Concerto to the Memory of an Angel (5 page)

After that incredible summer, with its wealth of torment and emotion, she arose one day on the cusp of autumn and felt changed.

That Sunday she went to mass, silent and concentrated. After the service she went home and found she could not swallow a thing. Her cat relished the steak she had bought for herself.

At two o'clock she went to the vicarage and informed Gabriel that she would confess.

“I swear upon it, Father. On God and on you.”

He took her in his arms and held her close. She tried to weep, in order to stay a bit longer against his tall warm body, but there was nothing for it, she managed only a shrill, ridiculous hiccup.

He congratulated her, told her dozens of times over that he was proud of her, of her faith, of the path she had come thus far, then he enjoined her to kneel beside him in order to thank the Lord.

While they were going through their phrases, Marie's head was spinning. Her decision had left her dizzy and she was overcome by emotion, the emotion of being so close to him, shoulder to shoulder in a moment of intimacy, and she was engulfed by the smell of his skin and hair. She thought of how from now on he would come every day to the prison to pray with her like this, and she would be happy.

After she left him, she climbed to the top of the village. At peace, she spent her last night of freedom looking out at Saint-Sorlin from the highest point in the vineyards: a sunset first mauve then violet cast its mournful colors over the fields. Cats scampered onto the tiled roofs to observe the passing of the day; against the dying sky, dozens of them formed a sacred company, a décor of silhouettes made holy as shadowgraphs.

She would go this week to Bourg-en-Bresse to find the judge who had opened the file for the investigation; he had been a young man at the time, and he despised her because her acquittal had robbed him of the promotion ensured by the condemnation of a woman who had poisoned her husbands. He would be eager to hear what she had to say.

Here and there a few lights glowed in the darkness, outlining a roof, a room, a street corner. Behind her a Labrador sat under a swing licking her puppies; the linden trees filled the garden with fragrance like a sickly sweet herbal tea. “Tomor­row, my fellow villagers, you will wake up in a village that has become even more famous, the village of Marie Maurestier, the demon who has become an angel, the murderess who had fooled everyone but would not fool God. She began as Messalina and she will end her life as a saint.” Marie felt as if she were somehow contagious, as if she were doing good to others, bringing them the light, the light she had received from Gabriel. “Ladies and gentlemen, I met a prodigious priest. He was not a man, he was an angel. Without him I would not be here before you.” She would be able to talk about him, about their intimate relationship, to the entire world. So many wonderful things to come . . .

She gazed at the stars, prayed to God to help her find courage and submission, or rather the courage of submission. She did not go home until it was pitch black.

As she was turning her key in the lock, her neighbor opened her shutters and called out, “The priest was looking for you. He came twice.”

“Oh, did he? Thank you for telling me. I'll go to the vicarage.”

“I don't think you'll find him there. A car came and took him away just now.”

A car? Of course he did not drive, and he didn't even have a car.

Marie went to the vicarage. Behind the drawn curtains the interior was dark and empty. She knocked on the door, knocked again, pounded. In vain. There was no one.

She went back to her house, refusing to worry. It hardly mattered, she was firm in her resolution, and the priest was glad of it. No doubt he had wanted to compliment her one more time and offer to accompany her to Bourg-en-Bresse, who knows. She calmed down, certain there would be an explanation in the morning.

And indeed, her phone rang at dawn. The moment she recognized Gabriel's voice, she was immediately reassured.

“My dear Marie, the most extraordinary thing has happened.”

“What is it, dear Lord?”

“I've been appointed to the Vatican.”

“Pardon?”

“The Holy Father read my memoir about Saint Rita. He liked it so much that he has asked me to join a theological study group at the papal library.”

“But . . . ”

“Yes. It means I am obliged to leave you. Both you and Saint-Sorlin.”

“But our project?”

“It changes nothing. You have made your decision.”

“But . . . ”

“You will go through with it, since you made your promise. To me and to God.”

“But you won't be there by my side! When I go to prison you won't be coming to visit me every day.”

“You will do as you said, because you promised me.”

