Don't Turn Out the Lights

by Bernard Minier

  Two stays in a psychiatric hospital in 1989, at the age of twelve, after two suicide attempts (diagnosis: depression, severe personality disorder). Subsequent ongoing psychiatric and therapeutic treatment which she herself interrupted as soon as she was of age, contrary to better judgment of uncles and aunts. Brilliant student, engaged to Régis Escande on 21 April 1995 on her eighteenth birthday, also against family’s better judgment. Engagement broken off six months later. Note: Escande committed suicide in prison two years later after conviction for rape of a minor.

  Selected as astronaut for the National Centre for Space Studies in 2003 before joining the group of astronauts from the European Space Agency in 2005: it would seem neither the NCSS nor the ESA got wind of existing psychiatric file, and she passed all the psychological tests.

  Left for Star City with Léonard Fontaine on 20 November 2007.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it corroborated what Fontaine himself had said. For no precise reason, Servaz had a sudden vivid memory of Mila’s house. He saw again the long corridor leading to the kitchen, as dark as a tunnel in a mine, and the haughty figure of the woman walking ahead of him. Had he had a shiver of anticipation at the time? A premonition? No, nothing at all.

  He looked at the mobile on the desk. What was Beaulieu up to? He should have got through to the prosecutor’s office ages ago. Why was it taking so long? Servaz looked at the pack of cigarettes. He took one out and stuck it between his lips without lighting it. His mobile vibrated.

  ‘Servaz here.’

  ‘It’s Beaulieu.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That bloody judge is the type who wants to protect herself from every angle, and her career with it: the former astronaut, the second Frenchwoman in space, celebrities, you can imagine … I had to push her a bit. We exchanged a few niceties, but it’s done, we’ve got it. I suppose you’d like to join us, this time?’

  ‘Since you’ve asked.’

  He crushed the cigarette in his palm into a thousand tiny flakes of tobacco.

  * * *

  Her child. They were going to take her child. Give him to strangers, a substitute family. He was so fragile, so dependent on her. What would become of him? Her Thomas, her treasure. They had no right! No one must touch him! His father had rejected him, she was his only family. Thomas, my darling, my love, I won’t let them. She was on to her second or third gin and tonic; she had stopped counting. The proportion of gin increased a bit each time. Her pills were muddling her brain. She had to get hold of herself. Tomorrow, tomorrow she would feel better, she would fight, for her child, for both of them. She was so weary, so tired.

  Tomorrow.

  * * *

  She went stealthily up the stairs and walked barefoot to Thomas’s bedroom. She peered through the half-open door. Thomas was sitting on his bed, playing with his console. He looked focused but smiling, relaxed. She felt tears flowing down her cheeks, as if they were washing her face – salt tears in her mouth when she went back down to the kitchen. For a long and terrifying minute, she stared at one of the knives on the table, and her bare wrist emerging from her dressing gown. A memory like a flash: when she was twelve, her wrists bandaged, being taken away by an ambulance.

  * * *

  The storm was wild. A livid glow of lightning beyond the rain-lashed windows. The doorbell rang. She shivered. Was that him, coming to claim his victory? She walked down the long corridor.

  ‘Mademoiselle Bolsanski? Police,’ called a voice through the door. ‘Open up!’

  Police … the word went through her like a sword. She opened the door slowly, and the sound of rain instantly surrounded her; someone thrust a police badge under her nose. There were several of them. Wearing raincoats, or streaming windbreakers. Orange armbands on their sleeves. A little man with curly hair like a poodle was staring at her from the top step; he had a runny nose. He held himself very straight, blinked at her through the downpour, put his hand into his parka.

  ‘We have a search warrant from the judge. If you don’t mind, I will show it to you inside,’ he said, peering at the drenching rain.

