The Madonna of Notre Dame (4 page)

The cathedral looked like a huge police station, with plainclothes, uniformed, and overalled cops milling around. Leaving the technicians to work in the ambulatory, Gombrowicz and his three investigators had taken over the nave and divided it into four sections, which they’d turned into as many interrogation bureaus, so to speak. At the back of the church, spread over the rows of chairs usually reserved for worshippers, waited the entire Notre Dame staff. One by one, each employee, each priest, and
each volunteer was called by a police officer to be questioned about that morning’s events, or about a totally different incident possibly connected with the murder of the mysterious girl in white. Seen from a distance, with their buttocks on the edges of the thatched seats, their voices drowned in a murmur, their busts leaning forward toward men who appeared to be listening to them religiously, they could have been mistaken for sinners at the confessional, except it wasn’t in a priest that they were confiding but in a police officer.

On his return, Landard found Lieutenant Gombrowicz in such a state of pronounced excitement that he wondered if his young subordinate had been drinking.

“I think we’re making progress. Enormous progress. Apparently, it all happened yesterday afternoon. We have corroborating accounts.”

Landard lit his umpteenth Gitane and blew the smoke toward the high vaults of the nave. The curls rolled over themselves before dissipating in the incense-steeped air. “Go on, Gombrowicz. I’m all ears.”

The day before, the ceremony of the Assumption had been disrupted by an incident, right in the midst of the Marian procession, as an unbroken line of ten thousand worshippers was stretching out under the blazing sun between Île saint-louis and Île de la Cité, and loudspeakers fitted on four vans were blasting Hail Marys at full volume. There had been an altercation, brief but violent, between a cathedral regular and an unknown woman dressed in white. At the head of the procession, just a few yards from the silver statue of the Virgin carried by six knights of the Holy Sepulcher, before the incredulous eyes of auxiliary bishop Monsignor Rieux Le Molay, the priests of Notre Dame, and numerous witnesses, a young-looking man with blond, curly hair had tried to exclude the young woman from the procession,
pushing her onto the sidewalk, waving a crucifix, and finally using it as a weapon to try to hit her in the face. One of the cathedral guards, Mourad, had intervened to separate them, helped the victim up, and sent the aggressor unceremoniously to the back of the procession.

Landard put out his cigarette in the nearest holy water basin and cleared his throat. It was his cue to step onto the stage. “Your auxiliary bishop, yesterday ...”

“Rieux Le Molay?”

“Can we see him?”

“He’s gone.”

“Where?”

“To Lourdes.”

“Since when?”

“This morning. He took an early train.”

“So the cardinal’s gone to the folks with slanting eyes, and the bishop’s in Lourdes. Great. All the bosses here are packing their bags.”

“No wonder. They’ve left the shop and the hassle to the old rector.”

“What about this Mourad? Has he also retreated to his mud hut?”

Gesturing at the first row of employees, Gombrowicz summoned a man built like a tank, wearing a tired blazer, woolen trousers that were too thick for that time of year, and a carabiner on his belt from which jangled at least twenty keys.

“Are you Mourad?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Were you here this morning?”

“No, monsieur, I started work at twelve-thirty because I finished late last night.”

“And what did they tell you when you arrived today?”

“I was surprised the cathedral was shut. I thought, ‘There’s been a problem, Mourad.’ I called my morning colleague. He was still inside even though normally he’d have been on his lunch break. It was he, and a policeman, who let me in.”

“Did they tell you what happened?”

“They said they’d found a girl at the back of the cathedral.”

“So, tell me, Mourad, you were working yesterday?”

“Yes, monsieur. Twelve-thirty to ten-thirty p.m.”

“And how did it go?”

“Yesterday?”

“Yesterday. Try and tell me in detail.”

“August fifteenth, like Christmas, is one of the most difficult days of the year. At twelve-forty-five, there’s the Assumption mass, at three-forty-five the Assumption vespers, at ten past four the Assumption procession starts, they take out the large silver statue of the Virgin and everyone has to follow. Priests, faithful, tourists—everybody. Nobody is allowed to stay behind in the cathedral. We always have to negotiate with the little old ladies who want to wait inside but we follow the rector’s instructions: there mustn’t be anybody in the cathedral until the procession returns at about six. Once everyone’s out, the other guards and I shut the gates and we join the procession.”