“You and God, I know . . . ”

She hung up, disturbed, wavering between the ecstasy in which she had spent the previous day and anger. “The Vatican . . . He was supposed to be going to the Vatican because of me. The Holy Father was going to congratulate him on my confession. He could have waited just a little longer. It's still better to go to the Vatican because you've done the impossible, because you've obtained the redemption of a criminal, than because of yet another text about some minor saint. What is the matter with him? How could he betray me like this?”

 

Two days later Vera Vernet, the “old bag” with her body as twisted as a vine stock, came to inform Marie in her sharp voice that a new priest had arrived.

Marie went to the church.

In his tight gray cassock with worn seams, the priest was sweeping the steps outside the church, chatting with the inhabitants of Saint-Sorlin.

When she saw him—short, ruddy, with thick features, a man well into his fifties—Marie Maurestier immediately knew how she was going to spend the years to come: she would tend her garden, feed her cat, go less often to mass and remain silent until her dying day.

 

 

G
reg . . . ”
“I'm working.”
“Greg . . . ”

“Leave me alone, I've got twenty-three more pipes to clean.”

Greg refused to turn around and leaned over the second turbine, his powerful back and prominent muscles stretching his cotton singlet fit to burst.

Dexter the sailor insisted: “Greg, the captain's waiting for you.”

Greg whirled so suddenly that Dexter jumped. With sweat streaming from his naked shoulders to his lower back, the huge man was transformed into a barbarian idol: an aura of evaporation suffused his body as it gleamed with the wild flames of the boilers. Thanks to his talents as an engineer, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, the freighter
Grandville
sailed its course without flagging, crossing oceans to transport goods from one port to another.

“Have I done something wrong?” asked the burly fellow, creasing his brown eyebrows that were as thick as a finger.

“No. He's waiting for you.”

Greg nodded, feeling guilty already. Convinced he was right he said again, “He's going to tell me I've done something wrong.”

A shiver of pity chilled Dexter the messenger, for he knew why Greg was being called to the captain, and he didn't want to tell him.

“Don't be stupid, Greg. How could he find fault with you? You do more work than four men put together.”

But Greg was no longer listening. Resigned, wiping the black grease off his hands with a rag, he accepted the fact he was going to be told off, because discipline on board was far more important to him than his own pride: if his superior had something to fault him with, he must have a good reason.

Greg didn't delve any further into the matter because he knew the captain would tell him soon enough. As a rule, Greg avoided thinking. He wasn't good at it and, above all, he figured he wasn't being paid to think. As far as the contract he had with his employer went, if he were to spend his time thinking it would seem like a betrayal to him, all that time wasted and energy lost. He was working as hard at the age of forty as he had worked in the beginning when he was fourteen: up at dawn, all over the ship until nightfall, cleaning, repairing, fiddling with the spare parts, he seemed to be obsessed by a need to do things well, as if he were tormented by an insatiable devotion that nothing could diminish. The only reason he went to relax on his narrow bunk with its thin mattress was so he could get back to work.

He put on a plaid shirt, threw on a foul-weather jacket, and followed Dexter up on deck.

The sea was in a bad temper today, neither raging nor calm, just in a bad temper. Foam splattered from short, ominous waves. As is often the case in the Pacific, the world seemed monochromatic, because the gray sky had imposed its concrete hue upon all the elements—the waves, clouds, floors, pipes, tarpaulins, and men; even Dexter, whose skin ordinarily shone copper, now wore the anthracite complexion of boiled cardboard.

Struggling against the howling wind, the two men reached the wheelhouse. Once they'd closed the door behind them, Greg felt intimidated: far from the roaring of the machines or of the ocean, torn from the pungent smells of fuel and algae, he no longer felt like he was on board ship, it was more like some drawing room on land. A few men, including the first mate and the radio operator, were standing stiffly around their captain.

“Sir,” he said looking down, in a form of surrender.

Captain Monroe replied, mumbled a few words, then hesitantly cleared his throat.

Greg remained silent, waiting to be sentenced.

Greg's humility did not encourage Monroe to speak. He looked over at his subordinates as if to consult them; they had no desire to be in his shoes. When he felt he was going to lose his crew's respect if he delayed much longer, Captain Monroe, neglecting the emotional charge which accompanied the information he had to convey, kept his tone curt, his delivery staccato, as he said:

“We received a telegram message for you, Greg. A family problem.”