  She swept her gaze over the others – three men and a woman – and suddenly she paused to look at the man who was standing apart, his arms limp at his side. She recognised him. He was the one to whom she had sent the key to room 117 and the photograph of the International Space Station. The one who had been on the front page of the newspaper, several times. The one to whom she had given her diary. He was standing there, motionless, in the rain. Bare-headed. And he was staring at her, in silence. They held each other’s gaze for a few endless seconds. And in that moment she understood that she had lost.

  What happened next, she perceived only in fragments, flashes, disordered impressions. Words on a printed sheet of paper: officer from the Criminal Investigation Department … acting by virtue of the warrant granted hereafter … have come to search the domicile of Mila Bolsanski (her name filled in, in pen) … to be allowed in by the same … decline to inform him [sic] of our identity … A stamp. A signature. Her head was spinning. They spread out through the house. Their gloved hands lifted cushions, opened boxes, CD cases, drawers, cupboards, rubbish bins, doors …

  ‘Mummy, who are these people?’ said Thomas, rushing over to her.

  ‘It’s nothing, my treasure. They’re policemen,’ she answered, pressing him to her belly.

  ‘What are they looking for?’

  ‘I asked them to come, they’re here to help us,’ she lied.

  She looked at the man who had visited her one evening in January, the one who had read her diary, the one she thought she had managed to manipulate: he was not taking part in the search. He merely watched, and from time to time he gave Thomas a sad look.

  ‘Why don’t you tell them?’ she said to him. ‘What you know, what I showed you.’

  ‘Because your journal is a fake,’ he said.

  She faltered. A wave of despair. She was aware of her thoughts tumbling over each other, overlapping. She squeezed Thomas, pressed him up against her, took his face in her hands and kissed his pale forehead. She plunged her gaze into her son’s beautiful eyes, her beautiful blond son.

  ‘I love you; don’t ever forget that, my treasure.’

  ‘Mummy, everything will be fine,’ he said as if he had suddenly become the head of the family, conscious that it was up to him to protect her now.

  ‘Yes, everything will be fine,’ she echoed, her eyes moist.

  Gently, she pushed him away. For fear of falling and dragging him down with her. He looked worriedly at her. He was so grown-up for his age; he had the intelligence and maturity of a child of seven or eight.

  A young woman with an astonishingly ugly face chose that moment to burst in through the door that led to the woods.

  ‘Come and see!’ she cried. ‘I think I’ve found something!’

  They followed her, and one of the cops ordered Mila to put something on and go with them. Another cop stayed behind with Thomas. The rain was splattering on their hoods, and the damp earth and leaves stuck to the soles of their shoes. They headed up the hill, following the young female cop, through all that rain and mud, a liquid world without beginning or end. Mila felt as if she were regressing, returning to the moisture and peace of amniotic liquid. Peace, at last. She knew where they were going. They had found her.

  * * *

  The young woman was kneeling next to an old, gnarled tree, as twisted as a demented contortionist. The freshly turned rectangle of earth was apparent, darker among the roots, beneath the carpet of leaves she had partially swept aside with her gloved hands. She looked up at Mila from beneath her hood. Everyone was staring at her. And she could read the same thing in all those converging gazes: guilty, guilty, guilty.

  ‘What is this?’ asked the poodle.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Call the CSI team,’ said the man whose name was Servaz, staring at her with a neutral expression. ‘And get hold of the prosecutor.’

&nbs
p; * * *

  Thunder was booming like a sheet of metal in the hands of a sound effects engineer. Before they even gave a first thrust of the shovel, the technicians in white overalls had taken samples of soil and leaves, which they sealed up in their test tubes. They took pictures with a flash, using measuring tapes to establish the dimensions of the pit. Because of the dusk, they had switched on projectors, and cables ran like snakes through the mud. Now they were all staring at the pit in the harsh white light. Empty. The men from forensics looked furious as they snapped off their blue latex gloves.

  ‘Thanks, guys. May I remind you that 1 April is not for another month and a half,’ said one of them. The cops all looked at each other and turned to Servaz.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Beaulieu, walking away.

  * * *

  ‘An empty grave,’ he said, sitting at the wheel of his car.

  Everyone had left except Beaulieu and Servaz.

