Three Days and a Life

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Still he could not believe it.

  He would finish his residency, leave all this far behind, rebuild his life.

  19

  Two days later, to no-one’s surprise, Monsieur Kowalski was released without charge, though he was still guilty in the eyes of the people of Beauval, who were slow to change their minds, no smoke without fire, they would never change.

  As Antoine’s fears gradually subsided, so too did his mother’s interest in local news. She no longer sat glued to the television as she had during her time in hospital. Unlike Antoine, she barely listened to statements made by the procureur de la République from the steps of the district courthouse in response to questions from reporters.

  “No, it is simply not realistic to subject the population of Beauval to mass D.N.A. screening. There simply would not be funds available for such a screening, but, more importantly, it would not be based on any clear evidence. We have no reason to assume that the individual whose D.N.A. was found at the scene (if indeed he is the man who murdered Rémi Desmedt) is a resident of Beauval rather than one of the neighbouring towns, or just someone who was passing through . . .”

  “There you have it,” Madame Courtin muttered, as though the state prosecutor had just confirmed a theory she had been defending all along.

  With this last obstacle out of the way, Antoine was now free to leave: Madame Courtin was her old self again, it was time to go back and prepare for his final exams.

  “Already?” said Madame Courtin, who could hardly believe it herself.

  His mother, who insisted on organising a “little lunch” (“little” was the word she used for anything she deemed important), slipped on her coat and headed into town to be greeted like Lazarus returned from the dead, all the while maintaining an air of false modesty that made Antoine smile.

  He packed up his things, poured himself a glass of port. They ate lunch, talking about nothing in particular, slightly stunned to find themselves here together when only two days ago the outcome of the situation had seemed far from certain.

  Then Madame Courtin looked up at the clock and stifled a yawn.

  “You’ve got time,” Antoine said.

  She went upstairs to have a little nap before his departure.

  The house thrummed with silence.

  Then the doorbell rang. Antoine opened it. It was Monsieur Mouchotte.

  The two men did not shake hands, both embarrassed by this unseemly situation. Antoine realised that he had never actually had a conversation with Émilie’s father. He stood aside and ushered the man in.

  Monsieur Mouchotte was a tall man with hair close-cropped like a soldier’s and an aquiline nose. This, together with his stiff bearing and his insistence on maintaining his dignity at all costs, made him look something like a Roman emperor. Or a schoolmaster from another century. In any case, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, making it easier to throw out his chest and keep his chin up.

  Antoine felt ill at ease, he had no desire to sit through a lecture in morality, this whole situation was an accident. If the Mouchottes were determined that Émilie should have this baby, there was nothing Antoine could do about it, he had no reason to feel guilty, but it was clear from Monsieur Mouchotte’s steely, almost threatening manner that he would not get off so lightly: they wanted money, they had probably worked out what a doctor was likely to earn.

  Antoine clenched his fists, they would try and take advantage of the situation, he had not even thought to look up his rights.

  “Antoine,” Monsieur Mouchotte began. “My daughter succumbed to your advances. To your insistence . . .”

  “I didn’t rape her!”

  Instinctively, Antoine realised that an aggressive stance that admitted no guilt was the most effective strategy, he had no intention of being duped.

  “I never suggested that you did!” Monsieur Mouchotte protested.

  “Just as well. I proposed a solution to Émilie, one that she rejected. That is her choice, of course, but it is also her responsibility.”

  Monsieur Mouchotte was speechless.

  “Surely you’re not suggesting . . .” He choked on the words, unable to say them aloud.

  Antoine wondered whether Émilie had told her father that he had suggested she have a termination, or whether he had only discovered it now.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m suggesting . . . In fact, it’s still possible. It’s borderline, but it’s possible.”

  “Life is a sacred gift, Antoine! God has willed that—”

  “Spare me the sanctimonious bullshit!”

  It was as if he had slapped the man. For all his Roman airs, he was already out of his depth, something that only served to fuel Antoine’s belligerence.

  Drawn by the sound of her son shouting, Madame Courtin’s footsteps now echoed on the stairs.

  “Antoine?” she said as she reached the bottom step.

  He did not turn around. As she leaned over the banister, Madame Courtin was greeted by the strange sight of two men facing off like fighting cocks, hackles raised, ready to come to blows . . . She tiptoed back to her room. Monsieur Mouchotte, puffed up with righteous indignation, had not even noticed her presence.

  “How dare you . . . you have brought disgrace on my daughter!”

  He was speaking in a deep bass register, enunciating each syllable to make it clear that he could hardly believe his ears.

  “Oh,” Antoine said, “if we’re going to talk about ‘disgrace’, I wasn’t the first, I can assure you.”

  Now Monsieur Mouchotte was incandescent.

  “How dare you insult my daughter!”

  The conversation was one-sided, and Antoine did not like to kick a man who was down, but he was not about to lower his guard. He decided to press his advantage.

  “Your daughter is entitled to do what she wants with her body, it’s no business of mine. But I don’t—”

  “She was engaged to be married!”

