Heart Collector

by Jacques Vandroux

  “When you were praying,” he asked Bernard de Valjoney, “did you feel any malevolent forces or anything like that?”

  “No,” replied the priest. “I felt a peace I’ve only rarely encountered.”

  “Do you think the person who spoke to me could have wanted to do me harm?”

  “You’re the one who knows, Julien. I can only tell you my prayer was shared with her.”

  This affirmation plunged the young man into profound distress. He remained slumped in his chair, despondent. Then he stood up. “I have to know. Let’s go back to Grenoble immediately.”

  “What do you have to know?”

  “That woman called me ‘my son.’ I have to see my parents, right away.”

  The priest looked at the young man who was torn by contradictory feelings, facing a question as sudden as it was jarring. Bernard de Valjoney spoke briefly with the doctor. “Philippe is going to spend the night here. He’ll return tomorrow morning. Let’s go.”

  They reached Grenoble in record time. It was just midnight when the priest dropped Julien Lombard off on Rue d’Agier, in the heart of the old city. He’d barely opened his mouth during the drive, relating in a few short sentences the conversation he’d had with Magali—his mother?

  He punched in the building’s entrance code at the door and went in. His parents lived on the fourth floor. They generally went to bed late. Julien rang for a long time. The sounds of voices and bursts of laughter emanated from the apartment.

  The door opened. A tall man with a grizzled beard stood there.

  “Julien, I wasn’t expecting you! But come in. The Margays are here. They’ll be happy to see you again.”

  The young man entered brusquely, not saying a word to his father. In the living room, a couple in their sixties were chatting with his mother, a short, stout woman with plump cheeks and a charming smile.

  “Julien! To what do we owe the pleasure, my boy?”

  Withdrawn and somber, Julien eyed her. His father came to join them.

  “I’m not sure it’s such a pleasure. I want to talk to you, now!”

  His father tried to lighten the mood, not understanding his son’s attitude, usually so cordial. “Could it possibly wait until Georges and Marie-Solange have gone home?”

  “If they leave now, yes.”

  Denise Lombard read such determination in her son’s face that she stopped her husband from reacting.

  Their friends had followed the whole scene. They’d known Julien most of his life and understood the situation demanded they leave.

  “We’re going to leave you to it. You have something to discuss in private. Denise, I’ll call you tomorrow about our weekend in Chamonix.”

  Denise Lombard walked them to the door. When she came back, her husband and son were still facing each other. She immediately took note of the worry that had seized Emmanuel, her husband for over thirty-three years now. Julien wasn’t saying anything, but staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. It was frightening. Denise Lombard broke the silence.

  “What’s going on, Julien?”

  The young man couldn’t get the words out. They spun crazily in his brain. Did he not have his biological parents in front of him? Was his mother killed? And the most terrifying question—was he the son of a perverse and sadistic killer? No, it wasn’t possible. This Magali had lied to him. But why?

  He walked over to the living room coffee table, which hadn’t been cleared, and poured himself a glass of cognac. Then he came back toward his motionless parents.

  “Tell me exactly what happened thirty years ago!”

  “Nothing!” shrieked his mother a little too shrilly.

  Julien looked at her despairingly. So Magali had told the truth.

  “If you love me, and I know you love me, tell me what happened.”

  Emmanuel motioned for them to sit down. Julien sat in an armchair, facing his parents, who had settled on the sofa, pressed close together, as if preparing to confront what was coming next.

  “I don’t know what someone could have told you, or who for that matter. But we owe you the truth. I don’t know if we can talk about truth, since there was no lie, strictly speaking. You’re right about one thing. We love you, and we’ve loved you since you were born, since your first day of life.”

  Julien sensed his father was going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. The truth about Magali.

  “You are legally our son, your mother’s and mine. It’ll be thirty years on June 21, the first day of summer.”

  His father sighed. “I don’t know how to tell you these things!”

