Concerto to the Memory of an Angel (8 page)

The twentieth marker! From the symbols, Chris had concluded that the treasure must be underwater, beneath a mass of coral. At last he'd be able to make good use of his months of training.

Four minutes ahead of Axel, he reached the coast, hid his bike behind a bush then ran to the inlet indicated on his map.

There a hut was waiting with diving gear bearing the logo “Music and Sports in Winter.”

“Perfect, I was dead on.”

Every ten seconds he glanced furtively over his shoulder to check that he was still ahead as he adjusted his suit, strapped the bottle onto his back, stepped into his flippers and pulled down the mask.

Suddenly Axel appeared. Chris rushed into the water as if he'd been stung; determined to be first, he glided toward the coral with long kicks of his flippers.

“According to my calculations, it must be to the east.”

On he went, in smooth undulations on the surface. Instinc­tively, after he'd gone a hundred meters, he turned around to see where Axel was: he had just headed off to the west.

“West? Why is he headed west?”

If it had been anyone else, Chris wouldn't have paid any attention, but given Axel's discernment, doubt began to needle its way into his teeming thoughts.

Kicking his legs, he deliberated, reworked the puzzle of clues and suddenly stopped.

“He's right!”

Furious, he turned abruptly and lengthened his strokes, trying to gain speed, frightened fishes fleeing all around him. He might still be lucky, because Axel was hugging the rocks, while he was cutting straight across the water.

Near the coral reef, well away from the liquid lagoon, Chris thought he could see an unusual shape. Was it the chest? He moved faster, despite the risk of straining a muscle or losing air.

To the right of him, Axel was making his way along the coral wall, then he slid into an enormous massif with sharp ridges. Was it some dangerous creature that caused him to recoil abruptly? Did he feel a sudden malaise? Did he lean against a loose rock without realizing it? A first block gave way, and then a second, and Axel's form vanished in a cloud of debris.

Chris hesitated. What should he do? Go over to him? Help him? That is what he had been taught when he took his diving permit. At the same time, he wanted to be sure that the brown spot over on his left, at a depth of ten meters, was indeed the pirate chest.

To obey the code all the same, he headed toward the troubled waters where Axel was wriggling. Axel's feet were trapped in a fissure by the rockslide. When he saw Chris, he waved his arms, signaling distress.

“Okay, okay, I'll come and help you,” motioned Chris, “but first I'm going over there to get the proof that I've won, the number one coin.”

Axel protested, rolling his eyes, increasing his gestures for help.

No way, old man, I'm not playing that game! thought Chris, veering off to the left. I know the trick: as soon as I help you, you'll break free, push me, and rush off to steal the number one coin. Besides, you're right, I can't hold it against you, I'd do the same thing. But insofar as I have a choice, I'll help myself first. See you later, number two.

As he moved away he could see Axel was now waving frantically, grimacing with fear, shouting soundlessly fit to drown.

Oh, that's normal, thought Chris with a laugh as he glanced over at his rival. The thought of losing just makes him hysterical. Taking his time, with some difficulty Chris lifted the heavy lid covering the pieces of brass, found the one which said Number One, put it in the pocket of his diving suit, then slowly turned to go back to Axel.

When he was a few meters away he saw there was something wrong: the bubbles were coming out of Axel's back and not his mask, and his body was no longer wriggling. What was going on? A shiver of fear went through him. What if the oxygen hose had been severed by the rockslide? Overcome by panic, Chris gave a few quick, powerful kicks with his flippers. Too late: Axel was motionless, his eyelids closed, his mouth gaping, lifeless. The rocks crushing his feet kept him prisoner of the depths.

At that moment, Chris saw a shadow in the distance. It was Kim, searching along the sea bed for the last marker.

Chris had to think quickly: either he stayed here, and he would have to explain why he hadn't helped Axel sooner; or he had to swim discreetly away and leave Kim to discover the corpse.

Without further ado he went deeper into the reef so that Kim would not see him; anyway, for the time being Kim was going off in the wrong direction. Chris made his way to the beach, hid behind some palm trees, removed his diving gear and kept an eye on both the sea and the land, where he feared he might see another participant emerge from the water at any moment.

