The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

  Keoraz was famous for his phenomenal rages, and his taste for power and domination. The few unwary people who had deliberately got in his way had been swept aside, trampled on; and in his fury at not being obeyed without question, Keoraz had unrelentingly hounded them to ruin and even dishonor.

  He was the kind of individual who made vindictive enemies.

  His remarriage had silenced rumors that he was homosexual—despite his son—for he was not known to have made any feminine conquests since his arrival in Egypt. All he had needed was to meet Jezebel Leenhart.

  Keoraz had only to ask and he could have every influential person in the city at his dinner table, including members of the government.

  He loved, or rather had loved polo, which he had played until he tired of it, as he had done with the majority of his pursuits. Keoraz was a nomad when it came to his passions; settling down—whether it applied to his moods, his hobbies, or his life in general—was not his style. Once he had acquired and mastered something, it invariably became dull in his eyes.

  That was what had fascinated him about Jezebel, Jeremy realized.

  Nothing and no one was more versatile than Jezebel.

  Nor less capable of being tamed.

  She represented a challenge of which he would never tire.

  Keoraz was one of those people whom common mortals regarded with hatred. He had been born into opulence, made use of it in order to find his own way, and whatever he had attempted, the outcome had always been success. Many people called him “rich” and “born lucky” behind his back, but he justified his successes with just one word: work.

  Through having everything, Keoraz had lost pleasure in everyday things. This could explain why he had turned to charity. Once a man of his ilk had conquered everything he had desired, and lived a life centered on himself, he turned toward others.

  He was looking for new satisfactions.

  New pleasures.

  Jeremy read his notes, summing up what he knew. Keoraz would set himself up as a role model, despite his volcanic nature and his domineering temperament.

  Jeremy reread the last few sentences.

  And a sly smile appeared on his face.

  A role model.

  Or—why not—a man who had broken down the last barriers that resisted him on the planet. The barriers of morality.

  Because of his thirst for power, his tyranny and permanent success, he had slipped, losing control of his desires and ambitions, listening to the last facet of his character that he had never satisfied: the predator. For once in his life, he had abandoned full control of his being. Allowing the beast—the hunter!—to express itself.

  He had come down from his luxurious villa to roam the anonymous alleyways of the poor districts, swathed in a black cape.

  And the first vagrant who came along had served as a temple.

  In which to house faith in his violence, which he had held back for so long.

  A temple wherein he could liberate his rage.

  A transitory temple, whose beauty lay in disappearing as his inadmissible passions unwound; a temple that crumbled, carrying away what could not remain, which must not remain. This shameful offering.

  And for the first time, the game had caught hold of Keoraz.

  Far from being sated or relieved, he had the need within him.

  The need to begin again.

  This time, he had crossed the last frontier, attained the very purity of horror, the quintessence of destruction.

  Children.

  And because he was no longer in command, because the monster within him was guiding his pleasures, he could no longer stop. This would never end. Never.

  Except in blood.

  Jeremy closed his eyes, pondering the clarity of this argument. How could it be ignored? Was he himself in a state of grace, enabling him to see how all the elements fitted together? No, nobody could argue that jealousy was blinding him, absolutely not. The logic of this study was far too coherent.

  One afternoon.

  That was all it had taken him to see right through Francis Keoraz.

  27

  A bird was twittering on the window ledge.

  Marion opened her eyes.

  Immediately she felt the warmth at the base of her belly, between her thighs. The ghost of a man left her skin, slipped under the sheets and melted away with the last vestiges of night.

  Marion blinked several times.

  Her breasts were tense, and she felt as light-headed as if she had just made love. Her body was needy. Her buttocks contracted and shifted gently, in search of vanished pleasure.

  She had been dreaming. About him.

  Jeremy had come to visit her.

  To make love to her.

  The memories of the last pages she had read came back to her.

  The detective’s deductions about Francis Keoraz’s personality.

  That perversion cultivated by a life of excess and never-ending success.

  Marion’s muscles relaxed, and her excitement ebbed away. She pushed aside the sheets to let the cool morning air play over her naked body.

  She needed a good shower. To warm her up, wake her up, and wash away her nocturnal escapades and their salty taste on her skin.

  As she sat down with her cup of coffee and a slice of toast with honey, Marion was still accompanying the English investigator in his quest.

  He was gifted with insight into the criminal mind. “The hunter’s mind,” as he called it. Nevertheless, Marion thought he was rather too sudden in deducing that Keoraz was the child-killer. True, the sadistic light that Jeremy had thrown on his personality could only confirm this suspicion, yet she thought he was too hasty. Despite his denials, was there not a certain unhealthy jealousy that, knowingly or not, had led him to view Keoraz as the ideal culprit?

  However, his reasoning about what the millionaire was like deep down completely held water.

  Marion had often talked to investigators from the judicial police who were passing through the institute, and she remembered a conversation with a young cop who was really keen on detective stories and criminology. He had explained to her how criminal research had taken a giant leap forward in thirty years, with computers, digital fingerprint files that could be consulted from anywhere in the country, plus the contribution made by science and DNA, not to mention the olfactory techniques that were in development. Nowadays, investigations relied on concrete facts, tangible proofs, whereas before a case might be sewn up on the basis of an unstable alchemy of personal conviction and the “balance of probability.” On the basis of an abstraction, men and women had been sent to prison, and sometimes sentenced to death.

