legs crossed. Do you recognize her?”

  “Yes, it’s her. I remember noticing her that evening. I think as we all went up to the podium one after the other, we must all have glanced at her. Of course we remembered that afternoon’s incident. I was surprised to still see her there but then my attention got absorbed by the Mass.”

  On the screen, they were slowly moving toward Communion. The priests had gathered around their bishop, around the bronze altar, where the chalice and as many cups as there were priests to give Communion were placed. Monsignor Rieux Le Molay raised his hands and said, “Let us pray, as we offer the sacrifice of the whole Church.”

  Mourad was growing impatient. That day, he’d attended five masses in his role as guard. He’d also already gone through this solemn celebration of the Assumption. Besides, he could see himself on and off in the footage, standing in the south transept, making sure people were quiet, dissuading tourists from using flash photography, keeping a constant eye on the podium in the unlikely event some lunatic would decide to attack the prelate celebrating the Mass.

  At last, the circle around the bishop broke up. Some of them, including Father Kern, went into the nave, each holding a cup full of hosts in his left hand, in order to give Communion to the crowd of faithful at the back, while others came down to the bottom step of the podium and let the worshippers in the front rows approach. Mourad saw himself on the screen, organizing as many lines as there were officiating priests. Monsignor Rieux Le Molay was standing in the center of the row, with four priests on his left and five on his right, including the rector, Monsignor de Bracy. Communion had started. Each celebrant would raise the host in the air, then present it to the worshipper in front of him. On their lips, Father Kern could guess the words, as though repeated ad infinitum, which he himself had uttered many times throughout his life, “The body of Christ. The body of Christ. The body of Christ.”

  The cameras were filming the sacrament from every angle, sometimes wide shots, sometimes in close-up, sometimes in profile, other times head-on. The rows of chairs were gradually emptying then filling up again, keeping pace with the progression before the podium.

  “She doesn’t seem to want to go up for Communion, Father.”

  “So it would seem, Mourad. She hasn’t stood up yet.”

  The lines of worshippers were already breaking up. In some shots, you could see the priests who’d gone to the back of the nave returning to the chancel. Mass was coming to an end. Finally, she stood up in that white outfit that seemed to attract the light, and walked the few paces that separated her from the steps. The shots succeeded one another rapidly and Kern was suddenly worried that, at the fateful moment, a more distant camera would be chosen and would pick the worst possible time to focus on the Pietà, the north stained glass window, or the great organ.

  “Assuming we see her take Communion, which priest do you think she’s going to choose, Mourad?”

  As though by miracle, the camera seemed to linger on the last communicants. Kern sat at the very edge of his seat. From where he was, the faces on the screen looked made of pink and ochre pixels. The young woman in white made her choice and went to stand at the foot of the podium. Her lips moved, then those of the priest opposite whom she was standing. Then the latter placed the host on the tip of her tongue.

  Kern sank back in his chair and, for the first time for nearly an hour, looked away from the monitor. He put his hand on the guard’s arm and spoke only after a long silence. “Thank you very much, Mourad. Thank you for your time.”

  “Don’t you want to see the end, Father?”

  “You can switch off the machine, Mourad. I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

  The mule watches them enter the village, as though indifferent, bored, used to the recurrent presence of armed men in camouflage uniforms, communicating in gestures or whispers. They advance between the clay walls, cautious, vigilant, submachine guns in ready position. They pop their heads through the mechtas, cast inspecting glances inside, the barrel of the gun following exactly the movement of their eyes, as though the weapon had become much more than a metal extension of their arms—an integral part of their bodies. So far, they’ve inspected only empty shacks: no furniture, no food, no clothes, and no people. So far, they haven’t found a living soul in the village, except for the mule.

  The sergeant takes it by the bridle and pulls it behind him. At first, the animal refuses to budge, not recognizing its master, resisting with the stubbornness and distrust typical of its breed the noncommissioned officer who’s hoping to drag it to the bottom of the village. The sergeant has to pat its neck before the animal makes up its mind to follow with its heavy, irregular step. The sergeant, who comes from a family of stock breeders, feels respect and perhaps even love for animals, just as he does for weapons and machinery.

  Now the sergeant is walking at the head of his men, the mule on his left and the second lieutenant on his right, like a kind of smalltime emperor entering a conquered land in search of the first subject to enslave. It’s at the bend of the sixth mechta, where the path follows a slight recess in the ground, that they find the old man sitting on his heels, a bit out of the way, in the shadow of a wall, already trying to shield himself from the sun that’s still low on the horizon. The sergeant signals the rest of the paratroopers to halt, squints at the old man, and sends four soldiers to inspect the last two houses.

