Black Water Lilies

by Michel Bussi

  She smiles. “He’s fond of you too. But I don’t know if I find that reassuring.”

  “Why not? Do you think I might be a bad influence on him?”

  Béatrice pulls her shawl around her shoulders again and leans over to look at the photographs on the plastic table.

  “Apparently you fancy one of the suspects.”

  “He told you that?”

  “It’s his only flaw. Like all shy people, he’s a bit too free and easy with the pillow talk.”

  “Mango?” comes Sylvio’s voice from the depths of the cellar.

  “Yes, if that’s all there is. But nice and cold.”

  She smiles at Sérénac.

  “Don’t judge me, Laurenç. I can make the most of it for another few days, can’t I?”

  The inspector nods, sphinxlike. Super-sexy but incredibly irritating, this pregnant woman.

  “He’s one of a kind,” Laurenç says. “And you found him.”

  “I agree, Inspector!”

  “A bit unimaginative, no?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Sylvio comes back carrying a big cocktail glass, decorated with a straw, a little palm tree, and a slice of orange. Béatrice kisses him tenderly on the lips.

  “As for me,” Sérénac says, “I’m soaked through, so that’s probably why I’m not thirsty…”

  “Sorry, boss. What would you like?”

  “What have you got?”

  “Is beer all right?”

  “Yes, perfect. Very cold, please. I’d like a straw and a palm tree as well.”

  Béatrice holds her shawl with one hand and the straw with the other.

  “Sylvio, tell him to go to hell…”

  Bénavides’s face breaks into a broad grin.

  “Bitter or lager?”

  “Bitter.”

  Sylvio disappears into the house again. Béatrice points toward the photographs.

  “So that’s the teacher?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand you, Inspector. She’s, how can I put it, very elegant. Delicious. She looks as if she’s just stepped out of a romantic painting. Almost as if she’s posing.”

  Laurenç is surprised. The very same thought had struck him, when he met the teacher. Béatrice parts the curtain of hair and examines the pictures, frowning slightly.

  “Inspector, do you want me to reveal something to you?”

  “Does it have anything to do with the case?”

  “Yes. There’s something quite obvious in the photographs. In any case, something that a woman would easily guess.”

  19

  Through the round skylight, Stéphanie Dupain has been studying the wet shadows of the last figures walking through Giverny. After a few minutes she steps back slightly. Her black dress slides down her body. Jacques is lying down on the bed, bare-chested. He looks up from the list of houses for sale in the district of Les Andelys. Their bedroom has a sloping roof, with a small bulb hanging from an oak beam that weakly illuminates the room with its woody light.

  Stéphanie leans toward the skylight again, her skin a mahogany hue. She watches night falling on the street, the Place de la Mairie, the lime trees, the school playground.

  Everyone can see you, Jacques thinks, looking up from his list. But he says nothing. Stéphanie presses her skin against the tiles. She is naked now, apart from a bra, a pair of black knickers, and her gray stockings.

  She whispers wearily: “Why does it always rain at funerals?”

  Jacques puts down his magazine.

  “I don’t know. It often rains in Giverny, Stéphanie. Sometimes during funerals. Maybe that means you remember them more… Or you think you remember…”

  He looks at Stéphanie for a long time.

  “Are you coming to bed?”

  She doesn’t answer. She turns on her heels and looks at her profile in the reflection on the skylight.

  “I’m fatter. Don’t you think?”

  Jacques smiles.

  “You’ve got to be joking. You are…”

  He tries to find the best word to describe what he feels: that long hair raining down her long, honeyed back; those shadows that hug her every curve.

  “A true Madonna…”

  Stéphanie smiles. She brings her hands behind her back and unhooks her bra.

  “No, Jacques… A Madonna is beautiful because she has children.”

  She hangs her undergarment on a hanger suspended from a nail in the beam, then turns around and sits down on the edge of the bed, without even looking at Jacques. While her fingers slowly roll one stocking down her thigh, Jacques slips a hand from under the blankets and places it on her flat stomach. The more his wife leans over, pushing the stocking down her thigh, leg, ankle, the more her breasts press against his arm.

