After the Crash (42 page)

Grand-Duc’s finger squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot echoed across the summits in the vast white silence
of the morning.

Malvina stood behind him, the Mauser L110 gripped in both
hands.
‘Don’t start thinking I did this to save your life, Vitral,’ she said.
‘I just can’t stand people saying that Lyse-Rose is dead.’
She let the Mauser fall to the ground. Her whole body was trembling. She wasn’t pretending this time. She really had pulled the
trigger, and killed a man.
‘You . . . how did you . . .’
Malvina managed a nervous smile. ‘I’m not any more stupid
than you. I had the same thought as you about the newspaper. That
guy from the nature reserve, Grégory Morez, drove me to the offices
of the
Est Républicain
in his Jeep. You’d already done the hard work
for me. The newspaper was still spread out on the table where you’d
left it, with Mélanie Belvoir’s address written on the front page. I
just jumped in a taxi and told the driver to drop me off where the
road left Dannemarie.’
Marc did not know what to say. Should he thank Malvina? Give
her a hug? Do nothing at all?
He moved towards her, but Malvina stiffened.
‘Don’t touch me!’
She suddenly collapsed to the ground, like a puppet. She was
sobbing. Marc caught only snippets of her words: ‘Grandma
and grandpa . . . to Heaven, yesterday . . . they’re gone . . .’
He turned away and opened the door of the Xantia. Grand-Duc
had not lied about the envelope, at least: there it was, on the passenger seat. Marc tore it open. Inside were four typewritten pages. He
walked over to where Malvina was curled up in the foetal position,
still quietly weeping. He sat down next to her and began to read
out loud:

‘I am going to tell you everything, Mr Grand-Duc. I never did
anything wrong, after all. I have nothing to feel guilty about. I
always knew I would have to tell the truth about this one day and,
now you have found me, that time has come. I was what they call
a “difficult” teenager. By the time I was seventeen, my relationship
with my parents was over. I had long since stopped going to school,
and I was just hanging around, like so many other young people.
My parents managed to drag me to the employment agency, and
I went through a series of internships before I got a temping job
at the Nature Reserve. It was only for a few weeks and my main
task was to pick up rubbish in the forest. There was me and a small
group of other interns, and we were all working for Grégory Morez.
He was incredibly handsome, and he could be very sweet with the
girls he fancied. He had this way of touching you that never felt
invasive. He was more than ten years older than me. I fell in love
with him, like so many others before me. We made love for the first
time, in the middle of the forest, near a waterfall. After that we did
it many times while I was still working there, and for several weeks
afterwards. Everywhere, in the most amazing places. I knew he had
other girls, but I thought he felt differently about me. I thought
he truly loved me. I wanted to believe all his promises. It’s a cliché,
really, isn’t it? The stupid young woman and the old charmer . . .’

‘What happened after that?’
‘I fell pregnant. I didn’t realise until I was six weeks gone. By
then, I was already on a downward spiral: no work, a family I hardly
ever saw, and increasingly estranged from my friends. And I had
this suicidal obsession with Grégory Morez. For his body, and the
pleasure he gave me.’
‘Was Grégory the father?’
‘Yes. He was the only man I had ever slept with. I told him about
the baby one night, in a seedy hotel room in a suburb of Belfort,
after we’d made love.’
‘How did he react?’
‘Just as you’d expect, Mr Grand-Duc. He showed me the door.
He told me I was just a little whore who was trying to trap him. He
said there was no proof he was the father and that I should get an
abortion.’
‘But you didn’t?’
‘No, although I never really made a decision to keep the child – I
simply let the weeks go past without doing anything. It all happened so quickly. I was still completely obsessed with Grégory. I
was convinced that I could change his mind and win him back.
And my life was going from bad to worse: I was living on the streets
most of the time. I would only go back to my parents’ house about
once a week, and when my pregnancy became obvious I stopped
going back altogether. I just phoned them instead.’
‘Did you give birth in a hospital?’
‘Yes, in Montbéliard. I had just turned eighteen. I was in a bad
state. The baby was very small – not even five pounds. She was born
on 27 August, 1980. I left the hospital one week later. I still hadn’t
filled out all the official forms. I ended up just dumping them in a
bin.’
‘It was that easy?’
‘I saw dozens of doctors and nurses during the week I was in
hospital. I’m sure there must be some kind of proof that my child
was born there. But who was going to check that the child was still
with me, that I was bringing it up? None of my family ever knew
anything about the baby.’
‘What name did you give her?’
‘I never called her anything. I told the people at the hospital
that I hadn’t chosen a name yet, that I was waiting for the father.