“Whereabouts were you in the procession?”

“At the head. They always put me at the head, with the bishop, the priests, and the statue of the Virgin.”

“Why you?”

“Because I’m the strongest among the guards. Usually, if there’s any problem, it’s at the head of the procession.”

“And what kind of problem could there be, Mourad?”

“How should I know? Somebody could attack the bishop or the statue of the Virgin.”

“You think so? Who’d do such a thing?”

“How should I know? The people from Act Up, for instance.”

“Act Up? What—the queers?”

“I’m just saying for example. About ten days ago, they staged a sort of a raid inside the cathedral, to protest against what the Pope says about condoms. They put up banners, tried to chain themselves to the entrance gates. They were quite forceful. There were journalists, cameras, TV people.”

“Quite a goddam mess then.”

“Oh, yeah!”

“As a matter of fact, Mourad, yesterday afternoon, during the procession, didn’t you have a little problem?”

“Yes, a fight. There’s one or two every year. Usually, it’s old ladies fighting to get into the cathedral first after the procession.”

“Very pious, these old women—are they?”

“It’s the fact that, once inside, they want a seat.”

“But the fight yesterday, it wasn’t between old women, was it?”

“No, they were young people.”

“So tell me exactly what happened, Mourad.”

“There was this guy—we know him well—he’s been coming here for months. He’s a bit—how can I put it?”

“A bit of an oddball.”

“That’s right, a bid of an oddball. Sometimes, it’s as if he thinks the Virgin Mary’s his sister, you know? Or his mother.”

“I get the picture, yes.”

“He prays and cries at her feet. Lies down on the stone floor, takes pictures of her, tries to touch her, brings her flowers. Every evening, when we close up, it’s always the same thing. He doesn’t want to leave, he wants to stay and sleep with the Virgin of the Pillar.”

“Which one’s the Virgin of the Pillar?”

“It’s the statue over there, to the right of the podium. She’s the one on all the postcards, guidebooks, candles.”

“On the candles, too?”

“Yes, sure, on the candles, look.” Mourad went to get a candle from one of the stands.

“And so this guy who’s so in love with the Virgin Mary, who did he try to beat up?”

“This girl in white walking next to it.”

“Next to what?”

“Next to the statue of the Virgin. She’d been walking there since the start of the procession. Next to it, in front of it. It’s true that after a while, she was beginning to disturb everyone.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“The auxiliary bishop, the priests, the knights. Everybody, really.”

“Who are these knights, again?”

“The Knights of the Holy Sepulcher, the ones who carry the silver statue of the Virgin on its stretcher. It must weigh at least four hundred and fifty pounds, you know.”

“And why would this girl have disturbed your knights?”

“Because she was very beautiful and her dress was very short. At one point, the Head Honcho even asked me to go talk to her.”

“Who’s the Head Honcho?”

“The rector. It’s what we call him among ourselves, but don’t go repeating it.”

“So the Head Honcho himself told you to go to the chick in the miniskirt, to ask her to walk farther away, otherwise the knights, the priests, and the auxiliary bishop would be sweating buckets. Is that right?”

Mourad just smiled in reply.

“And so what did the girl say to you?”

“I didn’t get a chance to speak to her because the other guy went for her. Grabbed her by the hair, started shaking her, calling her a prostitute, a whore, a slut, all sorts of stuff. That she
should leave the Virgin Mary alone, that she should follow her example, that the Virgin is the woman above all women.”

“And what did you do at that point, Mourad?”

“I grabbed the kid by the neck and flattened him on the ground with my knee. Then I asked the girl if she was OK, if she wanted me to call the police, because her lip was bleeding a bit.”

“And?”

“Well, she didn’t want to call the police. She said, ‘What are you doing here? Why are you working for these people?’”

“What did she mean by that?”

“How should I know?”

Gombrowicz had been fidgeting for a while, ever since Mourad had started talking about the attack. “Tell him, Mourad, tell him what you told me earlier. What language was the girl speaking?”

“With me? Well, Arabic, of course.”

