Malediction

by Sally Spedding

  ***

  The Bar Auréole was full at the front, but Duvivier had made prior arrangements. At the far end, in poor light between the Toilettes and a pair of fruit machines, stood two tables pulled together, with Réservé scrawled on one of their beer mats.

  “Well done, sire.” Plagnol straight away settled his plumpness on the bistro chair to study his new purchases. Two cassette tapes – Fuch’s Die Freiheit and Karl Lorenz’s Das Bleiweiss. White wolves, black skies with wreaths of yellow stars. Both new releases on the Gammadion label.

  “Ladies first if you don’t mind.” Duvivier hauled him up by the shoulder, and Colette, shocked by the sudden violence, subsided on to his warm seat. She would watch and remember these things, for this was just the beginning, the unfolding, and she the silent witness until her time.

  After the pastis, the company relaxed, leaning in on one another, wedging Mathieu tight, elbows and smoke mingling. Anonymous boys on the town. Recklessness in the talk, the laughter, and Colette heard every word.

  “Any sign of Bertrand, then?” Robert shouted suddenly from the other table, causing her eyes to dart to the door past the silhouetted army that clustered round the till. Guilty she’d forgotten him.

  “No, but it’s OK.”

  “Is Bertrand your husband?” Mathieu, solicitously out of place.

  “No. Her big boy.” Plagnol laughed, fattening his formless cheeks and showing the baby teeth again, studded behind his lips.

  “How did you know I have a son?”

  “Just chatting.” Robert smiled then tilted his glass for the ice cube to meet his lips. “Gossip isn’t only the prerogative of women, you know.”

  Colette felt her anger rising. Her neck reddening. “It’s my business. Do you mind?”

  “Like the lady says.” Duvivier passed her the menu. “Her business.”

  VI

  The Hôtel Marionnette in the Rue Goncourt, that Colette had booked for herself and Robert, was also full. Its lobby a landscape of rucksacks and rolled up mats, while the one leatherette bench was covered in dismembered newspapers. Not what she’d imagined at all.

  The receptionist, a flustered woman of Colette’s age whose label read Laetitia Lacroix, checked passports and dispensed keys. Everyone sported either crucifixes or bleeding hearts or both, and although dress was distinctly summer casual, there was nevertheless an underlying solemnity.

  Before Colette could step in, she was giving Duvivier his room number. “Twenty-five for Father André. To include Father Jean-Baptiste, Father Jérôme, Father Christophe de la Bonté and Father Xavier-Marie. Is that right?” As her pen ticked off their names.

  “Perfect.”

  But to Colette, excluded, the list read more like some grotesque Indulgence.

  “Excuse me,” she began.

  “One moment.” Madame Lacroix instead peered over her glasses at the young Breton. “You were a last-minute booking, yes?”

  “Correct.” Duvivier spoke for him, his hand eager for the key. “Two double beds and a single. En suite bathroom and w.c.”

  She glanced again at Colette close to his elbow. “Five men together in one room isn’t our usual practice I must admit, but Hélas, we are in special times.” She handed Duvivier the key, but Colette snatched it in mid-air.

  “This was my booking,” she said. “I’m Madame Bataille from Lanvière-sur- Meuse. I wanted one double room, one double bed.” The fob, like an orb, was heavy and empowering in her hand.

  “I don’t think so.” Robert took it from her, avoiding her eyes. “On this unique occasion, Madame, we’ve too much praying to do and need the space.”

  Cacheux looked at him, smiling his own secrets.

  “Indeed.” Duvivier concurred as Plagnol spluttered on his cigarette.

  The embarrassed receptionist was now trying to compensate. “I’m sorry, Madame Bataille, it appears your request was amended by the gentleman here.”

  “Gentleman?” Colette glared at Vidal, but he turned away.

  “We do have a small room near the linen store,” the woman said. “Number 38. All we have left.”

  Colette went up to her lover. Saw his face, blank like an unworked canvas, bleached of love. She hardened her lips and pressed the room key into his hand.

  “You can stuff it!”

  “You could reconsider...” said Duvivier, the biggest coward of them all. But, as Vidal moved away to pick up his bag, Colette took a deep breath.