I left with my child in my arms. Within a few weeks, it was as if
I had fallen out of normal society altogether. I had no connection
with any of my family or friends. I slept in the street, breastfeeding
my child anywhere I could. I was exhausted. I hung around with
people who didn’t judge me. Drunks and junkies mostly. Sometimes I thought about going home and letting my parents look after
me. Sometimes I dreamed I would take my little girl to Grégory
and persuade him to help me bring her up. Even at that age, she
had incredible blue eyes – a bit like mine, but even more like her
father’s. Sometimes I thought I would just lie down and die, right
there on the pavement . . .’
‘So why did you decide to leave the town?’
‘I had no choice in the end. A teenager living on the streets of
Montbéliard with a baby . . . you can’t hide that kind of thing forever. After a few weeks, social services were after me. I knew how
that would end. They would steal my daughter from me and take
me back to my parents’ place. Without even asking for my opinion.
I should confess to you, Mr Grand-Duc, that some of the things I
did were not legal. I sold drugs, I shoplifted. I sold my body too,
more than once. So I had to leave Montbéliard, just to survive.’
‘And that was how you met Georges Pelletier?’
‘Yes. He was like me, a total down-and-out, and he needed to get
away from the police and social services too. He thought I was cute,
in spite of the mess I was in. I think he imagined himself becoming
my pimp, although I never let him touch me. But we both wanted
the same thing – to get away – and Mont Terri seemed the obvious
place. It’s close to Montbéliard, and I knew no one would ever look
for me there. It was the beginning of December, but the weather
was still fairly warm and we were used to sleeping rough. And, best
of all, I would be close to Grégory. I imagined bumping into him,
and him remembering how much he used to like me, and then
seeing my daughter. Surely when he saw those eyes, I thought, he
wouldn’t be able to deny that he was the father. I know this must
seem crazy, but . . . well, I
was
crazy. Grégory Morez was my only
lifeline. I had to believe in him.’
‘Did you see him again?’
‘We lived in a little cabin that we found, near the top of Mont
Terri. It was cold, but we could light fires and had a roof over our
heads. It was better than life on the streets, really. I am going to
answer your question, Mr Grand-Duc, don’t worry. I’m getting
to it. Yes, I saw Grégory Morez. Almost every day. He saw me
and he saw our baby, but he didn’t recognise me. He never even
glanced at me. I was no longer a sexy young girl. Life had chewed
me up and spat me out. I had put on weight and my breasts were
saggy. There was no sparkle in my eyes. I didn’t look like the same
person.’
‘Didn’t you ever speak to him?’
‘You don’t understand, Mr Grand-Duc. I felt humiliated. Utterly
humiliated. Had I really grown so ugly? Had he been with other
girls, since me? I finally realised that he would never touch me
again, never feel attracted to me again. So why on earth would he
want to have anything to do with my child? My last flicker of hope
died on Mont Terri. My daughter was a millstone round my neck,
and the two of us would drown together. Oh, you mustn’t think
that I didn’t love my child, Mr Grand-Duc. I adored her! But I had
nothing left to give her. No father. No more milk. I didn’t even have
a name for her.
‘The snow started falling suddenly one morning. It was 22 December, 1980. Georges Pelletier and I tried to keep ourselves warm by
building a campfire in the little hut, but I had to do everything,
because he was high on heroin most of the time. He would have
frozen to death if I hadn’t been there. I even had to force him to go
outside and gather firewood.’
‘And then night fell . . .’
‘Yes. And the storm got worse. Pelletier was completely out of it.
I don’t think he even heard the crash. The whole cabin shook, as if
there’d been an earthquake. It felt like the end of the world. From
the door of the cabin, you could see the trees on fire, half a mile
away. I wrapped up my baby in a blanket and went outside. It didn’t
feel cold anymore. In fact, the fire was so ferocious that I could feel
my skin burning.’
‘Weren’t you scared?’
‘Not at all. It was a strange scene, unreal. Snow and fire together,
and then this twisted plane lying on the mountaintop, the steel
melting before my eyes as if it were plastic. I knew I was the first
witness there, but I didn’t realise the emergency services would take
so long.’
‘And that’s when you saw it?’
‘The baby, you mean? Yes, Mr Grand-Duc, that’s when I saw it.’
‘Was it . . .?’
‘Dead? Yes. Its face was all swollen and I think it must have died
straight away. No baby could possibly have survived in those conditions. It was hell. I still find it amazing that everyone believed the
story of the miracle child . . . Yes, the baby was dead, Mr GrandDuc. And I immediately felt that it wasn’t fair.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That it was cruel, if you prefer. A whole family would cry for
the loss of that baby. It was a little girl – she was wearing a dress. So
many people would grieve for her. So many lives would be ruined.
And yet there I was, with a baby of my own, unable to offer it any
kind of future. And she would live, but without anything, anyone,
apart from me. Do you understand now what I mean?’
‘I understand.’
‘It seemed such an obvious thing to do. The dead baby in the
snow was practically the same age as my baby. I acted on impulse.
