After the Crash (9 page)

My own opinion of this incident, looking back at it years later, is
that de Carville made a huge mistake that day. He awakened the
Vitrals’ anger. Without that, he probably would have won the case,
and no one would have paid any notice. The Vitrals would have
cried foul, and the world would have turned a deaf ear.

The Mercedes had not even left the Pollet island as Pierre Vitral
took a newspaper from the cluttered cupboard shelf.
‘What are we going to do?’ his wife asked.
‘We’re going to fight. We’re going to crush him.’
‘How? You heard him. And he’s right . . .’
‘No . . . No, Nicole. Emilie is not dead yet. He forgot something. Everything he said was true before . . . before Dragonfly,
before Pascal and Stéphanie died. But not anymore! Because we
are important now too, Nicole. People are interested in us. We’re
newsworthy. Our names are in the newspapers, on the radio . . .’
He turned towards the corner of the room. ‘And on TV too. I bet de
Carville never watches TV. He has no idea. These days, TV, newspapers, they’re just as important as money.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Pierre Vitral underlined a telephone number in the newspaper.
‘I’m going to start with the
Est Républicain
. They know the case
better than anyone. Nicole, you remember that journalist who
wrote all those articles about the inquiry?’
‘Articles? The last one was barely five lines long!’
‘Exactly. All the more reason to start with her. Can you find her
name for me?’
Nicole Vitral put Marc on a chair in front of the television. From
under the living-room table, she took a binder in which she had
methodically collected every newspaper article about the Mont
Terri crash. It took her only a few seconds.
‘Lucile Moraud!’
‘OK. We’ve nothing to lose. Let’s see where this gets us . . .’
Pierre Vitral picked up the telephone and dialled the newspaper’s
main switchboard.
‘Is this the
Est Républicain
? Hello, my name is Pierre Vitral.
I’m the grandfather of the miracle child of Mont Terrible . . . Yes,
“Dragonfly” . . . I would like to speak to one of your journalists,
Lucile Moraud. I have some important information to give her
about the case . . .’
Pierre Vitral sensed a sudden urgency on the other end of the
line. Less than a minute later, he heard a voice – slightly out of
breath, and surprisingly deep for a woman’s – that sent a chill down
his spine.
‘Pierre Vitral? This is Lucile Moraud. You have some news for
me? Is it serious?’
‘Léonce de Carville has just left my house. He offered us five
hundred thousand francs to drop our claim.’
The three seconds of silence that followed seemed interminable
to Pierre. Then the journalist’s husky voice broke the silence again,
making him jump: ‘Do you have witnesses?’
‘The whole neighbourhood . . .’
‘Jesus Christ . . . Don’t move. Don’t speak to anyone else about
this. We’re going to send someone over right now to interview you.’

Ten a.m. exactly.
Marc had been reading with one eye on Grand-Duc’s words and
one on the clock.
He closed the green notebook and shoved it into his rucksack,
among his folders. He walked up to the counter of the bar with a
satisfied smile. Mariam was busy rinsing glasses, her back to him.
Marc pressed an imaginary bell on the countertop. ‘Ding-dong!’ he
said loudly. ‘Time’s up!’
Mariam turned around and calmly dried her hands on a dishcloth, before folding it neatly and hanging it up.
‘Time’s up!’ Marc repeated.
‘All right . . .’
Mariam looked up at the clock.
‘Well, you don’t waste any time! I bet you never overslept on
Christmas morning, did you?’
‘No, I didn’t. But please hurry up, Mariam! You heard what Lylie
said earlier: I have a class now . . .’
‘You can try that with other people, not with me,’ said Mariam.
‘Anyway, here it is . . . your present.’
She opened a drawer, picked out the tiny packet, and handed it
to Marc. He grabbed it eagerly and turned towards the exit.
‘Aren’t you going to open it now?’
‘No. Imagine if it’s something private. A sex toy, or some lacy
lingerie . . .’
‘I’m not joking, Marc.’
‘So why would you want me to open it in front of you?’
‘Because I can guess what’s in that package, smartass. And I’d like
to be able to help pick you up after you fall.’
Marc stared at Mariam, shocked.
‘You
know
what’s in this package?’
‘Yes . . . Well, more or less. It’s always the same thing. When . . .’
A customer standing behind Marc was drumming his fingers
impatiently on the counter and staring at the row of Marlboro
cigarettes.
‘When what?’
Mariam sighed.
‘When a girl runs away, giving herself an hour’s head start. An
hour’s head start on the poor guy she’s left sitting alone in my bar!’
Marc paid his bill. He thought fleetingly of the sapphire ring on
Lylie’s finger, of the Tuareg cross she had not fastened around her
neck. He managed to shrug, as if unconcerned.
‘See you tomorrow, Mariam. Same time, same table. Near the
window. Save us two chairs, won’t you?’
He picked up the package with a hand that he managed to stop
shaking, and left.