Then he ran to his bike, congratulating himself for having hidden it out of sight: Kim would not be able to claim that Chris had been anywhere near there, and he pedaled away like crazy. Breathless, his heart pounding fit to burst, he went back to base camp and crossed the finish line, victorious.

His fellow students who hadn't taken part in the rally or who had given up along the way offered their congratulations. Paul Brown, his armpits squelchy, his forehead streaming with sweat, and his pale redhead's skin now bright crimson from the sun, came forward with a smile.

“Well done, Chris. I'm not surprised. I hesitated whether to place my bet on you or Axel.”

“Thank you.”

“Who's behind you?”

“I don't know. The last time I looked it was Kim. At one point I saw Axel getting closer, but then he fell back. As far as I can tell, Kim and Axel were fighting for second place, but they were far behind. During the final leg, when I left the inlet, neither one of them had reached it yet.”

He gave an inner bow to his clever ruse: he had told a pretty little fib that would lend credence to his absence from the site of the rockslide and free him from any responsibility. Paul nodded and waved to one of his assistants to bring the luggage.

“You know, my little Cortot, that you have to leave soon, and maybe even before the others come back?”

“I know. Why do you think I got here first?”

“Take your bags, the boat's waiting. Well done, as I said. I wish you all the best for your future. You'll have a fine career, no need for me to insist on the fact, because I know you will.”

He gave the young man a big American hug, holding him close and tapping him on the back with his hands. Chris was disgusted by the man's flabby belly and decided that when he was Paul's age he would forbid himself from putting on weight.

“Delighted to have met you, Chris.”

“Delighted, Paul . . . delighted.”

He was in such a hurry to get away that even echoing what Paul had said made him feel awkward.

In the hours that followed, on the boat, in the Jeep, and on the plane, Chris could not stop ruminating, poisoned by the same two or three thoughts: he must double-check the solidity of his plan, respond to any objections, imagine the worst-case scenario and come up with a way to get out of it. It was not that he was particularly concerned about Axel; he thought only about himself, and himself alone—the fact that he might be guilty, or what others, in bad faith, might reproach him with.

When Chris landed in Paris, that 4th of December 1980, he hadn't slept a wink, but by the time he had made it through customs without any questions, he figured he was safe. “No one will come after me here, and it's all behind me. Hurrah!” He ran off to the toilets to dance with joy, as if he had just won the competition all over again.

He waited by the conveyor belt as it spat out the baggage, and looked all around him with a kindly gaze, as if he were meeting an old friend. He was delighted by the huge white walls, the marble floor, the immaculate chrome, the openwork ceiling filtering the mercurial light of Paris. Suddenly, on the far side of the high glass walls in the arrivals hall he saw his mother. She was looking desperately all around her, anxious that he might be late, worried that she could not see her only child. Such distress! And so much love contained in her anguish . . .

He shuddered.

In Sydney there was a mother with the same distraught face who was about to learn that her son was gone forever.

The clarity of it was devastating: Chris now understood that Axel had just died and that he, Chris, was his assassin.

 

*

 

In that month of June 2001, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont, vendors of religious items, were absolutely delighted to find themselves staying in Shanghai.

They could not help but look up repeatedly, their eyes darting full of wonder from the teak table piled high with goods, through the slightly smoked display window, and out onto the teeming Chinese city: twenty million inhabitants spreading as far as the eye could see, a jumble of tenements and tall buildings bristling with antennas, cluttered with advertising ideograms; a steaming, mineral forest where skyscrapers slashed like swords at the clouds.

“Do you see, darling, that shiny building over there in the shape of a rocket? It must be at least fifty floors, don't you think?”

“At least,” confirmed Mrs. Beaumont.

Miss Mee, speaking a fruity French of short, sweet sounds, called the two merchants to order. “May I please go back over your list, Sir? Madam?”

“Go ahead,” said Beaumont to his supplier, like a king who is being served.

“Go,” insisted Mrs. Beaumont, who was in the habit of repeating one word from her husband's last sentence in order not to annoy him.

