Black Water Lilies

by Michel Bussi

  It really bothers me, having to leave Neptune hanging about outside.

  10

  In the classroom, Inspector Laurenç Sérénac is trying to keep his eyes away from the bare skin of the teacher’s legs. He clumsily fumbles in his pocket while Stéphanie Dupain studies him candidly, as if the pose that she has adopted, sitting on the desk with her thighs crossed, were the most natural in the world. Normally, Laurenç Sérénac muses, none of the children in her class would see any mischief in this… normally…

  “So,” the teacher asks again. “How does this relate to me?”

  The inspector finally extracts from his pocket a photocopy of the Water Lilies postcard.

  ELEVEN YEARS OLD. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

  He holds out the card.

  “They found this in Jérôme Morval’s pocket.”

  Stéphanie Dupain decodes the phrase attentively. As the teacher leans over and turns away slightly, the ray of sunlight shining through the window reflects off the white paper and illuminates her face, a reading woman bathed in a halo of light that is suggestive of the work of Fragonard. Degas. Vermeer. For just a moment, Sérénac is touched by a strange idea, an impression: not one of the young woman’s gestures is spontaneous; the grace of each movement is too perfect, calculated, studied. She is posing, for him. Stéphanie Dupain straightens up, elegantly; her pale lips open gently and release an invisible breath that turns the inspector’s ludicrous suspicions into dust.

  “The Morvals had no children. So you thought of the school.”

  “Yes. That’s the mystery. Are there any eleven-year-olds in your class?”

  “Several. I look after more or less all the children, from the ages of six to eleven. But to my knowledge none of them is going to celebrate a birthday in the coming days, or weeks.”

  “Could you draw up a precise list for us? With parents’ addresses, dates of birth, anything that might be useful.”

  “Might the card have anything to do with the murder?”

  “It might… or it mightn’t… We’re just feeling our way around at the moment. Following different lines of inquiry. By the way, does this phrase mean anything to you?”

  Sérénac points toward the bottom of the postcard. She frowns slightly in concentration. He loves all of her mannerisms.

  She continues to consider the words. The fluttering of her eyelids, the trembling of her mouth, the curve of her neck. A woman who knows how to read the inspector’s fantasy. How could she toy with him like this? How could she know?

  The crime of dreaming…

  “So… does it mean anything to you?” Sérénac stammers.

  Stéphanie Dupain gets abruptly to her feet. She walks toward the bookshelves, bends down, and then comes back, all smiles. She hands him a white book. Laurenç has a sense that the teacher’s heart is beating fast under her cotton dress, like a quivering sparrow that doesn’t dare to pass through the open door of its cage.

  “Louis Aragon,” Stéphanie’s clear voice rings out. “I’m sorry, Inspector, I’m going to have to give you another lesson.”

  Laurenç pushes an exercise book aside and sits down on a pupil’s desk.

  “As I said before, I’d love that.”

  She laughs again.

  “You’re not as well up on your poetry as you are on your painting, Inspector. The phrase on the postcard comes from a poem by Louis Aragon.”

  “You’re incredible…”

  “No, no, I don’t deserve any credit. First of all Louis Aragon was a regular visitor to Giverny, one of the few artists to remain in the village after Claude Monet’s death in 1926. Also it’s taken from a famous poem by Aragon, the first one of his to be censored, in 1942, by the Vichy government. I’m still worried about lecturing you, Inspector, but when I tell you the title of the poem, you will understand why it’s a tradition in the village to teach it to the children of the school every year.”

  “‘Impressions’?” Sérénac hazards a guess.

  “Wrong. Although you’re nearly there. Aragon called his poem ‘Nymphée’—Nymphaeum, which is, of course, reminiscent of nymphéa, our word for water lilies.”

  Laurenç tries to sift through this information in his mind.

  “So, if I’m following you correctly, Jérôme Morval would, logically, be familiar with these lines as well…” He paused, thinking again. “Thank you. It could have taken us days to work that out. Although I’m not sure, for the moment, where this will take us.”

  The inspector jumps up and turns toward the teacher. She is now standing in front of him, their faces nearly level, only about twelve inches apart.

  “Stéphanie… Can I call you Stéphanie? Did you know Jérôme Morval?”

  Her mauve eyes settle on him. He barely hesitates before diving into them.

  “Giverny is tiny,” says Stéphanie. “There are just a few hundred people…”

  “That’s not an answer, Stéphanie!”

  A silence. Only eight inches separate them.

  “Yes… I knew him.”

  The mauve surface of her iris is flooded with light. The inspector floats on it. He has to keep going. Or sink. None of his cheap cynicism is of any use to him.

  “There… there are rumors.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Inspector. I’m aware of them, of course I am. Jérôme Morval was a ladies’ man, isn’t that what they say? So I’m not going to claim that he didn’t try to get close to me. But…”

  The surfaces of her water-lily eyes ripple. A light breeze.

  “I’m married, Inspector Sérénac. I am the village’s teacher. Morval is its doctor, in a sense. It would be ludicrous for you to go off down the wrong track. Nothing ever happened between Jérôme Morval and me. In villages such as ours, there is always someone ready to spy on you, to spread lies, invent secrets.”