As she handed three packets of cigarettes to her next customer,
Mariam watched Marc walk away. She had said too much. She was
no longer so sure of herself. Marc and Emilie were a strange pair,
not like any other couple she had seen before, but she was certain
of one thing: that in the next few hours, Marc’s future would be left
up in the air and he would have a crucial decision to make. Would
he make the right decision or the wrong one?

Marc disappeared into the square outside Paris VIII, his grey
coat seeming to melt into the tarmac. For a moment, Mariam was
distracted by the uninterrupted wave of passers-by.

Marc was running away, buoyed up by his convictions. But the
tiniest thing could turn his world upside down, Mariam thought,
make every certainty in his life melt into air. All it would take is a
single detail. A grain of sand. The beating of a dragonfly’s wings.
*

Marc walked quickly away from the Lenin. He went up Avenue de
Stalingrad, heading vaguely towards the Stade Delaune. The morning rush was beginning to thin out. There were more old people
on the streets now, more mothers with young children, plastic bags
hanging from the handles of their pushchairs. He walked another
few minutes down the street and found himself almost alone.
Hands trembling, he ripped the silver gift paper from the package
and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. In his hand was a small
cardboard box. He opened it nervously.

The object dropped into the palm of his hand.
Marc reeled.
For a few moments, his legs would not carry him. He stumbled

backward, smashing into the cold metal of a lamp post. He took
deep, slow breaths, trying to regain his balance.
Don’t panic. Take your time.
The street where he stood was empty, but all he had to do was
shout out, and someone would hear him, come to him. No. He had
to think rationally.
In spite of himself, his breathing accelerated, his throat tightened. Always the same symptoms, ever since he was two years old.
Marc was agoraphobic.
Breathe slowly. Calm down.
Contrary to what many people think, agoraphobia is not a
fear of large spaces or crowds. It is, quite simply, the fear of not
being able to be saved. The fear of being afraid, one might say.
This kind of panic normally occurs in places where the person
feels isolated – a desert, a forest, a mountain, the sea – but also
in the middle of a crowd, an amphitheatre, a stadium. It is just as
likely to happen in a street rammed full of people as in a deserted
street.
Marc was used to it. He knew how to deal with it, as long as the
feeling wasn’t too intense. He rarely had attacks these days. He was
able to attend lectures in crowded rooms, to take the metro, to go
to rock concerts, and so on.
He took a deep breath.
Little by little, his breathing went back to normal. He was still
leaning against the lamp post, in spite of the pain the metal cylinder
was causing his back.
Marc looked down at his hand.
He was holding a miniature toy.
An aeroplane.
A replica Airbus A300, quite heavy – it was made of metal – and
painted a milky white, except for its tail, which was red, white and
blue. The kind of toy you could find on the shelves of thousands of
little boys’ bedrooms. Marc’s hand shook. His fingers closed over
the cold fuselage.
What did this mean?
Was it a joke?
A macabre gift to accompany his reading of Grand-Duc’s
notebook?
Ridiculous . . .
Marc needed to think. Was this really all there had been in the
package?
Marc fumbled inside his jeans pocket, and smoothed out the
wrapping paper. He cursed his stupidity. Folded up in the paper
that he had torn so recklessly was a small white page with writing
on it. Marc immediately recognised Lylie’s handwriting. Leaning
back, he read:

I have to leave. Don’t be angry with me. This is something I always
promised myself. That I would go away, when I turned eighteen. Go far,
far away . . . to India, Africa, the Andes . . . or maybe – why not? – to
Turkey. Don’t worry. There is nothing to fear. I’m used to aeroplanes
now, after all! I am strong.

I will survive. Again.
If I had told you about my plan, you wouldn’t have agreed. But if
you take the time to think about it, I am sure you will realise that I
am right. We can’t go on like this, not knowing. That is why I have to
distance myself, Marc – from you. I have to take stock. To cut away the
dead branches . . .
Marc, don’t try to find me. Don’t call me. Don’t do anything. I need
space, and time.
I believe this: that one day, we will know who we are, and what we
are to each other.
Take care of yourself.
Emilie