  “Factually! As factually as possible.”

  Emmanuel Lombard began his tale. “Your mother was eight months pregnant. We were expecting our first child, a boy. On June 20, the child she was carrying stopped moving. At first, we weren’t panicked. The next day, when she couldn’t feel him moving anymore, we went to see one of our excellent doctor friends who lived next door. It was a Sunday, and that seemed simpler to us than going to the hospital. That’s when he gave us the news. The child had just died.”

  Julien looked at his mother, who was staring into space. His father continued.

  “It was midnight when we found out. We had to go to the hospital so that Denise could give birth . . . give birth to a dead infant. But for us, he’d been alive, and we wanted to bury him. So we went back to the house to get some clothes for your mother. I went to get the car, which was parked on the other side of the Jardin de Ville. While passing through the garden, I suddenly heard cries. At first I believed, because of the emotional turmoil, my senses were playing a trick on me. But the cries grew louder. I went toward a clump of bushes. And there was an infant, wrapped in white cloth, resting on the ground.”

  Julien listened to the story. His story! A story he’d never have imagined a few hours earlier. He didn’t say anything, letting his father continue.

  “I approached the child and looked around. There was no one. I was alone in the street. So I picked him up. He was naked, swaddled in a torn piece of white dress, still bloody and covered in the coating he had inside his mother. He’d just been born. You’d just been born,” he added. “I called out several times, looked for anybody. But there was no one, and no response. So I looked at the child, and I felt overcome with love . . . I felt like protecting him, all his life. I went back to the house with you in my arms.”

  Julien felt as though he were living through a second birth, rediscovering his parents. His mother took up the rest of the account.

  “When I saw your father arriving with the baby in his arms, with you, I didn’t hesitate for a second—we didn’t hesitate for a second. We went back to see our friend and told him our idea. At first he thought we were crazy, but I think we were convincing enough to change his mind. He delivered my deceased child.”

  “So you traded children, is that it?” asked Julien.

  “Yes, that’s it. We gave ourselves three weeks before filing your birth certificate. We didn’t want to be child stealers. After burying our dead baby, your father brought me to the cottage in Annecy, to your grandparents’ house, while they were on vacation in Réunion. I lived shut up in there, alone, with my first child.”

  “During that time,” continued Emmanuel Lombard, “with the help of our doctor friend, I discreetly inquired about whether a newborn had been reported missing. But it was as if you’d never been born. So after three weeks, I went to get your mother. With the complicity of our friend, we filed your birth certificate. Julien Lombard, born June 21, 1983.”

  His parents broke off. Julien was thinking. He couldn’t blame his parents. They’d saved his life.

  “And you never found out what happened?” he asked.

  “Never!” replied his father. “Even though my whole being told me to just be grateful, I tried to find out when you were two. B
ut I found nothing.”

  “And why didn’t you say anything to me?”

  “What would you have wanted us to say? Your biological parents were unknown, and we raised you, loved you. We watched your first steps, your mother taught you to read, I took you to play soccer every weekend for years, we were there to console you when you weren’t doing well. You would have hated us if we’d told you this story.”

  “Probably,” conceded Julien. “But imagine how discombobulated I feel.”

  “I understand,” replied his mother, “but can you tell us who gave you enough information to make you ask us the question? Who knew and never turned up?”

  Julien told his bewildered parents about the events of the past few days.

  “Of course, you’ll always be my parents. But I’ve learned that my biological mother, Magali, was murdered, probably just after bringing me into the world. And that this killer is my father. You realize, Papa, I’m the son of a killer!”

  “No, you’re the son of an agricultural engineer, not necessarily the best of men, but a loving man. And you’re not responsible for the actions of a man who was responsible only for your conception.”

  “That’s easy to say, very easy to say. What if certain genes of his are in me?”

  “But that doesn’t make sense, Julien,” his mother said gently.

