The Madonna of Notre Dame (22 page)

The old man nods.

“Never mind, you look like a nice old man, grandpa. And you have a good mule. You have a good mule, haven’t you, grandpa? A hardworking mule?”

Again, the old man nods.

“It must carry a lot. What did this good mule carry recently? Last night, for instance, what did this good mule carry last night?”

Now the old man says nothing.

“It didn’t carry sacks of food by any chance? Eh, grandfather? And maybe also one or two crates of ammunition?”

The four soldiers the sergeant had sent downhill have come back up. They haven’t found anything in the mechtas down there.

“You see, grandfather, a mule is for carrying stuff. And I’d quite like to know what the fuck your mule, your granddaughter, and you are doing here, if it’s not sending supplies to the rebels.”

The old man keeps quiet. The skin on his face has assumed the color of the soil. Over there, next to the house, the second lieutenant has just lit a cigarette. He takes a puff then lets it burn out in the air, in a position that’s familiar to him, the roll of tobacco between his thumb and his index finger, his wrist resting on the butt of the automatic MAC50 pistol he wears at his belt. His eyes drift. From where he stands, he can see the sun rising over a part of the tormented landscape of the djebel. The colors, brightened by the daylight. Breathing in the first smells which had been, until now, neutralized by the coolness of the night.

He doesn’t see the sergeant do it, doesn’t see him turn the barrel of his weapon. He comes back to the village, to the old man, to the string of paratroopers only when he hears the gunshot. The bang tears through the air and echoes on the nearby slopes. By the time he turns his head, the mule has already collapsed. Its front legs gave first. For a brief moment it seems to be praying, stupidly, on its knees, begging for the deathblow that isn’t coming. Then its hind legs start shaking and sagging. Then, almost in slow motion, the large body rolls on its belly and turns on its side. Its hoofs are agitated by a few spasms, before the mule becomes totally still.

The old man hasn’t moved, his eyes fixed on the sergeant’s boots. He stares at them with strange intensity, as though he’s asking them a question, apparently unable to take his eyes off the black leather that, despite marching all night, despite walking through streams, despite gathering dust, looks polished for inspection.

The second lieutenant leaves the mechta he’s been leaning against. He walks down toward the sergeant, throws his cigarette away, and tries to put some order in his thoughts before he speaks, to demonstrate authority. He barely recognizes the voice coming out of his mouth, it’s so high-pitched, so alien. His body suddenly feels too large, too numb, clumsy like that of an adolescent. “Sergeant, was that really necessary?”

The sergeant doesn’t even bother to turn to his superior. Rather, he seems to be trying to make eye contact with the Kabyle grandfather who still persists in staring at his boots. “It’s time to move from theory to practice, lieutenant. A kind of intensive training. A course you certainly didn’t attend at officer school. I suggest you watch carefully, remember everything and, especially, please let me do as I see fit. Do you understand, lieutenant? I’m offering you here a unique opportunity to learn how to fight a war.”

Then, with a simple sign of his chin, he sends his ten paratroopers inside, where the old man’s granddaughter is still crouching, in her white flowered dress.

Noon. It was his turn to say Mass, and yet he didn’t know where to begin. Of course, he should get dressed, with Gérard’s help. Put on the green cotton stole braided with gold thread, shut the closet door, walk down the sacristy corridor, go through the heavy door that opens onto the ambulatory, cross the curtain of tourists endlessly circling the stone floor like cars on a circuit, reach the podium, bow before the altar, wait for the chancel organ to finish, turn to face the scattered group of worshippers sitting on the front row chairs—during the week, the noon Mass never draws a crowd—make the sign of the cross and, with a mind filled with doubt, fear, and anger, finally say, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

He made the sacred gestures. He read the Gospel. He gave Communion. What was the point of all this, but a masquerade of which he himself was a part, now that he knew, now that he was aware? What should be done? In whom could he confide? In God, of course, whose presence he was trying to feel deep inside himself and in the cathedral. Perhaps never before had he felt this internal battle between—between what, exactly? Was it good versus evil? Justice versus lies? What should be done, or said, in order to serve truth and serve the Lord? If he spoke out, if he shared with anyone the still blurry secret of which he was now the keeper, his words would have unpredictable, dangerous, and terribly destructive consequences. Had he better keep quiet? In other words, join this enormous church that, barely five days after a most ghastly murder within its walls, had resumed its habits and daily routine amid the hubbub of tourists, the smell of incense, and the murmur of prayers?

Mass was already drawing to a close. He’d gone through it, bit by bit, absentmindedly, transparently, his mind elsewhere. As he always did, he turned to the pillar with the white Virgin
and intoned the Salve Regina, accompanied by the chancel organ. What happened deep within him as he was staring at this stone Madonna’s beautifully pure face? He would never quite be able to say, or explain, neither that evening nor later on. He simply realized that, during the course of the prayer, the battle had shifted elsewhere, outside him, outside his body. He realized that, when it came down to it, he was not the only bearer of this terrible secret, and that immediately made him feel at liberty to act.