  In the old days, an investigation was conducted on the strength of testimonies, and above all confessions. In the absence of either, only the inspector’s logical deductions could enable a suspect to be identified.

  That was what Jeremy was doing. Without material clues, he had only his own reasoning to help him find a culprit, to halt the massacre of children as swiftly as possible.

  In the absence of tangible proof, he had to reassemble the facts and find a credible candidate, using only his intuition and experience.

  Had Jeremy rushed toward the Keoraz solution because it was the only one at the time, or did he have a great detective’s instinct for getting so quickly onto the right track?

  Marion couldn’t wait to read the next part.

  “First of all, go and get some air,” she said out loud. “It’ll do you good.”

  She wrapped herself up in her trench coat, again taking care to bring the black book with her. It was settled; she wasn’t letting it out of her sight again.

  The bird she had heard when she awoke was still there, two yards above her, on the little wall of the cemetery terrace. She didn’t know what species it was. White and black, or maybe blue.… A brave bird to face winter on the Mount.

  You mean a disoriented bird … who should have left here ages ago.

  “We can judge the stat
e of our planet from their behavior,” said a man behind her.

  The warm, steady voice could only belong to Joe.

  Marion turned to greet him.

  “Hello, Marion.”

  “Hello.”

  “When the earth is not faring well, her children start doing curious things. The birds don’t migrate at the right time anymore, females stop feeding their little ones, and sometimes the world’s belly itself grumbles and strikes our civilization. Notice how there is never any hatred in it, nothing but a warning shot across the bows, a flash of the teeth. Hatred belongs to humans.”

  “A warning shot that sometimes kills thousands of men, women, and children.”

  “A drama, a trauma for us. The merest flick of a finger on the scale of life. It is man in his individuality and in the present moment who creates intense emotion. The death of a human being is appalling, but when you talk about ten thousand deaths in the year 1500 and something it seems almost less serious. In appearance … everything is a question of scale.”

  “You’re very philosophical this morning.”

  “Ah, well, you’ve caught me on my way to church.”

  Marion’s face lit up.

  “So you spend time with our beloved brotherhood!”

  Tall and charismatic as ever, Joe clasped his hands behind his back. “Wrong, my dear.”

  He spun around to shoot a glance at the parish church behind him. “I was having my morning walk before going to pray to our good Lord, here. I leave the abbey Masses to the tourists and people who like religious grandeur.”

  Marion gave him a rueful smile, to show that he had figured her out.

  “But perhaps you would do me the pleasure of coming to my table this evening for dinner?” he ventured. “I think that my advanced age permits me to issue that kind of open invitation without appearing vulgar.”

  Marion gave him the most charming of smiles. “What can I bring?”

  “Oh, you won’t find anything on this pebble, so just come with your good humor; it will intoxicate you better than any expensive wine. Eight o’clock at my door. Have a good day, Marion.”

  Marion saw him enter the church of Saint-Pierre by the side door, then she walked down toward the entrance to the village. For the first time since her arrival, she was surprised to find several tourists walking along the medieval roads. But of course, it was the weekend. Marion walked out onto the causeway and started a long walk to the foot of the sanctuary. Taking advantage of the low tide, she walked past the fortifications, around the Gabriel Tower, which brought back memories of the riddle, and ended up at the chapel of Saint-Aubert on the northwestern side of the Mount. The trees laid bare by the November cold creaked in the wind, huddled close together on the slope that ran under the Merveille.

  From here, the bell tower displayed an intimidating power. Its carved apertures looked down over the bay with more certainty than a moral lighthouse, dictating everybody’s behavior in the name of religious precepts, and, from its great height, reminding them of the punishment in store for disobedience.

  Its shadow crushed Marion.

  She sat down to gaze at the sea of damp sand and the distant polders, on her left. She stayed there for a moment, before walking back.

  Walking past the square at the entrance to the village, Marion felt a flash of happiness as a little girl ran into her and clumsily excused herself. The little one was no older than ten, and her red spectacles were now sitting crookedly on her nose. Marion squatted down to her level to set them straight, pretending to squint, and the little girl gratified her by laughing out loud. The parents were just behind, keeping a watch on their child. Marion acknowledged them as she walked past.

  Her chest suddenly lifted; all at once the air had a bitter taste. The taste of her personal situation. Her solitude. Her single state. Her age. Contact with children soothed her heart. But it also rebounded back on her, with all the appropriate cruelty.

  Marion generally avoided these kinds of thoughts. They didn’t get her anywhere. Well, nowhere pleasant.

  Half a dozen tourists were sitting down to eat at Mère Poulard’s and this demonstration of fresh life inspired Marion. She went in, to associate herself with these faces. She ordered the famous omelette and enjoyed the conversations that surrounded her—however banal they might be—even more.