Grey looked up, astonished.

“In fact, it's bad news,” continued the captain. “Very bad news. Your daughter has died.”

Greg's eyes opened wide. For the time being only surprise filled his face, and no other emotion was visible.

The captain insisted: “That's it. Your family doctor in Vancouver, Dr. Simbadour, contacted us. We don't know anything more. We are very sorry, Greg. My sincere condolences.”

Greg's expression still had not changed: his features frozen with surprise, pure surprise, no emotion.

No one around him said a word.

Greg looked at each of them in turn as if they might have an answer to his question; as he did not find it, he eventually said, “My daughter? Which daughter?”

“I beg your pardon?” said the captain, startled.

“Which of my daughters? I have four.”

Monroe blushed. Afraid he might have written the message down wrong, he took it out of his pocket and with trembling hands read it once again.

“Hmm . . . no. There is nothing else. This is all it says: we regret to inform you that your daughter has died.”

“Which one?” insisted Greg, more annoyed by the lack of precise details than fully cognizant of what they were telling him. Kate? Grace? Joan? Betty?

The Captain read the message over and over, hoping for a miracle, that between the lines he might suddenly find a name. Flat and succinct, the text was limited to those words alone.

At a loss, Monroe handed the paper to Greg, who deciphered it in turn.

The engineer nodded, sighed, turned the paper this way and that and then handed it back to the captain.

“Thank you.”

The captain almost murmured, “You're welcome,” then understood it was absurd, mumbled in his beard, fell silent, and stared out to port at the horizon.

“Is that all?” asked Greg, looking up, his eyes as clear as if nothing had happened.

The other sailors in the room were dumbfounded. They thought they had misheard. The captain, who had to reply, did not know how to react. Greg insisted, “Can I go back to work now?”

In the presence of such placid behavior the captain, who felt a sting of revulsion, endeavored to add some humanity to the absurd scene:

“Greg, we will not get to Vancouver for another three days. Would you like us to try in the meantime to contact the doctor for more information?”

“Could you?”

“Yes. We don't have his contact information since he called from company headquarters, but with a bit of good luck, we can get back to the source and—”

“Yes, that would be better.”

“I'll take care of it in person.”

“Right,” said Greg, speaking like a robot, “it would be better, after all, if I knew which of my daughters . . . ”

And there he had to pause. Just as he was about to say the word, he realized what had happened: one of his children had lost her life. He stopped with his mouth open, his face went crimson, his legs gave way. He clung with one hand to the chart table to keep from falling.

Around him the men were almost relieved to see him react at last. The captain came up and patted him on the shoulder.

“I'll take care of it, Greg. We'll get to the bottom of the mystery.”

Greg glanced at the hand that was causing his damp slicker to squeak. The captain removed his hand. They stood there, embarrassed, neither one daring to look the other in the eye, Greg from a fear of expressing his pain, the captain from a fear of receiving his distress right in the face.

“Take the day off, if you want.”

Greg stiffened. The prospect of not working filled him with anxiety. What would he do if he didn't work? The shock restored his speech.

“No, I'd rather not.”

Every man in the room envisioned the torture Greg would endure in the hours ahead. A prisoner of the ship—mute and alone, he must be crushed by a sorrow as heavy as their cargo, tormented by a horrible question: which one of his daughters had died?

 

Back in the engine room, Greg went to work the way you rush into the shower when you're covered with mud; never before had the pipes been cleaned, scrubbed, polished, readjusted, or tightened with so much energy and care as that afternoon.

However, despite his labor, a thought occurred to him and wormed its way into his brain. Grace . . . His second daughter's face took over his imagination. Was it Grace who had died? Grace was fifteen, with an explosive love of life, her face radiant with smiles, energetic and carefree: was she not also the sickliest? Had her cheerfulness not given her a nervous strength which made her look healthy, but did not make her sturdier or more resistant for all that? Was she not the one who had brought home every single illness her schoolmates could pass on to her from the nursery, school, or high school? Grace was too good-natured, always ready for anything—games, friendships, viruses, bacteria, germs. Greg told himself he would no longer experience the happiness of seeing her walk and jump and tilt her head to one side and raise her arms and laugh out loud.

