The Madonna of Notre Dame (25 page)

He knows the sergeant is watching him from the back of the aircraft. He can feel his subordinate’s eyes sliding over the nape of his neck and his back. When they get back, they’ll have to agree on the report they’re going to write. It’ll be more or less summarized in three letters: N.T.R. Nothing To Report. At the bottom of the page, he’ll apply his signature: Second Lieutenant Hugues de Bracy.

The sergeant and he will join the men. They’ll drink beer. They’ll talk about demobilization. They’ll talk about France. They’ll talk about their parents or their sisters. Those who aren’t single will talk about their girlfriends and their wives back home. They’ll talk of everything except what happened that very morning. Then, later in the evening, once it’s dark, once their blood has been amply watered with alcohol, they’ll take a walk around the back of the truck that acts as a battlefield military brothel, just to make sure they’re still real soldiers, warriors, men. It’s not impossible that this time, the young second lieutenant may join the rest of the troop. Just this once, aided by drunkenness, just to silence the anguish drilling through his belly and squeezing his rectum. Just this once. Use the exhausted body of a local pauper woman to soothe the anguish that’s crushing him sexually. Just this once. Then there’ll be night, sleep, oblivion, tomorrow. One day, these events will come to an end. One way or another, the conflict will end and he’ll finally be able to return to France. Quit the uniform. Perhaps—no, certainly—such a decision will upset his father, who’s a colonel in the air force. Forever keep quiet about this past, about this soiled youth as a soldier. Choose a life that will allow him to wash away the horrors of war.

For now, the helicopter is making its way inland. The second lieutenant has now brought his arm back inside, in from the turbulence and the wind. For a moment, he studies the inert hand on his thigh and then, like a First Communion candidate or an altar boy, he clasps his hands in a sign of prayer.

For the second time in a week, the cathedral had been emptied of visitors, then filled with police. This time, they were outside, too, right at the foot of the south wall, where they were about to remove the rector’s lifeless body.

Inside, a diminutive priest in liturgical garments was sitting alone, lost in the immensity of the nave, among hundreds of empty chairs. Someone—Father Kern couldn’t remember who exactly—had the ludicrous idea of covering him, in mid-August, with a foil blanket. He hadn’t had the energy to refuse. So now, he was wrapped in a silver sheen in the growing shadow of the day that was drawing to a close. A young woman came to sit on the chair next to him. “Aren’t you hot in that thing?”

“Terribly, Mademoiselle Kauffmann.”

She pulled the aluminum sheet off him with motherly care. Kern barely stirred, lost in thought. “Do you believe in God?”

“No, I don’t, Father. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You know, the real boundary isn’t between believers and nonbelievers, any more than it is between Christians, Jews, and Muslims. The real front line is the one that separates the doves from the hawks.”

“Those who seek peace …”

“From those who want war, that’s right.”

“Don’t tell me this business has made your faith falter.”

“How about you, Claire?”

“Me?”

“Has it made you lose faith in justice?”

She took a moment to think. “I don’t know. My point of view has changed. In a way, I’ve taken a step toward you, Father.”

“Toward me?”

“By giving you access to the file of the Notre Dame case, I broke the rules of my profession, you know. What I did was completely illegal. Illegal, but not necessarily immoral.”

Father Kern couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I’m thinking of how our paths crossed. I nearly renounced my vows. I suppose it was the price to pay to discover the murderer’s name. I also lied more than once. None of that was very moral. In other words, I’ve somewhat stained my cassock. And yet today, justice is none the worse for it.”

It was Claire Kauffmann’s turn to smile. “I think our respective faiths have been strengthened, Father, in spite of these few deviations. Or perhaps thanks to them.”

“What will you do now?”

“Take a vacation. Look after myself for a while. I think I need it. I’m going to stay with a friend in Italy for a few days, near Ancona.”

“Ancona? But that’s by the Adriatic, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. My body is feeling a sudden urge to bathe in the sea, and I’ve decided to grant it that.”

They said nothing for a while, savoring the silence, the seconds passing by quietly, each enjoying the soothing presence of the other.

Kern was the first to emerge from this gentle lethargy. “What about Lieutenant Gombrowicz? Is he still here?”

“Yes, in the sacristy. I think he’s having a coffee. He’s waiting for the three of us to have a chance to talk together.”

“Have you seen him? How is he?”