  “My fault. I’m sorry if I seemed rude.”

  She smiles at him, there, just in front of his mouth, then suddenly disappears again toward the bookshelves.

  “Here, Inspector. Since you have the heart of an artist…”

  Laurenç sees that Stéphanie is holding out another book to him.

  “For your own edification. Aurélien, Louis Aragon’s finest novel. The most important scenes are set in Giverny. From chapter sixty to chapter sixty-four. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

  “Th… thank you.”

  The inspector can’t find anything else to say, and rages inwardly at his silence. Stéphanie has caught him off guard. What does Aragon have to do with all this? He feels he’s missing something, like he’s skidded and lost control. He takes hold of the book with fake self-assurance, presses it against his thigh, arm dangling, then holds out a hand to Stéphanie. The teacher grips it.

  A little too hard.

  For a little too long.

  For a second or two. Just long enough for his imagination to start working. This hand in his seems to be clinging to it, seems to be shouting, “Don’t let me go. Don’t abandon me. You are my only hope, Laurenç. Don’t let me fall into the depths.”

  Stéphanie smiles at him. Her eyes are glittering.

  He must have been dreaming, of course. He’s going mad. He has been getting his wires crossed since his first investigation in Normandy.

  This woman isn’t hiding anything.

  She’s simply beautiful. She belongs to someone else.

  He gabbles as he retreats. “Stéphanie, will you… I mean, could you think about drawing up a list of children, for me? I’ll send an officer to pick it up tomorrow.”

  They both know he won’t send an officer, that he will come back himself, and that she hopes he will too.

  11

  The Vernon bus turns into Rue Claude Monet and makes its way toward the church, in the part of the village where the flood of tourists is less dense. If you can say that… I love going through the village in a bus like this, sitting at the front watching the panorama pass by. We pass the Demarez and Kandy art galleries, the Immo-Prestige estate agenc
y, the Clos-Fleuri guesthouse, the Hôtel Baudy. The bus catches up with a group of children who are walking along the street, satchels on their backs. The children push their way to the side when the driver sounds the horn, heedlessly crushing hollyhocks and irises. Two other children scamper into the field opposite the Hôtel Baudy. I recognize them, they’re always together, those two. Paul and Fanette. I see Neptune as well, he’s beside them, running through the hay. The dog won’t leave the kids alone, particularly Fanette, the girl with the plaits.

  I think I’m getting indulgent, you know. I worry myself sick over my old dog, when he can get along very well without me. The kids from the village always look out for him.

  At the very end of the street I see the next stop. I can’t suppress a sigh. It’s the exodus! More than twenty passengers are waiting, with their suitcases on wheels, and paintings wrapped in brown paper.

  12

  Fanette holds Paul’s hand. They are hidden behind the haystack in the large field that separates the Chemin du Roy from the Rue Claude Monet, level with the Hôtel Baudy.

  “Shoo, Neptune! Clear off! You’ll give us away.”

  The dog looks at the two eleven-year-old children and doesn’t understand. His coat is covered in straw.

  “Go on! Idiot!”

  Paul bursts out laughing. His long shirt is open. He throws his schoolbag down beside him.

  I like Paul’s laugh, Fanette thinks.

  “There they are!” the little girl suddenly exclaims. “At the end of the street! Come on…”

  They dart off, Paul barely having the time to pick up his bag. Their footsteps echo down Rue Claude Monet.

  “Paul, hurry up!” Fanette cries again, catching the boy’s hand.

  Her plaits fly in the wind.

  “There!”

  She turns abruptly when they reach the church of Sainte-Radegonde and sprints along the gravel path without slowing her pace, then crouches down behind the thick green hedge. This time Neptune hasn’t followed them; he sniffs at the ditch on the other side of the road, then urinates on the low houses. Because of the slope of the bank it almost looks as if they are buried. Paul stifles a giggle.

  “Shh, Paul. They’ll be here in a minute. You’re going to give us away.”

  Paul retreats a little way and sits down on the white grave behind him. One buttock on the plaque dedicated to Claude Monet, another on the one dedicated to his second wife, Alice.

  “Careful, Paul! Don’t sit on Monet’s grave.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Doesn’t matter!”

  I really love Paul, when I tell him off and he apologizes and goes all shy.

  Fanette bursts out laughing as Paul shuffles forward, unable to stop himself from leaning on the other plaques attached to the grave, the ones dedicated to other members of the Monet family.

  Fanette peers through the branches. She hears footsteps.

  It’s them!

  Camille, Vincent, and Mary.

  Vincent is the first to arrive. He studies his surroundings with the concentration of an Indian scout. He looks suspiciously at Neptune, then shouts:

  “Faaanette! Where are yoooou?”

  Paul giggles again. Fanette puts her hand over his mouth.

  Camille reaches the church too. He is smaller than Vincent. His chubby arms and his belly spill out of his open shirt. He is out of breath. The inevitable little fat boy of the gang.

  “Did you see them?”