  “Who do you want to please, Stéphanie?”

  “Nobody. Who would you like me to please?”

  “Me… Stéphanie. Me.”

  Stéphanie doesn’t reply. She slides under the blankets.

  Jacques hesitates, then finally decides to speak. “I didn’t like the way that policeman kept looking at you during Morval’s funeral. I really didn’t…”

  “Don’t start… Please.”

  She turns her back to him. Jacques hears her breathing gently.

  “Tomorrow morning, Philippe and Titou have invited me to go hunting, on the Plateau de Madrie. Do you mind?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t want me to stay?”

  Breathing. Just his wife’s back and her breathing.

  It’s unbearable.

  He places the list of houses at the foot of the bed, then asks:

  “Do you want to read?”

  Stéphanie looks over at the bedside table. There’s only one book lying on it. Aurélien. By Louis Aragon.

  “No, not tonight. You can turn out the light.”

  Night descends on the room.

  The black panties slip to the ground.

  Stéphanie turns toward her husband.

  “Make me a child, Jacques. I beg you.”

  20

  Inspector Sérénac stares insistently at Béatrice, trying to guess what lies beneath her ironic smile. The veranda has begun to feel like an interrogation room. Sylvio Bénavides’s wife shivers slightly under her shawl.

  “So, Béatrice, what do you deduce from these racy shots?”

  “Well, it’s about your teacher. What’s her name again?”

  “Stéphanie. Stéphanie Dupain.”

  “Yes, Stéphanie. The pretty girl who has captured your heart, according to Sylvio…”

  Sérénac frowns.

  “Anyway, I would bet my life that she’s never had anything to do with that guy Jérôme Morval.”

  She studies the five photographs on the plastic table, one by one.

  “Trust me, she’s the only one of the five who has never had a physical relationship with him.”

  “What makes you say that?” asks Sérénac.

  The answer comes quite simply: “He’s not her type.”

  “Oh… And what is her type?”

  “You are!”

  She’s very direct, this pregnant woman.

  Sylvio comes back with a Guinness and a large glass bearing the trademark of the beer. He sets them down in front of his colleague.

  “May I stay with you while you work?” Béatrice asks.

  Sylvio darts a nervous glance at them, while Laurenç blows the froth off his beer.

  “I suppose what difference will it make, given that he tells you everything anyway…”

  Bénavides avoids making any comment. His boss slides the first photograph on the table toward them.

  “Right, I’ll go first,” says Sérénac.

  The photo shows Jérôme Morval pressed against the knees of a girl behind a cluttered desk, kissing her full on the mouth.

  “The photograph was taken at Jérôme Morval’s office. The girl is called Fabienne Goncalves. She was one
of his secretaries. Young, a bit wild. White blouse, lace panties…”

  Sylvio puts a shy arm around Béatrice’s shoulder. She seems to be enjoying herself enormously.

  “According to a friend of the secretary, their relationship started five years ago. Fabienne was single at the time. She isn’t anymore…”

  “That’s a bit short for a crime of passion, isn’t it?” Sylvio observes.

  He turns the photograph over.

  “And the code written on the back? 23-02…”

  “No idea. Not the slightest clue. It doesn’t correspond to anything, not to her date of birth, or a day when they might have met. The only thing that’s certain is that the second numbers don’t refer to months—”

  “If I can interrupt you, Chief, I’ve reached the same dead end. I’ve identified the girls, but found out nothing, absolutely nothing about the codes, 03-01, 21-02, 15-03. Perhaps that’s just the way the private detective who took the pictures organized his filing.”

  “Perhaps… But even if it is, there must be some kind of order… and until we have located the private detective in question, and while Patricia Morval continues to claim that she didn’t send these pictures, we’re going to flounder. Well, we’ll see. Your turn, now.”