  ‘It wasn’t dug for nothing,’ said Servaz, staring at the house through the streaming windscreen.

  ‘No. And it really does look remarkably like a fucking grave, a hole like that in the middle of the forest. So why is it empty?’

  Servaz shrugged.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘I’m sure she could tell us,’ said Beaulieu, nodding towards the house.

  ‘She won’t talk.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘Wait for what?’

  ‘The results from the samples. All we need is a bit of DNA.’

  * * *

  She tries to sleep, but can’t. They’ve already been gone a long time. The storm has not released its hold on the house. She tries to sleep but she can’t. How could she, with that empty tomb out there in the woods? What does it mean? She has been trying to make sense of it, but her thoughts are so muddled, so confused. She killed that bitch herself, she saw her body jerk under the impact of the bullets, then stiffen. She saw the blood. And Marcus, tossing the first shovelfuls of earth over the corpse. She had let him finish the job while she went back down to the house.

  Did he move the body? But why would he do that? Was he afraid that one day they would trace it back to her, and through her, to him? He’s not here any more, to answer. Where did he get to? Where are they, the pair of them, Cordélia and Marcus?

  She listens to the silence. She is cold, shivering, trembling. Silence all through the house – and then suddenly she hears it.

  It is coming from downstairs. There can be no doubt, she isn’t dreaming: opera. She recognises it from the very first bars: the third act of Madame Butterfly. The scene where Cio-Cio San takes her own life. An icy chill comes over her. The music is coming from the ground floor; it’s the duet between Pinkerton and Sharpless.

  Sharpless:

  Come, speak to that kind lady

  and bring her in here.

  Even if Butterfly should see her,

  no matter … On the contrary,

  better if she should realize

  the truth through seeing her.

  Come, Suzuki, come …

  Pinkerton:

  But the coldness of death is in here.

  She sits up in bed, and the voice penetrates the darkness of the house, relentlessly. Thomas … it will wake him up. She looks at the red numbers on the alarm clock: they move from 3:05 to 3:06. Another crack of thunder shakes the windows. Now her eyes are wide open in the gloom.

  Yes, all in an instant

  I see how I have sinned

  and realise I shall never

  find respite from this torture.

  This music … it is enough to make her cry.

  Farewell, flowery refuge, of happiness and love.

  She pushes back the duvet, climbs out of bed and puts on her dressing gown. Her mind is blank, her body drained of strength. Like a sleepwalker she goes to the door and out into the corridor. She flips the light switch but nothing happens. Of course.

  The door to Thomas’s bedroom is closed.

  It takes three steps to reach the landing at the top of the stairs. There is a faint light down there, dim and far away. A lamp must be lit, somewhere. She tries the light switch in the stairway, but as she expected, nothing happens. So she goes down, counting her steps, with the faint light there is. Her heart is almost embracing the rhythm of the music, as if she were backstage in a theatre where she was about to go onstage.

  Hundreds of gazes staring at her in the darkness. Attentive. Hoping she will triumph, dreading her failure.

  At the bottom of the steps, louder and clearer now, the voice of the mezzosoprano Lucia Danieli playing the role of Suzuki:

  She’ll cry so bitterly!

  She peers into the darkness, seeks her bearings: the light is coming from the little corridor leading to the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen. On her way, she picks up one of the knives from the rack. Dear Lord, this music! It is so beautiful! So sad! At last comes the voice of Maria Callas as Butterfly:

  Suzuki, Suzuki! Where are you?

  She walks through the kitchen and down the corridor. The light is getting brighter. There is a door open on the left. She was right: the light is coming from the bathroom.

  He’s here, he’s here … where’s he hidden?

  She pushes open the door with her fingertips, with the knife in her other hand. There is a smell of wax – heady, heavy – and the light of dozens of candles dancing on the ceiling and the walls, like a fire. It is also dancing on the face of the dead woman who is not dead, and on her skull, which she has shaved, where a fine down is beginning to grow again. It is dancing in her steady gaze, calm and resolute, outlined in heavy black mascara, and for a split second, Mila thinks she has gone mad. It is Madame Butterfly who is there, Cio-Cio San. In a dark kimono, her face painted white, her eyes reduced to two slits, her mouth as thin as the stroke of a blade.