It was Grace. There could be no doubt.

Why was he thinking like this? Was it an intuition? Was he receiving some telepathic information? He stopped scrubbing for a moment. No, in fact, he didn't know; he was afraid. If he thought it was her, it was because Grace . . . was his favorite daughter.

He sat back, flabbergasted by his discovery. Never before had he established any type of hierarchy. So, he had a favorite . . . Had he shown it? To her or the others? No. His preference had been hidden deep inside: obscure, active, and inaccessible even to himself until now.

Grace . . . He thought tenderly about the young girl with her wild hair and long neck. It was so easy to like her. She was brilliant, less thoughtful than her elder sister, more lively than the others, unacquainted with boredom, and no matter the situation she could come up with a thousand details to make it entertaining. He could tell he would suffer if he went on thinking she was no more. So he went back to work with a vengeance.

“Provided it's not Grace!”

He tightened the bolts until the wrench slipped from his hands.

“It would be better if it was Joan.”

To be sure, Joan's loss would be less of a blow. Joan was abrupt, angular, somewhat sullen, with shiny brown hair as thick as hay growing low on her forehead. A little rat-like face. He felt he had nothing in common with her. She was the third daughter, it had to be said, so she did not enjoy either the effect of novelty that their first child had brought, nor the sense of tranquility they felt by the time the second child arrived. The third one was taken for granted, they paid less attention to her, her sisters would look after her. Greg had not seen much of her because she was born while he was working for a new company that sailed all the way to the Emirates. And he really didn't like her coloring, either her skin or eyes or lips; he could see neither his wife nor his other daughters in her when he looked at her; she was like a stranger to him. Oh, he had no doubt she was his daughter, because he remembered the night they had conceived her—he had just gotten back from Oman—and the neighbors often said how much she looked like him. She had the same head of hair, that much was certain. Maybe that's why he felt ill at ease with her: a girl who had all the characteristics of a boy without being a boy.

For Greg had produced only daughters, his semen was incapable of generating any males, not strong enough to induce Mary's belly to bring forth anything but females. And he blamed himself for it. He was the one, the man, who was responsible for the masculine side of the couple, he was the giant who for some unknown and above all invisible reason was lacking the virility necessary to impose a boy on this mold for girls.

In all likelihood Joan had very nearly turned into a boy . . . She was a tomboy, and as such bore witness to Greg's deficiency. Moreover, he bristled whenever anyone complimented him on his gaggle of girls, because he sensed some insidious mockery at work.

“You are so lucky, Mr. Greg, to have four daughters! Girls adore their dad. They must idolize you, no?”

Of course they loved him. All the trouble he went to for their sake—never at home, always at sea working to provide money for the house, food, clothes, studies . . . of course they loved him! They would be a darn sight ungrateful if they didn't, his entire paycheck went straight to them, he only ever had crumbs left over for himself. Of course they loved him . . .

In Greg's opinion, love was a duty, or something you were owed. Since he sacrificed himself for his daughters, they owed him their affection. And he expressed his loyalty as a father by working like a dog. He could never have suspected that love might consist of smiles, caresses, tenderness, laughter, presence, games, time offered and time shared. He had every reason, in his own eyes, to consider himself a good father.

“Then it's Joan who died.”

Although he couldn't come out and say it, this hypothesis eased his suffering.

In the evening, when the captain called him up to the bridge, Greg expected Monroe to confirm his suspicion.

As he stood before his superior, Greg was astonished to find himself thinking, in the form of a short, insistent prayer:
Above all, he mustn't say Grace's name. Not Grace, but Joan. Joan. Joan
.

“My poor fellow,” exclaimed the captain, “we haven't been able to contact anyone at all. Because of the sky, the sea, connections are very poor. In short, we don't know which daughter . . . ”

“Thank you, Sir.”

Greg saluted and went out.

He ran to his cabin and locked himself in, his ears burning with shame. Had he not just wished for the death of one of his daughters? Had he not chosen the one they could take from him? What right had he to do that? Who had authorized him to whisper Joan's name to the captain? By designating her, was he not behaving like a murderer? Were the treacherous thoughts swirling in his brain worthy of a father? A loyal father would fight to save his daughters, all his daughters . . .