  She drank four cups of tea in all and treated herself to two portions of tarte aux pommes, stretching out this moment of relaxation into the middle of the afternoon. When she reemerged onto rue Grande, she bumped into Sister Gabriela, the young nun with the musical voice. They chatted for a few minutes before Marion offered to help her with her task, which consisted of putting up flyers reminding people that there was going to be an orchestral concert in the abbey on Monday evening. Marion received the news with surprise and pleasure; at least it would occupy one of her evenings.

  She got back to her little house late in the day, and took a hot bath while listening to the music that boomed out of the stereo on the ground floor.

  She then faced the dilemma of choosing what to wear for dinner. She didn’t have much to choose from, as she had left most of her wardrobe back in Paris. She didn’t want to be too dressy, so as not to make Joe uneasy, but she didn’t want to be too casual either, in case she offended him. Eventually she decided on a pair of black, front-pleated trousers, and a thin roll-neck sweater, for which she had paid a fortune on a wild spending spree, beneath a very classic woollen waistcoat. The mirror reflected back the image of a woman who was still beautiful, with soft skin, well-tended features, and a desirable figure.

  Not for much longer if you keep stuffing yourself like this.…

  A woman who took care of herself.

  The image of a woman who was nearly forty years old.

  Single.

  She bit her lower lip.

  The white streaks within her blond hair did not look out of place. On the contrary, they conferred on it that original, almost exotic aspect that went well with her musical laughter and teasing looks.

  Marion picked up a barrette and drew back her hair into a low bun on the nape of her neck. Just a hint of makeup and she would feel ready.

  As if she was going on a date.

  With a man who was at least eighty.…

  She considered herself pathetic.

  But any pretext is okay if it makes you feel just a little bit beautiful, from time to time.…

  And at eight o’clock precisely she knocked at Joe’s door.

  The old man had put on a beige suit for the occasion, and a shirt with a starched collar, around which he had knotted a maroon scarf. He had not, however, shaved.

  She handed him a bottle of red wine.

  “I had this in one of my cupboards—a present from the brotherhood for my nights of desperation,” she joked. “It might help if my good humor lets us down.…”

  He took it from her and showed her inside.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he warned. “After all these years, I’m still incapable of getting quantities right. I’ve made enough for an army!”

  Marion discovered that he had brought out the good china and an embroidered tablecloth in honor of the occasion.

  “It’s because it’s Saturday evening,” he explained, following her gaze. “Do please sit down.”

  A game of chess covered part of the coffee table in the lounge; the pieces were still arranged as though a game were in progress.

  “Do you play?” asked Joe.

  “I’d love to, but I’m afraid of being bad at it.”

  “Well you should try! I have a shortage of opponents here.”

  “Who was your opponent today?”

  Joe rubbed his hands. “Grégoire, Béatrice’s son. A very good player.”

  “Him? I wouldn’t have imagined him playing chess.…”

  “And yet he does. He’s a good kid. He’s withering away on the Mount, I’m afraid. He needs life, and a male presence; I don’t think I’m wrong about that.”
/>   Marion searched the old man’s face. His gaze was still fixed on the gaming board. He looked almost sad.

  “You like him a lot, don’t you?”

  Joe nodded. “Grégoire often comes to play against me, and we talk, about everything and nothing. He’s just a kid who could do with a father, that’s all. It’s difficult for him, living with his mother so far from everything. Béatrice made this choice for herself, because of a personal desire; but Grégoire hasn’t come out of it so well, what with so much solitude.”

  Joe straightened up and his jovial mood resurfaced. “Right, then, let’s eat—if you’d like to.”

  He served them coquilles Saint-Jacques, which they devoured, joking about the fact that nobody could have secrets when you lived in such a small village. Everyone knew everything about everyone else.

  “That’s precisely the trap,” retorted Marion. “You can come here to bury a dark past in daily routine, behind a mask you can quickly create. And precisely because everyone thinks they know everything about everyone else, the secrets remain buried deep.”

  Joe’s face lit up with a broad grin. “I can see you’re beginning to figure out the spirit of the Mount,” he said proudly.

  “It’s the spirit of small communities. And of islands. I’ve already discussed it with Béatrice.”

  He lifted a finger to emphasize that he understood where her deductions were coming from.

  They got to know each other a little better over the sea bass with mashed potatoes and leeks, each going a little further into the other’s private world. Joe confided to Marion that he had always been a bachelor before trying to get her to speak in turn. The bottle of wine emptied as the meal progressed, and Marion felt the alcohol getting a grip on her. A certain feeling of euphoria invaded her little by little. She felt good in the company of the old man, was enjoying the delicious dinner, and she willingly allowed herself to become intoxicated.

  She ended up depicting herself as a woman who was a little too pushy, too demanding, perpetually unsatisfied. Barely had she become involved in a serious relationship and she was already identifying her partner’s faults. She ended up seeing nothing but those faults and swiftly getting rid of him. At work, she wasn’t sociable enough, not sufficiently fond of her colleagues. At the end of the day, she was living in a kind of autocracy, with two or three girlfriends whom she went out with occasionally, when they managed to get rid of their husbands and find babysitters for their children.