  “Yes, she was, but that didn’t stop her having sex with me.” Antoine needed to put an end to this situation at any cost, and with Monsieur Mouchotte there was little point in trying to be subtle.

  “Listen, Monsieur, I can understand why you might feel embarrassed, but let’s face it, man to man, your daughter wasn’t born yesterday. Now she’s got herself knocked up by somebody, but I’m no more to blame in all this than . . . well, well, let’s say ‘the others’.”

  “I always thought you were a despicable young man . . .”

  “Well, next time maybe you should tell your daughter to be more careful in her choice of lovers.”

  Monsieur Mouchotte nodded vehemently: Alright, O.K., fine . . .

  “If that’s how you want to play it . . .”

  He whipped a rolled-up newspaper from behind his back and waved it about like a flyswatter. The local paper. Antoine could not tell whether it was today’s edition.

  “Everyone knows . . . these days, they can do tests.”

  “What are you talking about . . .?”

  Antoine was suddenly pale.

  Monsieur Mouchotte realised that at last he was moving in the right direction.

  “I’m going to press charges.”

  Antoine sensed the looming threat but could not grasp the repercussions it would have on his life.

  “I’m going to sue you and force you to give a D.N.A. sample that will prove beyond doubt that you’re the father of the child my daughter is carrying.”

  Antoine was dumbfounded, he stood open-mouthed, unable to think clearly.

  This idiot was making threats without even considering the consequences.

  “Fuck off,” Antoine hissed in a toneless voice.

  “It’s not too late for you choose the path of righteousness over that of infamy,” Monsieur Mouchotte said with finality, “as much for your sake as for Émilie’s. Because let me tell you, I shall not be swayed in this. I will go to court, I will insist you submit to this test, and whether you like it or not, you will be f
orced to marry my daughter and to acknowledge this child.”

  He turned on his heel like an officer, slamming the door as he left.

  Antoine needed to steady himself, he clung to the doorframe. He needed to find some way to counter this.

  He raced up the stairs and into his bedroom, locked the door and began to pace up and down.

  Would he really have to marry Émilie Mouchotte?

  The prospect made him feel sick. Besides, where would they live? Émilie would never agree to move abroad, to leave her parents.

  More to the point, what chance was there that a humanitarian organisation would take him on if he was father to a toddler?

  Would he be condemned to stay in Beauval?

  It was unthinkable.

  Antoine tried to imagine the situation in concrete terms. Monsieur Mouchotte would file a lawsuit. He would go to court, only to be told his grievance was preposterous. “This is something that is only enforced in cases of rape, Monsieur Mouchotte. Has your daughter made a complaint of sexual assault . . .?”

  No, Antoine reassured himself, no judge would countenance such a request, it was impossible.

  But at the same time the judge would surely wonder why, if he was so convinced he was not the father, Antoine Courtin was not prepared to submit to such a test.

  The judge would be puzzled by this man who refused to take a D.N.A. test at precisely the moment when investigators had released a D.N.A. profile of Rémi Desmedt’s killer. More curious still, this same man had been one of the last people to see the child alive . . .

  And so, just to be sure, Antoine would be taken in for questioning.

  And he knew that he would never survive an interrogation about the events of twelve years ago. It was hopeless. He would try to lie, only to get bogged down and become flustered, the examining magistrate would find this suspicious – it would not be the first time a murder suspect had been arrested because of some trivial, unrelated offence . . .

  He might even go so far as to order Antoine to submit to a D.N.A. test.

  Better to give in.

  Better to get the test over with, to put an end to his misgivings.

  He felt comforted by this idea. After all, if it turned out that he was the father, he would simply pay Émilie child maintenance and that would be that! There would be no question of him throwing his life away by marrying that – that . . . He groped for a word but could not find one.

  From the next room he heard muffled sounds, hushed noises, like a considerate guest in a hotel room where the walls are paper-thin.

  His mother, as usual, was trying to pretend that nothing had happened by tidying her already-immaculate bedroom, something Antoine remembered from his childhood.

  To hear her, to feel her almost physical presence, chilled him to the bone . . . If it emerged that he was the father – the guilty party, in other words – and that he had refused to marry Émilie, the Mouchottes would spread the news all over town, point the finger at the Courtin family . . .

  What effect would that have on his mother’s life?

  It would be a stain on her reputation. Everyone would think of her as the mother of a coward incapable of facing up to his responsibilities, his obligations. She would not endure the knowing looks, the pointed remarks, the moral disapproval, it was beyond her.

  Antoine had no-one but his mother, and she had no-one but him.

  He could not put her through such a terrible ordeal.

  It would kill her.

  There was only one solution: take the test and hope that he was not the father. It was a long shot.

  But there was another issue.

  The news reporter’s words echoed in Antoine’s head: “. . . a D.N.A. sample which may then be compared to that found on the tragic victim.”

  The room started to spin and he had to sit down. If he agreed to a paternity test, the results – whether positive or negative – would have to be stored somewhere.

  There would be a file on him. For a long, long time. Where were such results stored? Which departments had access to the database?

  He could not be certain that, one day, they might not be compared to . . . the D.N.A. sample from Rémi Desmedt’s killer.