Marc’s breathing accelerated again. He forced himself to quell the
swarm of questions massing in his head.
He needed to act. Do something.
He opened his rucksack and shoved the miniature aeroplane
inside, along with the letter and the wrapping paper. He took a
breath, then grabbed his mobile phone. Because he worked for
France Telecom, he had been able to get the latest, state-of-the-art
model – with automatic memorisation of phone numbers – both
for himself and for Lylie.
Without thinking, he scrolled through the list of names, stopped
on Lylie’s, and pressed the green circle. The screen cleared. The
phone seemed to ring forever.
He was used to calling Lylie and her not replying. The answering
machine always clicked in after the seventh ring. He counted in his
head as he waited. After the fourth ring, he knew she wasn’t going
to pick up.
‘Hello, this is Emilie. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back
when I can. Bye . . .’
Marc swallowed. The sound of Lylie’s voice brought tears to his
eyes.
‘Lylie, it’s Marc. Please call me, wherever you are. Please, please
call me back. I love you. More than ever. Come back to me.’
Marc hung up. He walked slowly up the Avenue de Stalingrad,
turning over Lylie’s words in his mind.
‘Far, far away . . .’
‘Take stock . . .’
‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did it all mean?
Marc was not stupid. Lylie’s eighteenth birthday was just a
pretext. This whole situation was connected to Grand-Duc’s notebook – the notebook that Lylie had spent all night reading. What
had she discovered? What had it made her think?
‘
Know who we are, and what we are to each other
. . .’
No! Marc did not share Lylie’s doubts. Nothing in the world
could shake his conviction. It was absolute.
Marc reached Place du Général-Leclerc. Rows of buses crossed
into Rue Gabriel-Peri and Avenue du Colonel-Fabien.
What could he do? How could he find Lylie? Follow her footsteps? Read the whole of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and guess what
Lylie must have guessed?
Marc cursed. He stood motionless as the buses came and went in
front of him. The idea that he could just sit there and read the rest
of that one-hundred-page notebook in the hope that he might find
a clue seemed ridiculous. He picked up his mobile phone again and
scrolled down until he reached the letter W.
Work
.
Marc moved away from the noisy square where he had been
standing.
‘Hello? Jennifer? . . . Great! This is Marc. Sorry about this, but
I’m in a massive rush. I need information, for personal reasons. The
telephone number of a guy in Paris. Are you writing this down?
He’s called Grand-Duc. Crédule Grand-Duc. Yeah, I know, not
exactly a common name. So you shouldn’t have any problem finding him . . .’
Jennifer, who worked with him at France Telecom, was the
same age as Marc and was studying Applied Languages. Marc was
pretty sure that, given a little nudge, she would have fallen for him.
While he waited for her response, the phone still glued to his ear,
he admired the bell tower of the Basilica of St Denis that stood out,
high above the buildings that lined the streets in between.
‘Yeah? You’ve got it? Fantastic!’
Marc scribbled down Grand-Duc’s phone number and address.
He said a quick thank you to Jennifer, then immediately started dialling the private detective’s number. It rang for a long time, before
another answering machine clicked on. Marc cursed inwardly.
Never mind – he had to lay his cards on the table. There was no
time to lose.
‘Grand-Duc? It’s Marc Vitral. Listen, I have to speak to you
as soon as possible. Or better still, see you in person. It’s about
Lylie. And your notebook – the one you wrote for her. I’m holding it right now. She gave it to me and I’m reading it. So if you
get this message, please call me back on my mobile. I’m on my
way to your place now: I’ll be there in forty-five minutes at the
latest.’
Marc quickly strode back towards the metro station. Grand-Duc
lived at 21 Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. In his head, Marc envisioned
all the main lines on the metro map. Line 13, towards Châtillon-Montrouge, would take him into the centre, past Saint-Lazare,
the Champs-Elysées, Invalides, Montparnasse . . . Grand-Duc’s
street must be towards Nation, on Line 6, between Glacière and
Place d’Italie. So, he would have to change at Montparnasse. About
twenty stations in all.
Marc took the stairs down into the metro and as he turned the
first corner, he noticed a man sleeping on a dirty sheet alongside his
dog, a thin yellow mongrel. The man was not even begging. Without even breaking his stride, Marc dropped two francs on the sheet.
The dog raised its head and watched him walk past, a surprised
look on its face. After two years of using the Paris metro, Marc still
gave money almost every time he saw a homeless person. He had
formed this habit in Dieppe, where his grandmother always gave
money to people who lived on the streets. She had taught him these
fundamental principles as he grew up: solidarity with his fellow
man; never to be afraid of poor people; never to be ashamed of
giving. This was still part of his moral landscape now, in Paris, just
as it had been in Dieppe or would be in any other city in the world
he might visit. Lylie gently teased him for the amount of money his
principles cost him. No Parisian would do that, she said. True, but
he wasn’t a Parisian.
The metro platform was almost deserted. Some good luck at last,
thought Marc. Forty-five minutes on the metro, twenty stations . . .
he would have time to read more of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and
that might help him to understand what was going on, to walk in
Lylie’s footsteps.
But five words haunted Marc: ‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did she mean?
Cut away the dead branches
.
The train entered the station. Marc got on board and took out
the green notebook.
An idea had become lodged in his brain, and he couldn’t stop
thinking about it: what if the toy aeroplane had been nothing but
a decoy, a form of misdirection? Lylie had not told him everything.
What about that ring, for instance? The sapphire she was wearing:
where had that come from? There were too many unknowns.
What if Lylie did not intend to go far away, after all? What if she
was still here, close to him, with another goal in mind.
To distance herself from him.
Why?
Because she was going to do something risky, something
dangerous.
Because it was something he would not have agreed to.
Cut away the dead branches . . .
What if Lylie had discovered the truth and was now out for
revenge?