  Sylvio keeps his arm around Béatrice, trapping the shawl firmly between his hand and his wife’s shoulder. He has to twist round to pick up the next picture. The photograph was clearly taken in a nightclub. Jérôme Morval is putting his hand on the breast of a blonde who is spilling out of her sequined dress. She is tanned, caked in makeup all the way down to her toenails. Sérénac whistles between his teeth. Béatrice’s eyes sparkle while Sylvio merely coughs.

  “Aline… Malétras,” Sylvio mumbles. “Thirty-two. Public relations, in the arts. Divorced. An independent girl. A regular on the Paris art scene. Apparently this was Morval’s longest liaison.”

  “Public relations, is that what they call it?” Laurenç says with a hint of irony. “From the look of the photograph, our Aline is a bombshell in high heels… Have you been in direct contact with her?”

  Béatrice straightens like a she-wolf sniffing danger. Sylvio’s attentive fingers grip the shawl.

  “No,” he replies. “According to my information she’s been in the United States for the last nine months. Old Lyme, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of it. Apparently it’s the American Giverny, the retreat in Connecticut the American Impressionists used to go to, not far from Boston. I tried to phone her, but no success so far. But you know me, Chief, I’ll keep trying.”

  “Hmm, yes… I hope you’re not saying that the lovely Aline is in exile just because Béatrice is here.”

  Béatrice rests a hand on Sylvio’s knee.

  Sexy and irritating, these pregnant women. But affectionate too.

  “Behave yourself, boss. Do you know who Aline Malétras is working for in Boston?”

  “Give me a clue?”

  “The Robinson Foundation!”

  “Hang on… That bloody foundation again! Sylvio, you’ve got to find me this girl,” he says, glancing at Béatrice, who looks annoyed. “Consider that an order… Right, my turn…”

  The next photograph passes from hand to hand. A woman wearing a short blue smock and skirt is kneeling in front of the ophthalmologist, whose trousers are around his ankles. Sylvio turns toward Béatrice, as if to suggest she should go on up to bed. In the end he doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry,” says Sérénac, “but this is where I get stuck. Without being able to see this girl’s face, I haven’t a hope of identifying her. I’m certain, from the paintings on the wall, that the scene is being played out in the drawing room of the Morvals’ house, on Rue Claude Monet. And given the girl’s outfit, the blue smock with a light check, it’s possible that she’s a cleaning woman, but Patricia Morval has been silent on this issue. Apparently she spends most of her time firing them, one after the other. In addition, according to Maury, who examined the paper, the photograph dates back at least ten years…”

  “How did Morval die?” Béatrice asks all of a sudden.

  “Stabbed, then his head was smashed in, then drowned,” Sérénac replies mechanically.

  “I’d have cut off his balls as well.”

  Sexy, irritating… and affectionate… like a snake rolling itself around your neck…

  Sylvio smiles stupidly. “Don’t you want to go to bed, my love?”

  My Love doesn’t reply. Laurenç is enjoying himself hugely.

  “So this relationship took place at least ten years ago,” Sylvio suggests. “And if the girl had fallen pregnant, her child would be…”

  “Ten years old! I can count too. I see what you’re getting at, Sylvio, but first of all we need to find the girl before we tackle the question of whether she’s a mother as well. Now, your turn, the Irishwoman…”

  “That one could take a while, Chief; do you not want another go?”

  Sérénac looks up, surprised.

  “If you prefer… Mine’s going to be a short one.”

  The photograph circulates. Stéphanie Dupain and Jérôme Morval are walking along a path, probably the one above Giverny. They are standing side by side, quite close, hand in hand.

  “As you can see, it’s rather a chaste extramarital relationship,” Sérénac observes. “Isn’t that right, Béatrice?”

  Sylvio is surprised. Béatrice gently nods.

  “Yes,” Bénavides adds. “Except that the picture appeared with the four others. And if you lump them all together…”

  “Exactly! Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you should be wary of lumping things together, Sylvio? It’s the ABC of our job. Particularly when they were supplied to us by an anonymous benefactor. Besides, we already know everything about the girl in the photograph, Stéphanie Dupain, the village schoolteacher. I’m going to see her tomorrow, to ask for the list of all the children in Giverny, which will give Sylvio great pleasure, and also to find out what her husband was up to on the morning of Morval’s murder.”

