Blood Wedding

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Knowing I didn’t do all that stuff, go on, admit it.

  Yes, that too.

  You had your doubts, didn’t you?

  . . .

  Hey?

  Sure, I had my doubts.

  I don’t mind, you know, even I believed it, so why wouldn’t you . . .

  . . .

  Hello?

  Just finishing reading.

  . . .

  OK. Done. I’m speechless.

  Any questions?

  Too many.

  Any doubts?

  Look, this is hard enough as it is . . .

  DOUBTS?

  Yes, alright, of course I have fucking doubts.

  That’s why I love you. Let’s start with the doubts.

  This thing about the keys . . .

  You’re right, that’s where it all starts. July 2000, a guy on a motorbike snatches my bag from my car at a traffic light. Two days later the police return the bag, long enough for him to get copies of all the keys: apartment, car . . . He could come in, take stuff, move things around, access e-mail, ANYTHING, absolutely ANYTHING.

  And that’s when your . . . problems started?

  About then. At the time I was taking a herbal remedy to sleep. No idea what he put in it, but think it’s what he’s been giving me ever since. After Vincent’s death I got the job with Mme Gervais. The cleaning lady lost her keys a couple of days after I started, looked for them everywhere, she was totally panicked and afraid to talk to Mme Gervais. Then miraculously they turn up over the weekend. Same set-up . . . I reckon he used them to come in and kill Léo.

  Possible . . . And the guy on the motorbike?

  GUYS on motorbikes, plural, there have been loads of them. The one who stole my bag, the guy who was following Vincent and me, the one Vincent knocked down who ran off, the one I tricked by hiding my phone in the toilet of the café in Villefranche . . .

  OK, OK. The pieces fit, it all sounds plausible. Why haven’t you gone to the police yet?

  . . .

  You’ve got proof, haven’t you?

  I’m not going to the police.

  ???? What more evidence do you need?

  It’s not enough.

  ??

  Let’s say it’s not enough for me.

  You’re being stupid!

  It’s my life.

  OK then, I’ll call them.

  Papa! I’m Sophie Duguet, I’m wanted for AT LEAST three murders!! If the police find me now, I’ll be banged up. For life! You really think the cops will take my theories seriously unless I have HARD EVIDENCE??

  But . . . you’ve got evidence . . .

  No, everything I have is circumstantial, it all depends on the theory that it began with a minor incident, which won’t count for much against three murders, including the murder of a six-year-old boy!

  OK, fine. For the moment . . . Another thing: how can you know that this guy is YOUR Frantz?

  He met me through a dating agency where I was registered as Marianne Leblanc (the name on the birth cert I bought).

  He never knew me under any other name.

  So . . .?

  So explain to me why, when I slit my wrists, he started screaming and calling me “Sophie”???

  OK, I get it . . . But why cut your wrists???????

  Papa, I’d managed to escape once before and he caught me at the station. After that, he was with me day and night. When he went out, he locked me in. For days I managed not to take the stuff he was giving me and the migraines, the panic attacks, they all went away. What option did I have? I had to find a way out: a hospital was the one place he couldn’t watch me twenty-four hours a day.

  But it could have gone horribly wrong . . .

  No, it couldn’t. The cuts I made looked serious, but they were minor. Not enough to kill someone. Besides, he would never have let me die. He wants to kill me himself. That’s what he’s always wanted.

  . . .

  You still there?

  Yes, yes, I’m here. I’m trying to think straight but the problem is I’m so angry, so fucking furious. I can feel a terrible rage boiling up inside me.

  Me too. But anger is no good against this guy. With him, it’ll take something else.

  What??

  . . .

  WHAT??!!

  He’s intelligent, it will take cunning . . .

  ?? What the hell are you planning to do now??

  Not sure yet, but one way or the other, I have to go back.

  Hang on, that’s CRAZY!! There’s no way I’m letting you go back there, it’s OUT OF THE QUESTION!

  I thought you’d say that . . .

  You are not going back with him and that’s that.