  The sergeant goes up to the grandfather and, as the latter stands up at the soldier’s approach, puts the bridle in his hand. “Is this your mule?”

  The old man looks as though he doesn’t understand. The sergeant turns to one of the Harkis among the paratroopers, who translates right away. The old man first hesitates then responds affirmatively.

  “Is this your mule?”

  The old man nods to confirm.

  “What about the girl in there? Yours, too? Who’s that girl? Your daughter? Your granddaughter?”

  The second lieutenant follows with his eyes the gesture his sergeant has just made toward the nearest house. As the minutes lapse, the sun becomes increasingly blinding. It repaints the loam walls with a golden light, plunging the inside of the shacks into darkness in contrast. The second lieutenant crosses the distance separating him from the entrance, looks inside, and allows his eyes to get used to the half-light. He makes out the outline of a white dress with patterns, flowers perhaps, two bare feet on the earthen floor, hair tucked into a scarf that goes around the back of the neck and is tied in front, with a few black strands escaping. The girl is crouching, her fac
e looking up at the shape of the officer outlined in the doorway. She has her hands over a dish on the ground. Her fingers are still covered in the semolina paste she’s been mixing. The windowless little room smells of olive oil and sweat.

  “Does your granddaughter cook well? Make cakes? Make arhlum? She makes some for all the men, right?”

  The old man nods.

  “Are you both from here? From the village? Is this your house, grandfather?”

  The old man nods.

  “You know this village is forbidden? You know you can’t be here? This area is off-limits. You have to go back to the group camp, do you understand?”

  The old man nods.

  “Never mind, you look like a nice old man, grandpa. And you have a good mule. You have a good mule, haven’t you, grandpa? A hardworking mule?”

  Again, the old man nods.

  “It must carry a lot. What did this good mule carry recently? Last night, for instance, what did this good mule carry last night?”

  Now the old man says nothing.

  “It didn’t carry sacks of food by any chance? Eh, grandfather? And maybe also one or two crates of ammunition?”

  The four soldiers the sergeant had sent downhill have come back up. They haven’t found anything in the mechtas down there.

  “You see, grandfather, a mule is for carrying stuff. And I’d quite like to know what the fuck your mule, your granddaughter, and you are doing here, if it’s not sending supplies to the rebels.”

  The old man keeps quiet. The skin on his face has assumed the color of the soil. Over there, next to the house, the second lieutenant has just lit a cigarette. He takes a puff then lets it burn out in the air, in a position that’s familiar to him, the roll of tobacco between his thumb and his index finger, his wrist resting on the butt of the automatic MAC50 pistol he wears at his belt. His eyes drift. From where he stands, he can see the sun rising over a part of the tormented landscape of the djebel. The colors, brightened by the daylight. Breathing in the first smells which had been, until now, neutralized by the coolness of the night.

  He doesn’t see the sergeant do it, doesn’t see him turn the barrel of his weapon. He comes back to the village, to the old man, to the string of paratroopers only when he hears the gunshot. The bang tears through the air and echoes on the nearby slopes. By the time he turns his head, the mule has already collapsed. Its front legs gave first. For a brief moment it seems to be praying, stupidly, on its knees, begging for the deathblow that isn’t coming. Then its hind legs start shaking and sagging. Then, almost in slow motion, the large body rolls on its belly and turns on its side. Its hoofs are agitated by a few spasms, before the mule becomes totally still.

  The old man hasn’t moved, his eyes fixed on the sergeant’s boots. He stares at them with strange intensity, as though he’s asking them a question, apparently unable to take his eyes off the black leather that, despite marching all night, despite walking through streams, despite gathering dust, looks polished for inspection.

  The second lieutenant leaves the mechta he’s been leaning against. He walks down toward the sergeant, throws his cigarette away, and tries to put some order in his thoughts before he speaks, to demonstrate authority. He barely recognizes the voice coming out of his mouth, it’s so high-pitched, so alien. His body suddenly feels too large, too numb, clumsy like that of an adolescent. “Sergeant, was that really necessary?”

  The sergeant doesn’t even bother to turn to his superior. Rather, he seems to be trying to make eye contact with the Kabyle grandfather who still persists in staring at his boots. “It’s time to move from theory to practice, lieutenant. A kind of intensive training. A course you certainly didn’t attend at officer school. I suggest you watch carefully, remember everything and, especially, please let me do as I see fit. Do you understand, lieutenant? I’m offering you here a unique opportunity to learn how to fight a war.”

  Then, with a simple sign of his chin, he sends his ten paratroopers inside, where the old man’s granddaughter is still crouching, in her white flowered dress.