For the first time in my life, I felt I could do something positive for
someone, something useful. Bring a dead baby back to life, save
another family from grief, and give my daughter a better future. I
felt as if I was saving a life. That must be how nurses and firemen
feel, I thought. And it was this feeling, which took me by surprise
that night, that made me decide I wanted to become a nurse. I
wanted to save lives.’
‘You undressed the dead baby?’
‘Yes, Mr Grand-Duc, in order to save it. I was giving my daughter
a loving family, a family with a home and with money, who would
never be aware of my sacrifice, who would cry in gratitude for the
miracle that had saved their baby. To me, it seemed like there was
almost something sacred about what I was doing . . .’
‘But that’s not what happened . . .’
‘How could I have guessed there were two babies on that plane?
How could I have imagined the consequences? I thought I was
doing something good, Mr Grand-Duc. Afterwards, I read the
newspapers and followed the story. The families being torn apart.
The verdict. But what could I do? What could I say? Apart from
saying nothing. It should have been so much simpler . . . I waited
with my baby for about an hour that night, holding her in my arms
until I heard the first firemen approaching. Then I left my daughter
in the snow, in her new clothes, far enough from the plane that
she would be warmed by the fire without being burned. I kissed
her goodbye and ran away into the night, carrying the dead baby
wrapped up in my blanket.’
‘Was it you who buried her next to the cabin?’
‘Who else? Pelletier was still asleep, high as a kite. I dug up the
earth with my bare hands. It took so long. My fingers were bleeding. Pelletier woke up and saw me just as I was close to finishing.
The baby’s corpse was already in the grave. I was inventing prayers
before I covered the body with soil because I didn’t know any real
ones. Pelletier went crazy. He thought I had killed my own child
. . .’
‘And then he saw the bracelet on the baby’s wrist. Is that when he
realised the child wasn’t yours?’
‘Yes. I was so upset, I hadn’t even noticed the bracelet, but he saw
it straight away. And it was gold too. So we made a deal. I let him
have the bracelet in return for him keeping his mouth shut. He left
that night and I never saw him again. I filled in the grave with soil
and found some stones to pile up on top of it. My fingers were so
cold I could hardly even bend them. It took me forever to make a
little cross from two bits of wood. I spent the rest of the night in the
cabin, near the embers of the fire. I barely slept a wink that night.
Or the next night . . .’
‘You came back to tend the grave, afterwards?’
‘Little by little, I began to live again. My parents were looking
for me – they put that missing persons ad in the newspaper, as
you know – and in the end, I returned to Belfort. I went back to
school, then to college. I became a nurse. I met Laurent six years
ago. Laurent Luisans. He’s a stretcher-bearer at the hospital. My
parents are both dead: my father died five years ago, my mother last
year. Laurent and I are not married, but I decided to take his name.
He doesn’t know anything about my past. Nobody knows. Laurent
wants us to have a child. It’s not too late for me, I’m only thirty-six.
But I don’t know . . . It’s complicated.’
‘I can see that, Mélanie. But you never answered my question,
about the grave.’
‘I’m getting to that. Yes, I did go back every year, on 27 August,
my child’s birthday. I felt as if the baby I had buried was my own
child, you see. Not a stranger’s. Not Lyse-Rose. I came back to tend
the grave and put flowers by the cross. One year, a long time ago –
in 1987, I think – I noticed that someone had disturbed the stones.
I didn’t know who, but I knew that the battle between the two
families was still going on. That it would never end.’
‘Unless someone dug up the corpse of the baby you had buried
next to the cabin. A particularly stubborn private detective, for
example.’
‘Yes. I was scared when I saw that the grave had been discovered.
I was afraid that if someone dug up that baby, they would dig up
my past too. So I did it myself instead.’
‘Did you dig another grave somewhere else?’
‘That’s none of your business, Mr Grand-Duc. What are you
going to do now?’
‘I don’t know. Could we meet?’
‘I don’t see that I have much choice. I’m at your mercy. Why don’t
we meet tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock? Laurent starts work
at five, and I finish at eight. But it takes me an hour to get home. I
hope you will be discreet, Mr Grand-Duc. I have changed my life.
I have put all this behind me, and it wasn’t easy. I never meant to
do anything bad that night. Quite the contrary. How could I have
known . . .’
‘Known what?’
Silence.
‘Known what, Mélanie?’
‘That my daughter would look so much like me, when she was
eighteen years old.’
*
It was just past nine o’clock. The mists that clung to the Jura mountains were beginning to lift. Marc was the first to spot the little white
car moving up the road towards Dannemarie. It passed them and
parked in front of the chalet with sky-blue shutters. Marc noticed
the nurse’s caduceus symbol on a sticker on the rear window. The
blonde-haired driver remained motionless behind the steering
wheel for a while, then finally the car’s lights went off and the door
opened to reveal the tired smile on the achingly familiar face of a
perfect stranger.