  So you’re saying I’m on my own again?

  What?

  I’m asking whether I’m going to be on my own again. Let’s be clear: this is the help you’re prepared to offer me? Your sympathy and your anger? DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE’S PUT ME THROUGH???? Have you any idea? Vincent is dead, Papa! He killed Vincent! He destroyed my life, he killed . . . everything. And you’re saying I’m on my own again?

  Listen, my little mouse . . .

  Don’t give me that little mouse shit! I’M RIGHT HERE! Are you going to fucking help me or not?

  . . .

  . . .

  I love you. I’ll help you.

  Oh, Papa, I’m so tired . . .

  Stay for a while, get some rest.

  I have to go. And that’s where you can help me, OK?

  Of course . . . but that still leaves one major question . . .

  ??

  Why has he done all this? Do you know this guy? Did you know him in the past?

  No.

  He’s got the money, he’s got the time, he’s got a pathological determination . . . but why YOU?

  That’s why I’m here, Papa. You’ve still got maman’s files, haven’t you?

  ???

  I think that’s where the answer is, Maybe he was one of the patients maman treated. Him, or someone close to him. I don’t know.

  I’ve got a couple of folders, I think. In a box, somewhere . . . I never opened them.

  Well, now might be the time.

  Frantz slept in the rental car. Four hours in the supermarket car park the first night, four hours in the bus station car park the second. A thousand times he has regretted his strategy, a thousand times he has thought of turning back, but each time he has stuck it out. He needs to keep a cool head, that is all. Sophie has nowhere else to go. She is bound to come here. She is a wanted criminal, she cannot go to the police, she will go home or she will come here, she has no choice. But still. Sitting here watching a house where nothing happens can sap your morale, doubts make their way in. It takes four years of planning and conviction to keep them at bay.

  At the end of the third day, Frantz does a round trip to his apartment. He takes a shower, changes his clothes, sleeps for four hours. While he is there, he picks up various things he needs (flask, camera, fleece jacket, Swiss army knife). By dawn, he is back at his post.

  *

  Auverney’s house is a long, single-storey building like so many in the area. To the right is the laundry room and the shed in which he probably stores his garden furniture in winter. To the left, directly facing Frantz, is the large barn where he parks the car and keeps his impressive array of tools. It is a large building that could easily accommodate two more vehicles. When he is at home and intends to take the car out at some point, he leaves the right-hand door open.

  This morning he appeared wearing a suit. He must have a meeting. He opened the doors to the hangar and brought out a tractor mower, the sort they use to cut grass on golf courses. It must be broken because he has to push it, and it looks as though it weighs a ton. He tucks an envelope under the seat. Someone is probably coming to pick it up during the day. Making use of the fact that both doors are open, Frantz studies the hangar – and takes several photographs. Half of it is taken up with piles of boxes, sacks of compost, battered s
uitcases sealed with packing tape. Auverney left the house at about 9.00 a.m. He has not come back since. It is now almost 2.00 in the afternoon. Nothing is stirring.

  *

  Clinical file

  Sarah Berg, née Weis, born July 22, 1944.

  Parents deported to Dachau, date unknown.

  Marries Jonas Berg, December 4, 1964.

  Gives birth to a son, Frantz, August 13, 1974.

  1982 – diagnosed with Manic Depressive Psychosis (Type III: Melancholic depression) – Hôpital L. Pasteur

  1985 – hospitalised at the Clinique du Parc (Dr Jean-Paul Roudier)

  1987–88 – hospitalised at the Clinique des Rosiers (Dr Catherine Auverney)

  1989 – hospitalised at the Clinique Armand Brussières (Dr Catherine Auverney)

  June 4, 1989 – after an interview with Dr Auverney, Sarah Berg put on her wedding dress and threw herself from a fifth-floor window. Death instantaneous.

  *

  Even if he is made of stone, waiting can weaken any man. It has now been three whole days since Sophie disappeared. Auverney came home at 4.30. He glanced at the lawnmower and, with a hint of resignation, picked up the envelope he had left there earlier.