  “No! They must have gone farther off…”

  The two boys continue on their way. Vincent shouts, even more loudly:

  “Faaanette! Where are yoooou?”

  They hear Mary’s strident cry coming from a little farther away.

  “You could at least wait for me!”

  Camille and Vincent have already gone by the time Mary reaches the church. The little girl is rather tall for her ten years. Her eyes are weeping behind her glasses.

  “Boys, wait for me! We don’t care about Fanette! Wait for me!”

  She turns her head toward the graves, and Fanette instinctively lies down on top of Paul. Mary hasn’t seen anything, she ends up going straight on, down Rue Claude Monet, angrily dragging her sandals along the tarmac.

  Phew…

  Fanette gets up, all smiles. Paul flicks the gravel from his trousers.

  “Why do you not want them to see us?” he asks.

  “They annoy me! Don’t they annoy you?”

  “Well, maybe a bit…”

  “You see. Wait. Camille, he never stops going on about his science marks, ‘blah blah, blah blah, I’m the first in the class, listen to me’… Vincent’s even worse, I hate the way he clings to me all the time. Boring, boring, boring! He won’t let me breathe. As for Mary, I don’t need to tell you, with all her complaining, being teacher’s pet and saying bad things about me…”

  “She’s just jealous,” Paul says gently. “What about me? I don’t cling to you too much, do I?”

  Fanette tickles his cheek with a leaf.

  It’s not the same with you, Paul. I don’t know why, but it’s not the same.

  “Idiot. You know you’re the one I like. Forever…”

  Paul shuts his eyelids and tastes the pleasure. Fanette adds:

  “Usually, at least. But not today!”

  She gets up and checks to see if the coast is clear. Paul rolls his eyes.

  “What? Are you leaving me behind too?”

  “Yep. I have an appointment. Top secret!”

  “Who with?”

  “Top secret, I said! Don’t follow me. Only Neptune’s allowed to do that.”

  Paul twists his fingers round each other, his hands, his arms, as if trying to hide an intense fear.

  It’s because of that murder. Nobody in the village has been talking about anything else since this morning! The police are strolling about the streets as if it was dangerous for us too…

  Fanette insists. “Promise?”

  Paul doesn’t want to, but he swears:

  “Promise!”

  DAY THREE

  May 15, 2010

  (Vernon Hospital)

  Rationality

  13

  The luminous alarm clock above the bed says 1:32. I can’t sleep. The last nurse I saw went past over an hour ago now. She must think I’m asleep. Asleep. You must be joking! How could anyone sleep in such uncomfortable armchairs?

  I watch the liquid dripping slowly from the bag. How long can they keep him going like this?

  Days? Months? Years?

  He isn’t sleeping either. He lost the power of speech yesterday, at least that’s what the doctors said. He can’t move his muscles anymore, but his eyes are open. According to the nurses he understands everything. They’ve told me a hundred times that if I talk to him, if I read to him, he will hear me: “It’s important for your husband’s morale.”

  There’s a pile of magazines on the bedside table. When the nurses are there, I pretend I’ve been reading out loud to him. But as soon as they go I shut the pages again.

  Because, obviously, he understands everything, he will understand.

  I look at the drip again. What are they for, these drips? The nurses told me that they are keeping him alive, but I’ve forgotten the details.

  Minutes pass. I’m worried about Neptune too. My poor dog, all alone in Giverny. I’m not going to stay here all night, all the same.

  The nurses weren’t hopeful. He hasn’t blinked for the last ten minutes. He just goes on staring at me. It’s driving me mad.

  2:12.

  A nurse came by. She told me to try to sleep. I pretended to listen to her.

  I’ve made my decision.

  I wait for a while, I listen, and check that there are no sounds from the corridor. I stand up. I wait a little longer, my fingers quivering, and then I unplug the drips. One by one. There are three.

  He looks at me with crazed eyes. He has understood. Definitely, he’s understood this.

  What did he expect?


  I wait.

  How long? Fifteen minutes? Thirty minutes? I’ve picked up a magazine—Normandy Magazine. They’re writing about the huge operation to gather all the paintings for the “Impressionist Normandy” exhibition that is taking place this summer. It’s the only thing everyone will be talking about around here from June onward. I read on in silence. As if I don’t care that he’s dying right here beside me. Besides, it’s true.

  From time to time I look at him over the top of the magazine. He stares at me with rolling eyes. I watch him for a few minutes, then plunge back into my reading. His face is a little more distorted each time. It’s quite grotesque, believe me.

  At about three in the morning I have a sense that he is truly dead. My husband’s eyes are still open, but they are frozen.

  I get up and start plugging the drips back in as if nothing has happened. And then no, thinking about it, I unplug them again. I press the alarm button.

  The nurse comes running. Professional.

  I look panicky. Not too much, though. I explain that I went to sleep, that I found him like this when I woke up. The nurse examines the unplugged tubes. She looks annoyed, as if it’s her fault.

  I hope I won’t create any problems for her. I’m certainly not going to cause a fuss.

  She runs off to find a doctor.

  I feel a strange emotion. Somewhere between anger, stillness, and freedom.