  “What do we know about it? Whatever it is, tomorrow morning I’ll tell Magali’s story to the police to get a clearer picture. And that could potentially help them quickly catch my father—that man,” he said, looking at Emmanuel.

  “Will you tell them about your relationship to them?” asked Denise hesitantly.

  Julien looked at her with a sad smile. “That’s our story, Mama. My parents are still you and will always be you. But I have to understand. One last question. Did you know an Aurélien at the time?”

  “No, it doesn’t ring a bell,” replied his father. “Why?”

  “No reason. Can I sleep in my old room?”

  “What a question! It’ll always be yours.”

  Chapter 38: Girls’ Night

  Sophie closed her eyes and enjoyed the breeze riffling through her hair. She inhaled the scent of the cigarette Nadia had just lit. She’d never been a real smoker, but from time to time she liked to breathe the heady, acrid fragrances of tobacco. The young woman felt cocooned, slightly drunk on the wine that had accompanied their meal. She came out of her comfortable languor and looked around. The tables had emptied, and the pedestrians seemed taken with the tranquillity of the night. All was calm. She heard the wind gently shaking the branches above her. Nadia was pensive, lost in the curls of smoke from her cigarette.

  Sophie never would have imagined such an evening. When she’d invited Captain Barka to have dinner with her, she’d envisioned rapidly eating a salad in a little restaurant, then going home. But they’d started with a leisurely aperitif on the terrace of a café over by Halle Sainte-Claire. Then they’d had a second. Hunger had drawn them toward a nearby restaurant. The simple salad had transformed into a full-blown meal washed down with wine. Not the classic dinner in American TV shows or women’s magazines, but a marvelously pleasant evening.

  Sophie had feared that the conversation would quickly devolve into triviality. Despite their totally different careers and diametrically opposite lives, they’d chatted for hours. They’d grown familiar without even realizing it and hadn’t noticed the time passing. Sophie heard the bell tower at Saint-André chime eleven o’clock. The waiter was hovering discreetly around their table, in a desperate attempt to make them understand he wanted to close his restaurant. Nadia noticed his orbit. She nodded to indicate her desire for the bill. With a wide smile, the waiter came up to the table and deposited the check he’d been holding for the last several minutes. Sophie grabbed it.

  “Tonight, I’m treating you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s say it’s because I invited you to dinner, and I’m pleased to do it.”

  Nadia looked at her and hesitated. “Okay, thank you. But you have to come for one last drink at my place. I don’t live far from here.”

  The waiter seized Sophie’s credit card, hastened to the counter, and just as quickly returned to the table. While the young woman punched in her PIN, Nadia took a last puff on her cigarette, stubbed it out, and stretched.

  Nadia listened as her new friend told her, very humorously, about one of her hiking trips in the mountains. She didn’t understand what had happened to her. Yesterday, before Étienne came to see her, she’d been in a state of agonizing depression. And tonight, she felt good, really good. She dove back into her memories. She didn’t know whether she’d experienced such relaxation since she’d joined the police. When the church bells had sounded eleven o’clock, she’d felt like Cinderella listening to the clock strike midnight.

  Nadia had seized the first opportunity to prolong the evening, and she was relieved to hear Sophie accept. She loved her smile, her energy, her way of looking on the bright side of things without being naive. She nearly envied Julien. She wasn’t attracted to women, but her new friend’s joie de vivre brought her out of her usual gloom.

  The two young women were ensconced on the sofa, each with a glass of planter’s punch in hand. The purr of Ella Fitzgerald’s warm voice gave the night a particular charm. They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Sophie composed herself.

  “I didn’t dare ask you this question, Nadia, but I think I can now. If you don’t want to answer, I—”

  Nadia cut her off. “If you’d asked me at the start of the evening, I would’ve made it very clear to you that it would be better to change the subject. But now I know it’s not simple curiosity motivating you. Only my father, my mother, and my two brothers know why I joined the police.”

  From her friend’s tone, Sophie understood that Nadia was about to reveal something.