  At precisely that moment, Frantz’s mobile rang.

  At first there is a long silence. He said “Marianne . . .?” He heard something that sounded like sobbing.

  “Marianne, is that you?”

  This time, there can be no doubt. Through the ragged sobs she said:

  “Frantz, where are you?”

  She said:

  “Come quickly.”

  Then, over and over, she repeated: “Where are you? Where are you?” as though not expecting a response.

  I’m here, Frantz tried to say.

  Then:

  “I’m home,” she said, her voice hoarse, exhausted. “I’m at home.”

  “O.K., stay where you are. Don’t worry, I’m here, I’ll be home soon.”

  “Frantz . . . Please, please come quickly.”

  “I’ll be there in . . . about two hours. I’ll leave my phone on. I’m here, Marianne, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. If you start to feel scared, you call me, O.K.?”

  Then, when she did not reply.

  “O.K.?”

  There was a long silence and then she said:

  “Come quickly . . .”

  And she started to cry again.

  *

  He snapped his mobile shut. He feels a huge wave of relief. She has not taken her medication for five days, but from her voice he can tell she is shattered, vulnerable. Fortunately, she does not seem to have regained her strength during her disappearance, the results of his work are intact. He needs to be vigilant, though. To find out where she has been. Frantz has already reached the fencing. He crawls under it, then breaks into a run. What if she leaves again before he gets there? He will call her every fifteen minutes on the way. He still feels vaguely worried, but mostly he feels an overwhelming relief.

  *

  Frantz races to the car, and then the floodgates burst. As he pulls away, he begins to weep like a child.

  Sophie and Frantz

  When he opens the door, Sophie is sitting at the kitchen table. She looks as though she has been sitting there, motionless, for centuries. There is nothing on the table but for an overflowing ashtray; her hands are clasped and resting on the oilcloth. She is wearing clothes he has never seen before, crumpled, mismatched, they look as if they were bought in a charity shop. She turns to him very slowly, as though to do so requires a superhuman effort. He walks towards her. She tries to stand up, but cannot. She simply tilts her head to one side and says: “Frantz”.

  He takes her in his arms. She smells of cigarette smoke. He says:

  “At least tell me you’ve had something to eat?”

  She presses herself against him, he can feel her shake her head. He had promised himself he would not ask any questions just yet, but he cannot help himself:

  “Where were you?”

  Sophie shakes her head vaguely as she draws away from him, her eyes vacant.

  “I don’t know,” she says, “hitching lifts here and there . . .”

  “Nothing happened to you?”

  She shakes her head.

  Frantz pulls her to him and holds her for a long time. She has stopped crying, but she huddles in his arms like a frightened animal. Resting against him, she feels so slight. She is so thin.

  He cannot help but wonder where she went, what she can have been doing all this time. She will tell him eventually, Sophie has no secrets from him. But his overriding feeling in these silent moments as they hold each other is how scared he was.

  When he inherited his father’s money, Frantz was convinced that he would be able to dedicate himself to dealing with Doctor Catherine Auverney, so the news that she had died some months earlier felt like a betrayal. Life itself seemed treacherous. But today, something new stirs him: the same relief he felt when he first learned of Sophie’s existence and decided that she would take the place of Doctor Auverney. That she would die in her mother’s stead. This is the consolation he all but lost these past days. He hugs her to him and feels a surge of happiness. He dips his head to inhale the scent of her hair. She draws back slightly, looks up at him. Her eyelids are swollen, her face grubby. But she is beautiful. Undeniably beautiful. He bends down and suddenly the truth is laid bare to him in all its simplicity: he loves her. It is not this that he finds most striking, he has long known that he loves her. No, what he finds profoundly affecting is the fact that, by dint of caring for her for so long, working, directing, guiding, moulding, her face now looks exactly like Sarah’s. Towards the end of her life, Sarah had these sunken cheeks, the greyish lips, the vacant eyes, the bony shoulders, this evanescent thinness. Just as Sophie does today, Sarah would gaze at him lovingly as though he were the one and only answer to the troubles of this world, the single promise that one day she might find a glimmer of peace. This resemblance between the two women moves him deeply. Sophie is perfect. Sophie is an exorcism, she will die a beautiful death. Frantz will weep copious tears. He will miss her terribly. Terribly. And he will be genuinely desolate to be cured without her.

