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Overture
Bialowieza forest, on the border between Poland and Belarus
He was walking deep in the forest, through the blizzard and snow. It was so cold his teeth were chattering. Ice crystals clung to his eyebrows and lashes; his down ski jacket and the damp wool of his cap were crusted with snow, and even Rex was having trouble making headway through the thick snowy blanket, sinking up to his withers with every leap. The dog barked at regular intervals, no doubt to convey his disapproval, and the sound echoed all around them. From time to time he stopped to shake himself as if he were emerging from water, sending a cloud of soft snow and sharp icicles flying from his fawn and black coat. His muscular paws made deep tracks in the white shroud, and his belly left a curved imprint along the surface, like that of a plastic sledge.
Night was beginning to fall. The wind had risen. Where was it? Where was the hut? He stopped and caught his breath. He was puffing hoarsely, his back soaked in sweat beneath his clothes. The forest was a living organism – the rustling of branches heavy with snow, swaying in the wind; the sharp snapping of tree bark cracking in the biting cold, the whispering of the bitter wind that, from time to time, seemed to swell immeasurably in his ears, the crystal-clear babbling of a nearby stream that had not yet frozen over. And then the smooth crunching of his steps, the rhythm of his progress, as he lifted up his knees, making an ever greater effort to extract himself from the grip of snow. Good God it was cold! He had never been so cold in his entire life.
Through the grey twilight and the snowflakes stinging his eyes he thought he saw something in the snow up ahead. Glinting like metal, two jagged hoops … A trap … A dark shape caught in its metal jaws.
For a few seconds he succumbed to an indefinable malaise: whatever was in that trap no longer resembled any living creature. It had been devoured, ripped apart. Sticky blood mixed with fur stained the snow around the trap. There were also little bones and pinkish viscera covered over with a fine layer of frost.
He was still gazing at the trap when he heard the scream, and it went through him like a rusty blade. He could not recall ever having heard such a cry – so filled with terror and pain, an almost inhuman suffering. No human being, anyway, could have made such a sound. It was coming from the heart of the forest, straight ahead of him. Not far from here. His blood ran cold when the scream again broke the evening air, and every hair on his body stood up straight at the same time. Then the cry faded into the twilight, borne away on the polar wind.
The silence seemed to return for a moment. Then other screams echoed the first one, more modulated, further away: to the left, to the right, everywhere – emanating from a forest overcome by darkness. Wolves. A long shiver went down his spine. He began walking again, lifting his knees even more vigorously, with a desperate energy, towards the place where the cry had come from. And he saw it. The hut. Its dark, huddled form at the end of a sort of natural avenue formed by trees. He covered the last few frozen metres practically at a run. Rex seemed to have sensed something, because he bounded forward with a bark.
‘Rex, wait! Come here, Rex! Rex!’
But the German shepherd had already slipped through the half-open door, wedged in that position by a high drift of snow. An unusual calm reigned in the clearing. Then a howl, louder than the others, suddenly rose from the depths of the forest, and a concert of yapping came in reply: guttural calls echoing each other. Getting closer. He climbed clumsily over the snowdrift and entered the hut. He was met by a light as warm as melted butter from the storm lamp illuminating the interior. He turned his head. Stood stock still. A needle of ice pierced his brain.
He closed his eyes. Opened them again.
Impossible. This can’t be real. I’m dreaming. It can only be a dream.
What he saw was Marianne. She was lying naked on a table in the middle of the hut. Her body was still warm, literally steaming in the icy air. It occurred to him that Hirtmann must be close by. For a moment he was tempted to go after him. He realised that all his limbs had begun to tremble, that he was on the edge of a black abyss, about to pass out or go mad. He took a step. Then another. He forced himself to look. Marianne’s torso had been split open from the little hollow at the base of her neck down to her groin – and clearly she had been alive at the time, because there was a great deal of blood. Her executioner had then pulled apart her skin and thorax. Her organs seemed intact; only one was missing: her heart. Hirtmann had delicately placed it on Marianne’s groin before he left. The heart was even warmer than all the rest: Servaz could see the white steam rising in the icy air of the hut. He was surprised he did not feel any nausea or disgust. There was something wrong. He should have been puking his guts out at such a sight. He should have been sobbing. Screaming. He had succumbed to a strange stupor. And just then Rex growled and bared his fangs. He turned towards the dog. His fur was standing on end and he was looking out of the half-open door. Threatening and terrified.
Servaz felt a wave of cold go through him.
He went over to the door and glanced outside.
They were there. In the clearing. Surrounding the hut. He counted eight in all. Eight wolves.
Thin, and famished.
Marianne …
He had to get her back to the car. He thought about his weapon, forgotten in the glove box. Rex was still growling. He could imagine his dog’s fear, his stress, and he stroked him gently on the top of his head. He could feel Rex’s muscles trembling under his coat.
‘Good dog,’ he said, with a lump in his throat, as he crouched down and put his arms around him.
The dog’s eyes, as he turned to him, were such a gentle golden colour, so affectionate, that he felt tears welling. Servaz knew he had only one chance to make it out of there. And it was the saddest, most difficult thing he had ever had to do.