Taking up her notebook, Miss Mee stabbed her pen at each line of the order with the authority of a head pupil.

“So, you have chosen the St. Rita Keychain on special offer (15,000 in metal, 15,000 in epoxy), the St. Rita license plate (4,000 units), the rosary with twenty-two beads and a medallion with the Saint's effigy (50,000), as well as the mug (4,000), the egg cup (4,000), the candlesticks (5,000), and the bowls (10,000). And at the trial price of one dollar per item I will throw in one hundred St. Rita terrycloth bibs for hopelessly dirty babies. Now, can I tempt you with a superb St. Rita statuette, six centimeters high, to put in the car? The adhesive base means you can stick it anywhere.”

“How much?”

“Four dollars. A low price but fantastic quality. It's silver plated metal.”

Miss Mee placed a special emphasis on “silver plated metal,” as if she were informing them it was pure silver.

“Add one thousand, we sometimes come across truck drivers who are very religious,” said Mr. Beaumont.

“And what about St. Rita badges?”

“Nobody buys badges anymore in France.”

Mrs. Beaumont suddenly squealed, “And what about pillboxes?”

“Pill . . . what?” asked Miss Mee, who was unfamiliar with the expression.

“Pillboxes! For sick people! The followers of St. Rita, patron saint of the impossible, are often undergoing medical treatment. In my opinion, they would snap up pillboxes.”

“Add 40,000, Miss Mee. And that should do it.”

Miss Mee handed them the order form, which Mr. Beaumont signed, crimson, aware of its importance.

“Might we have the honor of saying hello to Mr. Lang?”

“Of course,” said Miss Mee, “since the president promised you.”

“We've been his clients for so long . . . ” said Mr. Beaumont. “It will be a pleasure to shake Mr. Lang's hand.”

“The mysterious Mr. Lang,” whispered Mrs. Beaumont.

Miss Mee refrained from responding; in her opinion there was nothing mysterious about Mr. Lang, her boss; on the contrary, he was clearly the biggest bastard she had ever known.

She called the president's secretary, then left the Beaumonts in the room.

As the Beaumonts stood gazing out at the panorama, a man came in the room behind them.

“Hello,” said a shrill voice.

The Beaumonts turned around, prepared to offer effusive greetings, but were stopped short by the sight of the individual looking them up and down from his wheelchair.

Mr. Lang was dressed in dark colors, his clothes were smudged with greasy stains and a three day beard exacerbated his unhealthy complexion. He hid his eyes behind dark glasses, his hair—what remained of it—beneath a shapeless hat, and his emotions—if he had any—behind an impenetrably hard mask. He maneuvered the electric chair with his left hand, and it was impossible to know what had happened to his legs or his right arm, merely that they were thin, twisted, and completely stiff. He was not a man, but a scribble of a man—a draft, a sketch, a botched creature.

“Would you like me to show you around our workshops?”

Repulsed, Mrs. Beaumont thought he must be doing it on purpose, yes, deliberately speaking in that squeaky, toneless voice, as unpleasant as a fingernail scratching against a windowpane. She grabbed her husband's upper arm and dug her fingers in.

“Would you like that?” insisted Lang, annoyed by the French couple's silence.

Mr. Beaumont started as if he had suddenly woken up.

“With pleasure.”

“Pleasure . . . ” mumbled Mrs. Beaumont.

Mr. Lang immediately rolled toward the elevator, inviting them to follow. The Beaumonts looked at each other. They were chilled, overcome by a diffuse malaise, and they could no longer behave normally. They felt none of the warm pity normally triggered by the sight of an invalid; in Lang they sensed such raging hostility that they could not help but reproach him for his infirmity, accuse him for having added this provocation to his arsenal, as if it were a deliberate aggression, a refined form of insolence.

In the basement Lang burst out of the elevator, furious at having had to share his air for twenty-five floors with these tourists, and he pointed to the neon-lit workshop where a hundred or more Chinese workers were busy at their tasks.

“This is where we manufacture our products.”

“Why St. Rita?” asked Mr. Beaumont with unctuous kindness.