  Sophie could go on looking up at Frantz through this gauzy veil of tears, but she knows that tears have only a temporary effect. It is difficult to know what is going on inside his mind. So she stays there, motionless, allows things to take their course. She waits. He holds her by the shoulders, pressing her against him and in that precise moment, she feels something in him weaken, crumble, melt, though she does not know what. He hugs her and she begins to feel afraid because his eyes are frozen in a strange, fixed stare. She can almost see the thoughts teeming in his brain. She does not take her eyes off him, as though attempting to paralyse him. She swallows hard and says, “Frantz . . .” She purses her lips and he bends down to meet them. The kiss is tense, restrained, though there is something voracious about his mouth. Something urgent. And something hard in his groin. Sophie concentrates. She wishes she could calculate without factoring in her fear, but it is impossible. She feels caught, captive. He is physically powerful. She is afraid of dying. So she hugs him to her, grinds her pelvis against him, feels him grow harder and this reassures her. She lays her cheek against him and stares at the ground. She can breathe. She relaxes each of her muscles, one by one, and her body gradually melts in Frantz’s arms. He lifts her up. He carries her into the bedroom and lays her down. She could fall asleep now. She hears him move away, go into the kitchen, she briefly opens her eyes then closes them again. She hears the familiar sounds of a teaspoon knocking against a glass. Senses him looming over her again. He says: “You should get some sleep now, get some rest.” He holds her head and slowly she swallows the liquid. He always adds a lot of sugar to mask the taste. He goes back into the kitchen. Immediately she rolls onto her side, pulls back the sheet and pushes two fingers down her throat. She retches, vomits up the liquid, feels her stomach lurch then dr
aws the sheet over the stain and rolls back. He is there already. He runs his hand over her brow. “Sleep tight,” he says in a whisper. He presses his mouth against her lips. He admires her beautiful face. He loves it now. This face is his possession. He has already begun to dread the moment when she is no longer here.

  *

  “The gendarmes came round.”

  Sophie did not think of this. The gendarmes. Her face immediately betrays her terror. Frantz knows how much the real Sophie has to fear from the police. Play his cards right.

  “The clinic had to contact them, obviously,” he says, “so they came here.”

  He revels for a moment in Sophie’s panic, then takes her in his arms.

  “I took care of everything, don’t worry. I didn’t want them out looking for you. I knew you would come back.”

  In all these months she has managed to have no contact with the police. Now, here, she is caught in the net. Sophie takes a deep breath, tries to gather her thoughts. Frantz will have to get her out of this. Their interests coincide. Play her cards right.

  “You need to go in and sign some papers. Just to say that you’re back . . . I told them you were in Besançon. With family. We should probably get it over with as soon as possible.”

  Sophie shakes her head, murmurs “no”. Frantz hugs her a little harder.

  *

  The reception area of the police station is plastered with faded posters showing blown-up identity cards, offering safety advice, emergency numbers for every situation. The gendarme Jondrette looks at Sophie with good-natured detachment. He would like to have a wife like this. Sickly. It must make a husband feel useful. His gaze shifts from Sophie to Frantz. Then he taps the desk in front of him. His fat fingers draw their attention to a form.

  “So you thought you’d run away from hospital.”

  This is his way of being tactful. In front of him is a woman who tried to kill herself and he can think of nothing else to say. Instinctively, Sophie realises that she needs to pander to his idea of masculine power. She lowers her eyes. Frantz puts an arm around her shoulder. A handsome couple.

  “And you were in . . .”

  “Besançon,” Sophie says in a hushed whisper.