He went over to the table, took the heart and put it back in Marianne’s chest. He gulped, closed his eyes and lifted the naked, bleeding body in his arms. It was not as heavy as he would have thought.
‘Let’s go, Rex!’ he said firmly, heading to the door.
The dog let out a yelp of protest, but he followed his master, growling again, his hindquarters low to the ground, his tail between his legs and his ears flat.
The wolves were waiting in a semicircle.
Their yellow eyes seemed incandescent. Rex’s fur bristled. Again he bared his fangs. The wolves replied with even louder growls – their mouths gaping, snarling, showing their terrifying teeth.
‘Go, Rex!’ he said. ‘Go on! Attack!’
The tears were pouring down his cheeks, his lower lip was trembling, and his mind was screaming, No, don’t do it! Don’t listen to me! The dog barked several times without budging an inch. He had been trained to obey orders, but this one went too far against his survival instinct.
‘Attack, Rex! Attack!’
But this was his master giving th
e order, the master he adored, and for whom no human being would ever feel as much love, loyalty and respect as he did.
‘Attack, for Christ’s sake!’
Now the dog could hear the anger in his master’s voice. And something else beneath it. He wanted to help him. To prove his attachment and his loyalty. However frightened he might be.
He attacked.
At first he almost seemed to have the advantage: one of the wolves – no doubt the leader of the pack – rushed towards him and Rex dodged skilfully and grabbed him by the neck. The wolf howled in pain. The others cautiously took a step back. Then the two animals were wrapped around each other. Rex himself seemed to have become a ferocious, bloodthirsty beast.
Servaz couldn’t wait any longer.
He turned away and started walking. The wolves were no longer paying any attention to him. For the time being. He went up the natural avenue between the trees, with Marianne in his arms, his down jacket soaked with blood and his face soaked with tears. Behind him he could hear his dog’s first cries of pain, and the renewed growling of the pack. His blood froze. Rex let out another cry. A shrill cry full of pain and terror. Rex was calling to him for help. He clenched his teeth and walked faster. Another 300 yards …
A last cry in the windy night.
Rex was dead – he could tell from the silence that followed. He wondered if the wolves would be content with this victory or whether they would come after him. He had his answer soon enough. He could hear the yapping coming closer. Some of the wolves, at any rate, had resumed the hunt. And this time, he was their prey.
The car.
It was parked on the path not a hundred metres away. A layer of snow had begun to cover it. He tried to walk even faster, crazy with fear, his lungs burning. He could hear the growling just behind his back. He spun around. The wolves had caught up with him. Four of the eight. Their yellow, faded eyes, like amber, staring at him, gauging him. He would never make it to the car. It was too far. Marianne’s body was growing heavier and heavier in his arms.
She’s dead. There’s nothing more you can do for her. But you can still make it out alive.
No! His brain refused to accept the thought of it. He had already sacrificed his dog. She was still warm. He could feel her blood seeping into his jacket. He looked up at the sky. Snowflakes were falling down on him like stars, as if the sky were coming loose, as if the entire universe were hurrying to bury him. He screamed with rage and despair. But it did not seem to impress the wild beasts. The skeletal wolves had waited long enough, they sensed there was no reason to be afraid of this solitary target. They could smell his fear – and above all the blood oozing from another prey. Two feasts for the price of one. They were too famished. Too excited. They moved closer.
Get out of here! Get the hell away! Bastards, go! He wondered if he had really screamed – or whether it was just his mind screaming.
Move it! Now! There’s nothing more you can do for her. Save yourself!
This time he listened to his inner voice. He let go of Marianne’s legs and her feet landed in the snow. He plunged his hand into her chest. His gloved fingers grasped the heart, firm and elastic. He pulled it out of the gaping wound and slipped it under his jacket right against his chest, right against his own heart. Then he dropped her body into the snow and it sank pale and naked into the white shroud with a muted hiss. He took three steps backwards. Slowly.
The wolves immediately leapt on her. He spun on his heels and hurried away to the car. It was unlocked, but for a moment he thought the cold had frozen the door. He pulled on the handle with all the strength in his blood-soaked fingers. He almost fell over backwards when the door opened suddenly with a groan. He collapsed onto the driver’s seat. His hand was trembling violently as he pulled out the key, and he almost dropped it between the seats. He glanced in the rearview mirror. And realised that there was someone sitting in the back seat. He knew he was going mad. It couldn’t be! And yet she opened her mouth.
‘Martin,’ she implored.
* * *
‘Martin! Martin!’
He shuddered. Opened his eyes.
He was slumped in the battered old leather armchair; Rex was licking his right palm where it lay on the armrest.
‘Scram,’ said the voice. ‘Go pester someone else! Martin, are you all right?’