  “They’re all priests. God’s servants,” she shouted at the receptionist, “but I tell you they are wolves in lambs’ clothing. Don’t be fooled. They’re dangerous.”

  ***

  Colette met the evening crowds, her high heels skewering as Death, the dancing partner, let her reel and spin between the faithful on the road to Hell. Nothing followed, except Vidal’s eyes, while Duvivier hid his rage behind a hard, still mask. He knew where she’d be alright, like some stupid bitch on heat – out in the woods, looking for her son.

  VII

  The Longchamp Vigil had begun, and Pope John Paul faced the multitude of sunburnt faces turned towards him, drinking in his piety, his humanity. Amongst this crowd five men stood together in their black soutanes. Anonymous, keeping themselves to themselves, making the right gestures and responses yet all the while thinking of how easily their bishops and colleagues had been fooled. How easy it is to keep the dark heart hidden.

  “On the eve of August the 22nd, we cannot forget the sad massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Day, an event of very obscure causes in the political and religious history of France. Christians did things which the gospel condemns...” The weary Pontiff continued, occasionally wiping his forehead. His colourless gaze fixed over his flock that reached into the dusky distance. “Belonging to different religious traditions must not constitute today a source of opposition and tension...”

  “Tell that to those killed in Souhane!” someone yelled, before a soft, lowing boo wafted upwards.

  “Laudate Dominum!” Plagnol shouted, crossing himself.

  “Bravo!” Cacheux stretched to clap over his head and all but one of the group positioned within range of the TV1 cameras, applauded in turn. Then Robert Vidal kissed his crucifix, fixing his fervent eyes on the nearest camera lens until it swung away. The Holy Father’s words washed over him like the stream that had shaped his grandparents’ garden at Les Cailles near the Vosges, for as long as he could remember. But each time his gaze fell on the little group of Dominicans, the signal for visible action came in the form of a whistle from between his teeth.

  “We pray for the lost sheep of our parishes!” roared Duvivier on cue. “That their souls shall never be sullied by hatred.”

  “I, too, am here to remember!” Cacheux’s voice a clear treble above the mêlée.

  “And me!”

  Those closest in the crowd touched them, especially Vidal, as if somehow in that moment he’d become holy. The true alter Christus. Only Mathieu remained silent and Duvivier drew him to one side, his thumb embedded in his wrist.

  “This is your fucking alibi too, remember?”

  Mathieu stared in disbelief.

  “Alibi?”

  “Correct. You must let your parishioners see your fervour,” he hissed.

  “Why? I don’t understand. They already know I’m a diligent priest. Even the Bishop.”

  “My friend, you may have scant regard for your own mortality, but certainly we need ours.” Again the camera was on them. “Say something, damn you!”

  The young man faltered. His cheeks ashen.

  “Deo Gratias,” he intoned three times, as Duvivier cut off his blood supply. He tried to break free but the fisherman whose arms had once harboured half the Corniche des Maures, held him fast.

  The Pope raised his hands, and silence descended over the thousands of the young, bereft of dreams, whose heads bent low as Mathieu trembled amongst his fellows. The Pater Noster took an eternity and its amen, like a gathering wave, rose and fell, scattering its
syllables into the Paris night, and when all the candles had blurred into life around the dais, the Te Deum began.

  ***

  From her hiding place behind a souvenir kiosk, Colette saw the five priests make their exit, still mouthing the sacred words and Duvivier keeping his fist in Mathieu’s back. When they reached the privacy of the first open space, still unaware she was following, the Provençal spat in his ear.

  “You are either with us or...”

  “Or?” Plagnol interrupted, and soon regretted it.

  “Or the door to Hell will open.”

  Mathieu crossed himself non-stop at high speed, his confession incoherent.

  “I only wanted love,” he said. “That’s why I replied to your notice in the first place.”

  “Love, my arse.” Vidal crushed leaves between his fingers and watched them fall. “Whatever we have told our Bishops and parishioners, we are here this weekend to prepare for a major offensive in thirty-six days’ time. You’re on board now, and you stay on board.”