  Noon. It was his turn to say Mass, and yet he didn’t know where to begin. Of course, he should get dressed, with Gérard’s help. Put on the green cotton stole braided with gold thread, shut the closet door, walk down the sacristy corridor, go through the heavy door that opens onto the ambulatory, cross the curtain of tourists endlessly circling the stone floor like cars on a circuit, reach the podium, bow before the altar, wait for the chancel organ to finish, turn to face the scattered group of worshippers sitting on the front row chairs—during the week, the noon Mass never draws a crowd—make the sign of the cross and, with a mind filled with doubt, fear, and anger, finally say, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  He made the sacred gestures. He read the Gospel. He gave Communion. What was the point of all this, but a masquerade of which he himself was a part, now that he knew, now that he was aware? What should be done? In whom could he confide? In God, of course, whose presence he was trying to feel deep inside himself and in the cathedral. Perhaps never before had he felt this internal battle between—between what, exactly? Was it good versus evil? Justice versus lies? What should be done, or said, in order to serve truth and serve the Lord? If he spoke out, if he shared with anyone the still blurry secret of which he was now the keeper, his words would have unpredictable, dangerous, and terribly destructive consequences. Had he better keep quiet? In other words, join this enormous church that, barely five days after a most ghastly murder within its walls, had resumed its habits and daily routine amid the hubbub of tourists, the smell of incense, and the murmur of prayers?

  Mass was already drawing to a close. He’d gone through it, bit by bit, absentmindedly, transparently, his mind elsewhere. As he always did, he turned to the pillar with the white Virgin and intoned the Salve Regina, accompanied by the chancel organ. What happened deep within him as he was staring at this stone Madonna’s beautifully pure face? He would never quite be able to say, or explain, neither that evening nor later on. He simply realized that, during the course of the prayer, the battle had shifted elsewhere, outside him, outside his body. He realized that, when it came down to it, he was not the only bearer of this terrible secret, and that immediately made him feel at liberty to act.

  The final note had not yet died away when he left the podium by the shortcut, through the chancel, and went into the sacristy corridor. At the end of this corridor, there was the old-fashioned telephone fixed to the wall, and he grabbed the handset. Still wearing his mass garments, he dialed the number he knew by heart from having tried it several times less than forty-eight hours earlier. He heard the tone. The phone was ringing at the other end. Right next door, in the sacristy that smelled of wax, Gérard was emptying the censer of the ashes that were still warm after Mass. The sacristan heard the priest speak softly in the corridor.

  “It’s Father Kern. I need to see you. It’s very urgent … No, I can’t talk on the phone, not here. Can you come to Notre Dame? … When? ... Please come as quickly as you can, I’ll be waiting.”

  It was like living in a padded room where the cushioning had become thicker over the days, months, and years. In spite of the regular screaming in the corridors. In spite of the noise rising from the two exercise yards, through the window equipped with bars. In spite of the sound of television sets that, night and day, broadcast porn or action movies. In spite of the sound, every morning between ten and eleven, of fists pounding the leather punching bag hanging from the ceiling of the boxing gym, a dull sound that, when it was triggered, was beneficial to body and mind. In spite of all the incessant prison sounds, silence was becoming increasingly deafening inside Djibril’s head.

  His last true conversation had taken place the day before, with that little priest turned investigator, who confused his faith with his incorrigible need for justice. He’d thought about this case all night, about the murdered girl shrouded in mystery, churning over all the elements in the file Father Kern had
let him read. For one night, he’d escaped, fled the immutable rhythm of the wardens’ rounds as they walked through the corridors and slid open the peephole in the armored door every two and a half hours as part of the suicide prevention routine.

  It wasn’t a big deal per se. A news item that had nothing to do with him. Something to think about while brushing his teeth at night. And yet for a few hours, this issue had represented a link with the outside world. The only one he had left. For a long time now nobody had come to see him in the Poissy prison visiting room.

  The advice sought by the little priest had made a dent right in the middle of the prison walls. The immutable march of time had undergone a jolt, an accident. And this accident had triggered—he dared not utter the word—a hope. He now wanted to know. Had the little priest found the key to this problem? Had he managed to draw from the shadows the truth he valued so much?

  Sitting on his bed, Djibril grabbed the remote control of the television set he rented from the prison office for twenty-nine euros a month. He flipped through the channels, checking all the one o’clock news bulletins. There was nothing new. Two mountain climbers in distress on Mont Blanc saved thanks to their cell phone. In sports news, the Olympique football club in Marseilles acquired a new player. The beach weather forecast promised sunshine on Saturday and rain on Sunday. There was no mention anywhere of the Notre Dame crime.