  But the hallucination fades and now it is worse: a ghost. A revenant. A blurred phantom through the thick steam rising in the room. The phantom is wearing a man’s clothing. And pointing a gun at her.

  ‘Good evening,’ says Christine, while Callas goes on singing:

  This woman! What does she want at my house?

  Her mind is blank. She thinks of Thomas: how can he sleep with this music?

  ‘Put the knife down,’ says Christine. ‘Take your clothes off and get in the bath.’

  She could refuse, resist, but what is the point: everything – the music, her weakness, the immense weariness of these recent days, this final act echoing throughout the house – everything compels her to obey. She no longer has a will of her own; she doesn’t feel like fighting any more. She is simply tired. And the weapon the phantom is brandishing leaves her no choice, in any case. She drops the knife, which clatters on the floor, then her clothes, one by one, at her feet. The steam from the hot water filling the bath rises in the room, swirls around her. Mila’s skin instantly begins to gleam with sweat.

  ‘Please,’ says Christine calmly.

  For a long while she doesn’t move; then she puts one leg over the edge of the bath. She notices there is a barber’s razor open on the edge of the bath, its long blade gleaming in the dancing candlelight. She puts her leg in the hot water, and then her entire body. She sits down in the bath. For a moment she feels good, relieved, as if the surrendering of control has set her free.

  ‘My son!’ she exclaims, suddenly.

  ‘Don’t worry. He’s asleep. And we’ll take care of him.’

  ‘We?’

  Outside the room, Butterfly is singing:

  They want to take everything away from me!

  My son!

  Oh, unhappy mother!

  To be obliged to give up my son!

  ‘His father and I,’ says Christine. ‘Léo will look after his son; he has promised to recognise him and bring him up. Thomas will have both your names. He will go to the best schools and enjoy the best education, Mila. Léo will never reveal the truth to Thomas about what happen
ed. What his mother did. He will tell him that his mother had an accident. He has sworn to do that. But on one condition…’

  ‘What condition?’ murmurs Mila.

  The phantom gazes down at the open razor on the edge of the bath. Mila shudders.

  ‘I saw you die,’ she tells the phantom. ‘I shot you.’

  ‘With blanks,’ answers Christine.

  ‘And the blood?’

  ‘Simple cinema tricks, hidden underneath my jumper: little pouches of fake blood that explode on cue. All I had to do was convulse at the moment of impact, and bite my tongue until it bled.’

  ‘But … Marcus?’

  ‘As soon as you left, he helped me out of the ditch.’ She smiled. ‘The drug you were supposed to have given me was just vitamins.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Marcus sells himself to the highest bidder, Mila: you ought to know that. And Léo and I raided our accounts. It wasn’t very hard to convince Marcus, I must say. Even if I did have to sacrifice my life insurance policy. When I got the email from Denise that morning, I knew right away it was a trap. Léo had already called to tell me something was going to happen: he’d heard from Marcus, who knew because of you. Marcus organised everything. It was that, or prison, for him.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who? Léo? I told him to keep an eye on that cop.’

  ‘And Marcus?’

  ‘I’m afraid he might be pushing up daisies in his beloved Russian soil. We bought him a ticket to Moscow, but I rather fear someone might have been waiting for him there. You know, he did drug me after all, and rape me, and slit my dog’s throat, for fuck’s sake … But he was only following your orders, wasn’t he?’

  Silence. Mila glances at the open razor on the edge of the bath. She could try to grab it and strike the phantom. But she knows the phantom will be quicker. She thinks about Léo and her son, the two of them, together, finally reunited. The music, alternating decrescendo and crescendo … the entire room is waiting for her to speak. To breathe. The entire audience in a trance, petrified with emotion and ecstasy.