  “You’re also duplicitous.” Duvivier kept his weight on Mathieu’s foot. “And what act of contrition do we advise for such as this?”

  “A crucifixion?” Cacheux smiled.

  “We can go one better. Something much more original, though it’s only recently been done...” He looked at Vidal.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “A little testicular tomfoolery.”

  Plagnol roared with delight as the chant from the crowd reached its climax drawing Colette back into its midst to look for Bertrand among its prayers.

  “You’re the liars.” Mathieu suddenly pulled away, dried spit sealing the corners of his mouth. “I met that Simone Haubrey in good faith. One lonely heart to another... or so I thought. It’s you who’ve deceived me.”

  Cacheux tittered. Duvivier’s knuckles now like white silk. Vidal felt tension snake up his body. “Are we not all lonely hearts?” he said. “But at least we beat as one.”

  Duvivier gave him a withering look.

  “We’ve got a runt from the Breton backwoods with too much to say for himself.”

  “Shall we put him with our Bébé?” Cacheux was on a roll. “Then they can keep each other company.” Duvivier’s fist sprang to his chin. Bone on bone, and a chilling hurt to silence.

  “What Bébé?” Fear quickened Mathieu’s tongue.

  For the first time Duvivier looked unsettled.

  “Do we trust him?”

  “Got to, now.”

  The Provençal glared at Cacheux who was still doubled up in pain.

  “The secretary’s son.” Was no more than a scornful whisper, yet it bought Vidal a flush of guilt. “We’re keeping an eye on him, that’s all.” he said.

  You evil dogs.

  “Why? What’s he done?” Mathieu persisted.

  “Alles, mein Freund.”

  Mathieu gulped, but a student selling bagels bumped him with his tray.

  “Where is he, then?”

  “No more questions, eh?” Duvivier was close. “I do the talking.”

  They looked one to the other, except Cacheux who was dealing with a spot of blood on his chest.

  “You are now one of the chosen few, Father Xavier-Marie, replacing somewhat urgently an old queen with a small talent in photography.”

  Mathieu thought hard and quickly. Not of the captive son, but of testicles. His own. “I do take a mean shot,” he said. “Specially urban stuff, you know, streets, buildings. Compositions with people.”

  “Perfect.” Duvivier allowed a weak smile. “God is with us. I can tell.” He pressed his mouth into Mathieu’s ear and spelt out in detail the group’s two forthcoming missions while Plagnol held him, the stink of fermented beer on his breath. Afterwards, the young Breton crumpled between them until Duvivier hauled him upright.

  “But any more trouble my friend, and you’ll be dipping in your shroud pocket to pay the ferryman.”

  Still safe. Still alive.

  No-one around as Colette and the crowds dispersed, grey upon grey, and the lights of the city came on to match the stars.

  VIII

  Colette hadn’t eaten since midday, and her energy had all but gone. What remained was a numbing anxiety beginning to blur her judgement. Every young man, even every tall girl with short hair, was a possibility as she peered into the tents and makeshift shelters springing up under the trees. Shadows and solid mass as one, she a mere pawn in the tricks of the summer night. Was her breath drawing on her son’s air? Was her path his path?

  Suddenly a firework spun into the sky scarring the moon’s vacuous face with an arc of fire. Then a siren, underpinning all her terrors and the remnants of faraway lives searching for a bed in that foreign place. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called his name.

  “Bertrand!” rose with the city birds into the darkness and died as yet another rocket angling north, ejaculated sparks at her feet.

  People had mysteriously vanished. The comfort of closeness taken away, and all her losses seemed to multiply, echoing in that wide oasis. Not since she’d lain in the Hôpital de la Charité in Metz with her fatherless child had she felt so alone. As it was September 6th, she’d named him from the Napoleonic list. Some respectability, some recognition at least. But at visiting times she’d covered her face and blocked up her ears pretending to be a corpse, while sounds of joy and pride had swilled around conspiring in her anguish.

  And now again, that same hollowness, except that her child had grown to be an adult in the world, but not of the world. She knew something was amiss.