The final note had not yet died away when he left the podium by the shortcut, through the chancel, and went into the sacristy corridor. At the end of this corridor, there was the old-fashioned telephone fixed to the wall, and he grabbed the handset. Still wearing his mass garments, he dialed the number he knew by heart from having tried it several times less than forty-eight hours earlier. He heard the tone. The phone was ringing at the other end. Right next door, in the sacristy that smelled of wax, Gérard was emptying the censer of the ashes that were still warm after Mass. The sacristan heard the priest speak softly in the corridor.

“It’s Father Kern. I need to see you. It’s very urgent … No, I can’t talk on the phone, not here. Can you come to Notre Dame? … When? ... Please come as quickly as you can, I’ll be waiting.”

It was like living in a padded room where the cushioning had become thicker over the days, months, and years. In spite of the regular screaming in the corridors. In spite of the noise rising from the two exercise yards, through the window equipped with bars. In spite of the sound of television sets that, night and day, broadcast porn or action movies. In spite of the sound, every
morning between ten and eleven, of fists pounding the leather punching bag hanging from the ceiling of the boxing gym, a dull sound that, when it was triggered, was beneficial to body and mind. In spite of all the incessant prison sounds, silence was becoming increasingly deafening inside Djibril’s head.

His last true conversation had taken place the day before, with that little priest turned investigator, who confused his faith with his incorrigible need for justice. He’d thought about this case all night, about the murdered girl shrouded in mystery, churning over all the elements in the file Father Kern had let him read. For one night, he’d escaped, fled the immutable rhythm of the wardens’ rounds as they walked through the corridors and slid open the peephole in the armored door every two and a half hours as part of the suicide prevention routine.

It wasn’t a big deal per se. A news item that had nothing to do with him. Something to think about while brushing his teeth at night. And yet for a few hours, this issue had represented a link with the outside world. The only one he had left. For a long time now nobody had come to see him in the Poissy prison visiting room.

The advice sought by the little priest had made a dent right in the middle of the prison walls. The immutable march of time had undergone a jolt, an accident. And this accident had triggered—he dared not utter the word—a hope. He now wanted to know. Had the little priest found the key to this problem? Had he managed to draw from the shadows the truth he valued so much?

Sitting on his bed, Djibril grabbed the remote control of the television set he rented from the prison office for twenty-nine euros a month. He flipped through the channels, checking all the one o’clock news bulletins. There was nothing new. Two mountain climbers in distress on Mont Blanc saved thanks to their cell phone. In sports news, the Olympique football club
in Marseilles acquired a new player. The beach weather forecast promised sunshine on Saturday and rain on Sunday. There was no mention anywhere of the Notre Dame crime.

He switched off the television and got up to push the button on his kettle. An hour later, he was still on his bed, with a glass full of now stone-cold brown liquid in the palm of his paw. He stirred the coffee with his spoon, and let it drip at the edge of the glass, then put it in his mouth, between his tongue and his palate. “This coffee is stale,” he thought. “This coffee has no more taste.” Then, slowly, he pushed the spoon down his throat, putting his fingers between his teeth to help the metal stem slide farther down. He felt the spoon go down his larynx, which contracted from the pain. He rolled to the foot of his bed, his body shaking with violent jolts. He grabbed the foot of the bed to stop himself from moving and making too much noise. Already, his lungs were short of air.

He’d taken refuge in the jar, with the door shut, waiting. Soon afterward, however, the rows of chairs outside the glass confessional filled with candidates for absolution. One hour. That’s how long he’d have to wait before he could share his terrible suspicion, and confide in a low voice that which would certainly not set him free, but would, he believed, be for the best. He looked at his watch. Rather than doing nothing, which would end up attracting attention, he decided—before making his own confession—to let others confess. He almost laughed at the thought of these silly sins, so insignificant in comparison to what he was about to tell. A fault that, albeit not his own but one he had to carry inside him, would be enough to fill the entire cathedral with darkness.

Finally, after granting three absolutions, he saw him through the glass, approaching among the tourists, overtaking the worshippers who were waiting their turn to off-load their trespasses. His step was a little heavier, a little more tired than usual, but he showed no hesitation when it came to pulling open the glass door that separated him from the diminutive confessor. He sat down opposite him, took out a fresh pack of cigarettes, tore off the cellophane, and lit one without saying a word. Father Kern stiffened, and the man took the time to smoke at least half of it, looking at the stained glass windows toward which the smoke was rising, then stubbed it out on the wooden table where there were, as with every time Father Kern heard confessions, a Bible and two dictionaries. “So you’ve conducted your little investigation, haven’t you, François?”