  “I was eighteen, and I was studying in Paris. My parents were living in Bordeaux and renting a studio apartment for me in the heart of the city, not far from the Sorbonne. I was in a preparatory class for literary studies, at Henri-IV High School. My father wanted me to be a diplomat, and I wasn’t against the idea. I was preparing myself to attend the Paris Institute of Political Studies then, to follow the path that would lead me to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I think I was motivated enough to get there, if I do say so myself.”

  She paused, as if she were reliving her student days for a moment. Then she continued, “In the middle of the year, I’d met a boy who was one year ahead of me, and it was love at first sight. We saw each other whenever our schedules allowed us to. Each moment spent together was magical. One evening, at the end of the school year, he invited me to the theater. A dinner theater, actually, over by Montparnasse. Do you know it?”

  “Yes, I did my engineering studies in Paris. I made the most of it by exploring the city for three years. Needless to say I didn’t finish at the head of the class, but I did some great partying!”

  “So we had dinner and came back on the Métro. I took it every day, like most Parisians. Except that night . . .”

  Before she could continue her story, Sophie guessed what had happened. She wordlessly put an arm around Nadia’s shoulder. Only Ella Fitzgerald’s voice covered Nadia’s grief.

  “I’m sorry, really sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you.”

  The policewoman sat up straight. “You have nothing to be sorry about, Sophie. Besides, I have to dig up this story. It’s been eating at me for too many years.”

  “Nothing is forcing you.”

  “Yes, I am! So that night, we were waiting for the Métro. We were alone on the platform, sitting on a bench. The trains were infrequent at that hour. We were chatting quietly. In fact, we were kissing, lost in our own world. All of a sudden, we heard laughter near us. I think I’ll never forget that laugh. I’ve also sworn to myself that
someday I’ll find the one who . . . produced it.”

  A gleam of hatred crossed Nadia’s eyes at this thought, then she resumed her story.

  “There were six of them, visibly sloshed. They started to bother us, and several of them were attracted to me. I’d already faced that type of situation, and I’d always gotten myself out of it pretty well. I was fearless, and it took a lot to spook me. But this time, my instincts screamed ‘danger!’ at me. I took my friend by the hand, and I tried to head for the exit. But the six men surrounded us, started to hit him and paw at me. So Manuel went wild—he was usually so calm. He hit the two bastards who were holding me and shouted to get help. In a split second, I understood it was the only way to get out. So I ran, scrambled up the stairs. There was no one at the ticket window. I was panicked about what could be happening to my friend. I had to leave the station, and I stumbled across a policeman after a minute of haphazard running. I explained the situation to him. He quickly understood. He called for backup and headed for the Métro station with me. That’s when I saw the six men who had attacked us running away. I think I realized at that moment my life was changing radically.”

  Nadia paused in her story. She grabbed the pack of cigarettes resting on the table and brought one to her mouth. The glow of the lighter flame flickered in the darkness, shining in the young woman’s dry eyes. Sophie was huddled against the back of the sofa, waiting for the inevitable.

  “I ran down there like a madwoman. Manuel was lying still in his own blood, covered in stab wounds. I threw myself on him, and I took him in my arms. He wasn’t moving anymore—he was dead. He was dead, and I hadn’t been with him during his last moments. When I realized everything was over, irretrievably over, I screamed, screamed like an animal. I don’t remember anymore what happened after that. All I know is my parents were in my studio apartment the next afternoon to take me back to Bordeaux. But I refused.”

  She looked at Sophie, calling her to witness.

  “I couldn’t let that act go unpunished. So I told my father I was stopping my studies, and that I was going to join the police. I wanted to prevent that from happening again. I wanted to take revenge on Manuel’s killers and people like them. At first he thought it was a passing fancy, a pronouncement made in anger. But when he realized my decision was final, he knew nothing could make me change my mind. Since then, he hasn’t spoken to me.”