  Robert and Duvivier’s promises to look for him were no more than the slender breeze and Dominique Mathieu, poor blind innocent, had flung himself into their arms.

  “Madame?”

  Colette turned. Garlic breath and cigarettes. She recognised the voice before his shape.

  “Come, dinner is waiting.” Duvivier found her wrist. “Don’t make things difficult, I beg you.”

  She recoiled away from him.

  “Besides, as I’m sure you can appreciate, we all need an apology.”

  “I’m not interested. I’m looking for Bertrand.”

  “I thought you might be.” His grip tightened. Iron on bird bone, her blood cut off.

  In the distance, traffic on the Avenue de la Grande Armée hurtled towards the night life on the Champs-Elysées leaving her stranded with the man in black. Rigor mortis already in her throat, revulsion in her eyes as he brought her hand up to feel his cheek whose surface bubbled underneath her fingers. Her scream was silent.

  “Now you have felt the worst, you can have your reward.” He kept her fingers locked in his, down over the taut barrel-chest, the waist thickened on good living, to below...

  Colette was powerless. This was a monster whose flaccid lump she had to harden between their closeness. He jerked in a sudden spasm, silencing her scream with his mouth – his gasps into her lungs, filling her with stench.

  “That’s better. Now we go,” he whispered as he rearranged his soutane, and something else, harder still bored into her side. “Any games and you get this…” The 9 millimetre gun touched her ribs. “The filth will think you’re just some tart who got too clever.”

  She saw his profile half a step ahead. The man her lover had chosen over her kept his gaze erect, his flattened nose and Neanderthal jaw caught by the street lamps at the end of the Allée Cavalière. Their sickly orange haze like the afterglow of war was too public, and in his split-second hesitation, she ducked and headed back towards the darkness. Her shoes like stilts took her into the trees whose trunks on the southern side formed a sheltering screen. A shot sang in pursuit and dulled into wood. Then another, spraying earth and leaves into her hair.

  She stopped to listen. Just her breath and endless cars. Nothing else, she was sure, as the priest of three parishes in Les Pradels, worked his way through the traffic back to the hotel. He cursed as he went. The tart was like an unlucky card and he’d blown it yet again. Que
stions would be asked. From above.

  Oh Merde.

  IX

  “Stupid bitch.” Duvivier overloaded his breaded sole with pepper so it looked diseased on his plate. “We can’t afford any loose cannons. Not now. She knows us and can recognise us.”

  But you gave her the names, you abruti. Remember?

  Robert pushed his lettuce to one side and took a long draught of Vittel. “Look, she’s more bothered about her kid than anything,” he said quietly.

  “Quite.” Cacheux played with his lemon. Dandled it on the end of his tongue, hoping Vidal would notice.

  The five sat in the middle of the Hôtel Marionnette’s busy dining room. The pink tablecloth already stained, draped their legs in stiff folds. Two bottles of house red and a carafe of water stood already depleted and Cacheux clicked for more, but Vidal wasn’t going to weaken. He wanted a clear head for the next stage. The planning. “We’ll have to take that chance,” he said.

  “You wait. When she gets back to Lanvière and finds her precious bastard’s missing...” Plagnol smirked.

  “If she gets back,” Vidal said, busily extracting meat from his teeth. “Leave her to me.”

  Mathieu stared from one to the other, glad of the red wine warming his throat.

  Both Plagnol and Cacheux tried not to look impressed, instead pulled at their steak tartares as if they were carrion. Five priests of the Church, with good appetites and new cash in their pockets. The manager smiled his hospitality, but wondered where the woman in the beige suit had gone. Laetitia Lacroix wasn’t one for fairy tales. He brought over another red and watched as the fat one sampled half a glass, rolling it around in his mouth.

  “You had a little problem earlier, I believe, Father. Is one of your party missing?”

  “Just some streetwalker.” Duvivier lit up and kept the smoke till the last moment. ”Very persistent, and also quite mad.”

  “Sounded like it from what I heard.” But the manager seemed unconvinced.

  “Even called herself Magdalene, would you believe?” Plagnol smiled a string of tarnished pearls. “Pity about the sell-by date.”