“His hands are shaking. He can’t stop them. He’s just killed a man.”

“He saved my life, you know. Without him, I’d be cooked.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“I’d like to see him, ask him what he was doing in the cathedral, and what made him follow the rector and me all the way up to the roof.”

“He’ll tell you himself. I think the lieutenant has just realized he’s a good cop. If you’re feeling better, we could go join him. You also have quite a few things to tell us.”

“He saved my life, you know.”

“I know, Father, you just told me.”

They stood up and went to the central aisle, in the large nave. Very soon, Father Kern stopped, a look of surprise on his face. He wiggled his fingers, rotated his wrists. Claire Kauffmann watched him. The little man seemed to be rediscovering his body, like a baby in his cot.

“Is everything alright, Father?”

“Do you know what time it is, mademoiselle?”

“Nearly six. Why?”

“Six o’clock. Six in the evening and not the slightest pain. How extraordinary. As though I was rid of ... ” He stopped, a funny, childlike grimace on his face, which the magistrate had never seen. The priest started walking with a lighter step and was now overtaking the young woman in the aisle. Behind a pillar, he noticed an elderly lady, lonely, who looked as though she was waiting for Mass to begin. She kept both hands on the back of the chair in front of her, and was wearing a hat decorated with flowers. Father Kern let out a sigh. “Mademoiselle Kauffmann, would you tell this lady that the cathedral has been evacuated? Otherwise, she’s likely to spend the night here.”

“I was the one who asked her to stay.”

“You?”

“If you’re still alive, it’s thanks to this lady on her chair over there.”

“Thanks to Madame P–?”

“Yes, thanks to her. In a way, she knew everything from the start.”

“From the start?”

“Ten days ago, she saw Luna Hamache talking with Bracy, demanding money. She saw the rector send her away unceremoniously. She was sitting in her usual place, where she’s sat for the past ten years. Nobody notices her anymore. Nobody pays attention to her. Everybody thinks she’s just a crazy old woman. She’s somehow part of the furnishings, of the cathedral furniture. And yet. After Luna’s body was discovered, she was the only one to suspect your boss was somehow involved.”

“Good God ... But why didn’t she say something sooner?”

Claire Kauffmann couldn’t suppress a sarcastic pout. “Father, I don’t think she’s ever found anyone to talk with, here. Lieutenant Gombrowicz was the only one willing to listen to her.”

Kern took his head in his hands. He remembered now. The attempts the lady with the poppies had made, and his efforts to avoid her. If only he’d known ... If only he’d been a better listener ...

She was watching him from behind her pillar, sitting on her chair, her eyes perpetually anxious. He made a friendly gesture, and a wide smile immediately blossomed on the solitary old lady’s face.

“Please, Father, you can speak with her later. I’d like us to go see the lieutenant now.”

Kern nodded. They resumed their walk toward the sacristy. On the way, they walked past the Virgin of the Pillar, and Kern asked the young magistrate for a moment’s solitude. He kneeled on the podium steps, closed his eyes, and joined his hands in prayer. His lips uttered words Claire Kauffmann could not hear from where she was standing. Father Kern looked up at the stone Madonna. Her translucent face seemed to have recovered its legendary serenity, and, in the evening light bathing the cathedral, she looked even whiter.

I
F
V
ENICE
D
IES
BY
S
ALVATORE
S
ETTIS

I
NTERNATIONALLY RENOWNED ART HISTORIAN
Salvatore Settis ignites a new debate about the Pearl of the Adriatic and cultural patrimony at large. In this fiery blend of history and cultural analysis, Settis argues that “hit-and-run” visitors are turning Venice and other landmark urban settings into shopping malls and theme parks. This is a passionate plea to secure the soul of Venice, written with consummate authority, wide-ranging erudition and élan.

http://newvesselpress.com/books/if-venice-dies/

A V
ERY
R
USSIAN
C
HRISTMAS

T
HIS
is R
USSIAN
C
HRISTMAS CELEBRATED IN
supreme pleasure and pain by the greatest of writers, from Dostoevsky and Tolstoy to Chekhov and Teffi. The dozen stories in this collection will satisfy every reader, and with their wit, humor, and tenderness, packed full of sentimental songs, footmen, whirling winds, solitary nights, snow drifts, and hopeful children, the collection proves that Nobody Does Christmas Like the Russians.

http://newvesselpress.com/books/a-very-russian-christmas/