Landard burst out laughing. “You’re right, Mourad, what else could you and she have been speaking? After all, we’re in France, right? And then?”

“Then I told the kid I didn’t want to see him for the rest of the day. He ran away saying it was a topsy-turvy world, and telling me to go back home.”

“And what do you think he meant by that, Mourad?”

Mourad looked intently into Landard’s eyes. “You know perfectly well what he meant, inspector.”

Landard rummaged in his jacket pocket but could find only a dark blue, crushed, empty pack. “OK, Mourad. And then what happened?”

“Then the procession went back into the cathedral for Solemn Mass.”

“And was the girl in white at Solemn Mass?”

“In the front row, with her legs crossed.”

“All right. And then?”

“Then, at the end of the Mass, at about eight p.m., we emptied the cathedral, so we could put up the tulle.” “The tulle?”

“On summer evenings, we stretch a huge canvas across the transept, because at nine-thirty p.m., we reopen the cathedral for
Rejoice, Mary.
”

“What’s
Rejoice, Mary?”

“It’s a film about the Assumption.”

“Of course, stupid question. So at half past nine, you reopened the doors once again and people came back in, like a movie theater.”

“That’s right.”

“And at what time did
Rejoice, Mary
finish?”

“The film is forty-five minutes long. At ten-thirty p.m., we got everyone out again.”

“And was the girl in white also there for
Rejoice, Mary?
”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t see her?”

“No.”

“After Mass you didn’t see her again for the rest of the evening?”

“No.”

“And were there many people at
Rejoice, Mary
last night?”

“It was full. Over a thousand people.”

“What do you do inside? Is it like a movie theater? Do you dim the lights?”

“We just keep the night-lights on in the entrance. The night-lights and the candles.”

“And can people come and go as they please?”

“As they please, yes.”

“And you never have any problems?”

“What kind of problems?”

“I don’t know, couples smooching in the corners, kids trying to remain locked in the cathedral overnight so they can piss in the holy water basins.”

“Very seldom. In any case, after we close, we do the rounds to check everything properly.”

“Hard work, all that, Mourad.”

“I told you. Along with Christmas, it’s the hardest day of the year.”

“Because of the crowds?”

“The crowds, the crazy people.”

“And tell me, Mourad, where do you live?”

“ In Garges-lès-Gonesse. Why?”

“It’s quite a trek home.”

“I take the local train D, from Châtelet. Then the bus. Then there’s a bit on foot.”

“Are there still buses in Gonesse when you lock up here?”

“I generally miss the last one.”

“So what do you do?”

“I walk.”

“You walk all the way from the train station?”

“I have to.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“Can’t afford one.”

“If you leave here at about ten-thirty—eleven, what time do you get home?”

Mourad did not answer.

“Are you sure you did your rounds last night, Mourad?”

“What are you trying to say, inspector?”

“Don’t get excited, Mourad, I’m just asking you a question. After such a long day you must have just wanted to go home to
bed, right? I’m trying to put myself in your shoes. If I’d had the chance to catch my train fifteen minutes earlier by skipping my rounds, I wouldn’t have hesitated, trust me. Hell, the last bus in Gonesse, that’s vital.”

“Last night I did my rounds like I do them every time I get to lock up in the evening, inspector. Do you have any other questions or may I leave?”

“You can go home.”

“The girl they found this morning, is it her? Is it the girl in white who got attacked yesterday?”

“You’ve got it exactly right, Mourad. You should join the police.”

The guard walked away, and his keychain kept jingling in time with his footsteps long after Landard lost sight of him behind a pillar.

“Gombrowicz, have you got a cigarette?”

Gombrowicz took a pack of Camel Lights out of his jeans pocket and offered it to Landard. The latter pulled out a cigarette, made a face, put it between his lips, then shook his lighter for a long time without managing to light it.

“Do you have a light, Gombrowicz?”

“No. Just use a candle.”

Landard went up to a rack, grabbed a lit candle with a picture of the Virgin of the Pillar, and took a long drag on his cigarette. He remained lost in his thoughts in the midst of a thickening cloud of smoke. Then he suddenly waved the air away as though to clear his head, and turned to Gombrowicz.