  At any moment, a government decree could authorise the police to cross-reference all available D.N.A. databases.

  There would forever be a sword of Damocles over his head.

  And so the only solution was to refuse to take the test.

  Antoine was back where he had started. It was Catch-22: whether or not he took the test, the outcome would be the same.

  What did not happen today would still be a threat tomorrow.

  And for the rest of his life.

  “What time is your train, Antoine . . .?”

  Antoine had not noticed his mother pop her head around the door. She could tell at once that her son was in a state.

  “Never mind, you can always get a later one.”

  She closed the door and went downstairs.

  Antoine paced up and down, trying to gather his thoughts, but again and again he had to face the facts. There was only one way out: he had to stop Monsieur Mouchotte from making a formal complaint.

  Otherwise he would have to live in fear for the rest of his life, and even then he might end up spending fifteen years in prison, face a trial that would be a media circus, the grim fate of a child-killer . . . Everything he had so far managed to avoid.

  Twelve years had passed since the crime he had committed when he was twelve years old, and the final act in the tragedy that had been set in motion in December 1999 might well be played out here, now . . .

  Night fell.

  He heard his mother going to bed, without a word, without a question.

  He paced his room until morning. It was a grotesque situation. His whole life was one long, terrible defeat to which he had been doomed by a childhood catastrophe.

  As dawn broke, he wondered whether, with Émilie, he had not in fact doomed himself. The sentence for his crime would not be years in prison, but a whole life from which he instinctively recoiled, a life that represented everything he despised, lived among nonentities, practising a profession he loved in circumstances he hated . . .

  This was to be his punishment: to serve out his sentence as a free man, at the cost of his entire existence.

  By morning, Antoine had accepted his defeat.

  2015

  20

  It had been raining continually for more than a week. And now that the nights were drawing in, making house calls had become more and more wearing. Though he tried his best to be methodical, to map out a sensible route, he would get emergency calls while on his rounds, forcing him to go back to Marmont twice, and three times to Varennes, it happened again and again.

  Antoine glanced at his watch: 6.15 p.m. There would be a dozen people in his waiting room already, he would be lucky to get home before nine o’clock. He caught sight of himself in the rear-view mirror. A few days before his wedding he had decided to grow a moustache, and he had kept it ever since. It made him look much older, even his mother said so, not that it mattered to him, or to Émilie. But then again, Émilie . . . She had always been a closed book. He had been very angry with her in the early days, and he blamed himself for being duped, for giving in to panic. He had even considered taking it, the D.N.A. test, but in the end he hadn’t because it would not have changed the course his life had taken. It was too late for that.

  So he let it go, and he saw his wife differently; he did not love her, but he understood her. She was a butterfly, unstable, volatile, subject to sudden flashes of anger with no forethought and no regrets. She was still immensely beautiful, she had recovered from her pregnancy within weeks, her belly was flat, her breasts flawless, and that perfect arse . . . When he saw her in the shower he was still blown away. From time to time he would roll over onto her, and she always let him, she pretended to come, giving little muffled cries “because of the baby”, then turn onto her side, telling
him it was “even better than last time”, and fall asleep. Antoine was convinced that Émilie had never had an orgasm. With anyone. He no longer fretted about their sexual relations, as a doctor he simply tried to ensure that she was careful, but it was a waste of time, she was beyond control.

  In the early days, Antoine would feel a pang if he came home unannounced and saw Émilie appearing from the basement, smoothing her skirt and combing out her hair, and then bump into some red-faced electrician who had not even opened his toolbox. Had he been in love with her, it would have made him unhappy. In fact, he did feel a little sad, but not for himself. When he glanced at her surreptitiously, at the dinner table or in the kitchen, he felt a pang of regret to see such waste: this melancholy beauty who had nothing going on in her head.

  Émilie accepted her life just as she put up with everything, from everyone. She had a penchant for fumbled trysts and fleeting quips.

  Except with Théo. He had taken over the factory from his father two years earlier and replaced him as mayor at the last elections. Ever since, he had played the modern employer, the modish mayor, he attended council meetings in Diesel jeans, and ceremonies at the war memorial in an open-necked white shirt and no tie, he met with union leaders wearing Converse trainers. He feigned friendship, bitched about his salary, called everyone by their first name. And he fucked the doctor’s wife – an old schoolfriend doesn’t count.

  Antoine came to a stop behind a timber lorry on the road near the outskirts of the forest. He had to wait. He dreaded these moments of quiet, in fact this was probably why he had come to love being a country doctor. Docteur Dieulafoy, whose practice he had bought a year earlier, had warned him: “Either you won’t stick it more than two months, or you’ll be doing it all your life, there’s no middle ground.” It was true. He had thrown himself into his work, he would probably never relax.

  Otherwise, life had settled into a routine.

  Émilie still trotted out the same pathetic clichés all day long, his father-in-law was proud that his daughter was now the local doctor’s wife. The baby was monopolised by his in-laws because Antoine “had far too much work on his hands to be able to take care of him”, which was true.