Rex moved off, wagging his tail. Looking for someone else to play with. He would find someone quickly. Rex belonged to everyone and to no one; he was the true host of the place. Servaz was alone in the lounge, apart from Élise. He realised he had fallen asleep in front of the television, overcome by the building’s heat on that endless, torpid winter afternoon. He looked over at the picture window, where all morning the sun had been shining on the white landscape. For these few, ideal hours, with the smell of coffee drifting down the corridors, the laughter of the employees, the tall fir tree with its decorations and the dazzling whiteness outside, he had found some traces of his childhood soul.
Then not long after lunch in the common room, the sun had gone behind the clouds, a cold wind had risen, and the bare branches had begun to sway beyond the window while the outdoor thermometer plummeted from five to minus one. Feeling sluggish, he had slumped in an armchair in front of the television with the sound off, before dozing off into a sleep filled with nightmares.
‘You had a bad dream,’ said Élise. ‘You cried out.’
He looked at her, still dazed. He shivered. Again he saw the vast snowy forest, the hut, the wolves … and Marianne. The nightmare that was not a nightmare. What hope did he still have? The answer: none.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
In her forties, plump, with laughing eyes, even when she tried to seem concerned, Élise was the only employee at the centre that he liked. And probably the only one who could stand him. The others were former cops who had come for treatment before taking up their positions as the bosses of the place: they were known as health-care and social welfare police assistants. They treated the boarders with a mixture of openness, fraternity and compassion, which made Servaz think of something slimy. And they did not like him much at all. He refused to play along. To fraternise. To feel sorry for himself. To collaborate. Unlike them, Élise expected nothing from him.
‘Your daughter rang.’
Servaz looked at her, raising an eyebrow.
‘Since you were asleep, she didn’t want to disturb you,’ she added. ‘But she said she would come by again soon.’
He switched off the television with the remote and got to his feet. He glanced at his worn jumper, which was beginning to fray at the elbows and cuffs. He remembered that the next day was Christmas.
‘You might want to have a shave,’ she suggested defiantly.
He was silent for a moment.
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then you will merely confirm what most people round here think of you.’
He raised his eyebrow again, almost to the middle of his brow.
‘Which is?’
‘That you’re uncouth. No one wants to mix with you.’
‘And is that what you think, too?’
She shrugged. ‘It depends on the day.’
He laughed, and she echoed his laughter as she walked away. But the moment she was out of sight Servaz’s laugh stuck in his throat. It was not that he cared what others thought, but he didn’t want Margot to see him in this state. The last time she had come to visit him here was over three months ago: he had not forgotten the sad, embarrassed look in her eyes.
He walked across the entrance hall and up the stairs. His room was all the way up under the eaves. Hardly more than nine metres square, his bed as narrow as Ulysses’ when he returned in secret to Ithaca, with a cupboard, a desk, a few shelves with books: Plautus, Cicero, Livy, Ovid, Seneca. A Spartan décor. But the view onto the fields and the woods was beautiful, even in winter.
He pulled off his old jumper and the T-shirt beneath it, and put on a clean shirt and jumper, his
down ski jacket, a scarf and gloves, then went down the stairs again to the back door, the one that opened out onto the immaculate expanse.
He walked silently across the white plain to the little woods, breathing in the cold, damp air. There were no footsteps in the snow. No one had come this way.
He happened upon a stone bench under the trees, brushed off the snow with his gloved hand and sat down. He felt the damp and cold beneath his buttocks.
Crows were keeping watch in the sky, which was almost the same colour as the rest of the landscape.
As for his thoughts, they wore the same dark plumage as the crows. He leaned his head back and took a deep breath, while her smile came once again to his memory. Like something printed permanently on his retinas. He had stopped taking the antidepressants the previous month without consulting the doctor, and he was suddenly afraid that the darkness might swallow him up again.
Maybe he was going too quickly.
He knew the illness he was suffering from could kill him; that he was merely struggling to survive. Six months earlier UPS had delivered a package to his home. The sender was a certain Mr Osoba, residing in Przewloka, a village in eastern Poland in the middle of the forest near the border with Belarus. The cardboard box contained a second package – insulated this time – and Servaz had felt his pulse begin to beat faster when he broke the wax seal with a kitchen knife. He no longer remembered what he’d expected – no doubt that he would find a severed finger, or even a hand, given the size of the parcel. But what he had found was far worse. It was red, the fine shiny colour of fresh meat, in the shape of a large pear. A heart. Quite clearly human. The note accompanying it was not in Polish but in French:
She broke yours, Martin. I thought you would feel free after this. Of course you will suffer in the beginning. But you won’t have to keep looking for her or hoping. Think about it.
Warm wishes,
J.H.
One last hope. Tenuous, flickering.
The hope that it might be a bad joke, a terrible joke: someone else’s heart. Police forensics had run a parental DNA test using DNA from Hugo, Marianne’s son. Science had handed down its verdict, and Servaz had felt his reason falter. The address was that of an isolated house at the heart of the vast Bialowieza forest. DNA samples confirmed that Hirtmann had stayed there. So had several women who had disappeared from various countries in Europe over recent years. Including Marianne. Servaz had also found out that the name Osoba means ‘person’ in Polish: Hirtmann had read his Homer, too.
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 1