  Laurenç waits for an encouraging comment from Béatrice, but she is leaning her head against Sylvio’s shoulder, and her eyelids are starting to droop.

  “So,” says Sérénac, “your Irishwoman?”

  “Alysson Murer,” Sylvio murmurs. “But she isn’t Irish, she’s English, from Durham in the north of England, near Newcastle. And secondly, the beach in the photograph isn’t Ireland, it’s on the Isle of Sark.”

  “Isn’t Sark in Ireland?”

  “No, it’s farther down. It’s a small Channel Island near Jersey, the prettiest one, apparently…”

  “And what about your Alysson?”

  Béatrice’s eyes are closed. Her breath gently stirs the blond curls on the back of Sylvio’s neck.

  “It’s a long story,” Bénavides whispers. “And, with all due respect to the Bishop of Évreux, it isn’t going to do much for the posthumous honor of Jérôme Morval.”

  DAY SIX

  May 18, 2010

  (Moulin des Chennevières)

  Insanity

  21

  As you will already have worked out, my bedroom and bathroom are right at the top, in the keep of the Moulin des Chennevières, that small, square, half-timbered tower. Two tiny rooms that no one but a mad old woman would want to live in.

  I slowly braid my hair. I have made my decision. I need to go and see Patricia Morval this morning. I gloomily study the dark stain on the parquet floor. Most of the clothes that I wore to the funeral are still wet. Last night I was too tired, I wasn’t paying attention, and I hung them up to dry here in this room. They dripped all night and this morning I found a great puddle, and even though I’ve sponged it there’s still a mark on the damp wood. I’m aware that it’s only water, that the wood will dry, but I’m obsessed by the stain. It’s just beneath my black Water Lilies too.

  You must be saying to yourself that I really am a sick old woman. Aren’t you? And you aren’t wrong. I walk over to the window. My keep
has at least one advantage: there is no better observation post in the whole of Giverny. From my aerie I can see the brook, the meadow stretching as far as Nettles Island, Monet’s gardens, the Chemin du Roy right up to the roundabout…

  It’s my lookout. I spend hours there, sometimes.

  I disgust myself.

  Who would have thought that I would become this person: a hag spending her life behind a gray pane of glass, spying on the neighbors, strangers, tourists?

  The village concierge.

  A hedgehog, without the elegance.

  That’s how it is.

  Sometimes I weary of the ceaseless flow of cars, buses, bicycles, pedestrians on the Chemin du Roy. The last few feet on the Way of the Cross trod by the pilgrims of Impressionism.

  Sometimes not. There are good surprises, like the one just now.

  That motorbike that slowed down to turn off toward the village, just before the mill. Impossible to miss.

  Inspector Laurenç Sérénac himself!

  I watch. No one can see me, no one can suspect me. And if they did see what I was up to, what difference would it make? For what could be more natural than a gossipy old woman, studying every detail, every morning, day after day, like a bug-eyed goldfish that forgets everything with each turn of the bowl?

  Who would be wary of a witness like that?

  Meanwhile, the policeman’s motorbike has turned into Rue du Colombier. So this is the return of Inspector Sérénac, on his way to the great disaster.

  22

  Laurenç Sérénac parks his motorbike in the Place de la Mairie, under a lime tree. This time he has left nothing to chance; he has planned his arrival in front of the school just a few minutes after getting-out time. He has already encountered several children on Rue Claude Monet, who admired his Tiger Triumph T100. For the children, it’s practically a collectors’ piece.

  Stéphanie’s back is turned to him. She is filing away some children’s drawings in a large cardboard folder. He has decided to speak before she turns round, which he reckons is the best way to avoid talking gibberish—before she settles on him the infinite landscape of her gaze.

  “Hello, Stéphanie. I’ve come back for the list of children.”