Blood Wedding (15 page)

If I felt I could, I would advise Sophie to check her headlights, they seem to be on the blink.

September 21

Since coming back from their holidays, the lovebirds have taken to going away for the weekend, and sometimes they even take a day off during the week. I don’t know where they go, but it is a bit late in the year for long walks in the country. So yesterday, I decided to follow them.

I had set my alarm to go off early. It was a struggle to get up, because lately I have not been sleeping much, I have disturbing dreams and wake up exhausted. I made sure the motorbike had
a full tank of petrol. As soon as I saw Sophie close the curtains, I went downstairs and waited on the corner of the street. They emerged from their building at 8.00 sharp. I had to use all my wiles to make sure they didn’t spot me. I even had to take a few risks. And all for nothing. Just before the
autoroute
, Vincent switched lanes, edging between two cars so he could get through before the lights changed. Instinctively I tried to slip in behind him, which was reckless. I had just enough time to brake to avoid ploughing into the back of his car. I swerved, lost control, the bike toppled and we skidded about ten metres. I didn’t really know whether or not I had been injured, or whether it was only physical pain that I felt . . . I heard the traffic coming to a standstill, it was as if I were in a movie and someone had turned off the sound. I should have been confused, dazed by the shock, but in fact I felt hyper-alert. I saw Vincent and Sophie getting out of their car and running towards me, and then other drivers – a whole crowd of rubberneckers – descended on me even before I had time to pick myself up. I felt a wild energy coursing through me. While the first people to arrive were bending over me, I managed to disentangle myself from the motorcycle and scrabble to my feet. I found myself face to face with Vincent. I was still wearing my helmet, the Plexiglas visor was down, I could see him standing right in front of me: “It’s probably best not to move,” was what he said. Next to him, Sophie looked worried, her lips parted. I had never been this close to her. Everyone suddenly started to chime in, offering advice, the police were on their way, I should take off the helmet, sit down on the verge, the motorbike had slipped, it was going too fast, no, the car had swerved suddenly, then Vincent put his hand on my shoulder. I turned and looked at the motorbike. The idea came to me when I noticed the engine
was still running. The petrol tank did not seem to be leaking. I took a step towards it and, for the second time, someone turned off the sound. Everyone fell silent, wondering why I was gently pushing away this man in the grubby T-shirt and bending over my motorcycle. Then they realised that I was trying to right it. The babble of advice started up again. Some people seemed to be prepared to stop me forcibly, but I already had the bike upright. I was cold as ice, it felt as though my blood had stopped flowing. In seconds, I was ready to go. I could not help myself turning back for a last look at Sophie and Vincent, who were staring at me, speechless. My determination must have been frightening. I roared off to screams from the onlookers.

They have seen my motorbike, my riding gear, I’ll have to change all that. More money. In her e-mail to Valérie, Sophie insinuates that the rider probably drove off because it was a stolen bike. I only hope that I can keep a low profile. The incident shocked them, it’s likely that for a while at least they will be more aware of people on motorbikes, they will look at them differently.

September 22

I woke up in the middle of the night, bathed in sweat, my chest tight, my whole body shaking. Hardly surprising, given the scare I had yesterday. In my dream, Vincent slammed into me. I soared across the handlebars, my motorcycle leathers changed colour, they turned a pristine white. You don’t need to be a psychologist to understand the symbolism: tomorrow is the anniversary of Maman’s death.

September 23

For
days now, I’ve been feeling sad and listless. I should never have taken the risk of riding the motorcycle in such a weak and nervous state. Since Maman’s death, I have had all kinds of dreams, but sometimes what I see are actual scenes my mind has recorded at a particular moment. I am constantly astonished by the almost photographic detail of these memories. Somewhere, deep inside my brain, is a crazed projectionist. He shows me scenes such as Maman at my bedside, telling me stories. These commonplace images are heartbreaking enough, but hearing her voice . . . That particular timbre makes me quiver from head to foot. Maman never went out without first coming to spend a little time with me. I remember a babysitter, an exchange student from New Zealand. Why she should turn up in my dreams more than the others, I don’t know . . . You’d have to ask the projectionist. Maman spoke English with an impeccable accent. She spent hours and hours reading me stories in English. I was never very good at languages, but she was patient with me. Recently, I dreamed about our holidays together. The two of us in the house in Normandy (Papa only came at weekends). Laughing on the train. A whole year of memories re-emerging. Though the projectionist tends to show the same reels over and over: Maman, dressed all in white, sailing through the window. In that dream, her face is exactly as it was when I saw her for the last time. It was a beautiful afternoon, she had been standing, gazing out of the window. She always said she loved trees. I was sitting in her bedroom, I wanted to talk to her, but the words wouldn’t come. She seemed so tired. As though all her energy was focused on staring at the trees. From time to time, she would turn to me and smile affectionately. How could I know that the vision of her at that instant would be the last? And
yet, my memory of it is of a silent but deeply happy moment. We were one person, she and I. I knew that. As I left the room, she planted on my forehead one of those feverish kisses I have never known since. She said: “I love you, my little Frantz.” She always said that when I left.

In the projectionist’s footage, I leave the room, I go downstairs and a few seconds later, she leaps into the void, as though nothing and no-one could stop her. As though I did not exist.

This is why I hate them so much.

September 25

I’ve just had confirmation. Sophie e-mailed her friend Valérie to tell her she and Vincent are looking to buy a house somewhere north of Paris. She is being very mysterious on the subject. I have to say I find that childish.

Today is Vincent’s birthday. I went up to their apartment in the early afternoon. I had no trouble finding her present, a prettily wrapped package the size of a book, with a tag stamped Maison Lancel, no less. She had put it at the back of her knicker drawer. I took it away with me. I can imagine her panic tonight when she wants to give him his present. She’ll search the apartment from top to bottom. In a couple of days, I’ll put it back. I’ve decided to put it in the bathroom cabinet, behind the cosmetics and the boxes of tissues.

September 30

My neighbours seem to live their lives with their windows wide open. This is how, two days ago, when Sophie and her husband
got home at the end of the day, I was able to watch them making love. Unfortunately I couldn’t see everything, but it was pretty hot. My little turtledoves don’t seem to have any taboos: blow jobs, various contortions and positions, the picture of beautiful, intoxicating youth. I took photos. The digital camera I bought is perfect. I touch up the images on the laptop, print out the best shots and pin them to the corkboard. In fact, there were far too many, and half the room is now plastered with photographs of the lovebirds. They help me to concentrate.

Last night, after Sophie and her husband turned out the light, I lay on my bed and studied these imperfect photographs. I felt vaguely aroused. I decided it was best to turn over and go to sleep. Sophie is charming, and from what I’ve seen she’s a good fuck, but let’s not get carried away. I know it’s important that I keep my distance from her emotionally, and I have trouble enough dealing with my loathing for her husband.

October 1

I’ve done several technical dry runs using free e-mail accounts I signed up for with various providers. Now I’ve got my ducks in a row, as they say, we can start Operation E-mail Fuck-up. It will take Sophie a little while to figure it out, but from now on some of her e-mails will be dated the day before or the day after she thinks she wrote them. The brain can play strange tricks sometimes . . .

October 6

I finally sold my old motorbike, bought a new one and got some different leathers. I didn’t take a whole month, obviously, but I had a
bit of a crisis of confidence. The sort of thing that happens to riders when they fall off their horse and are wary of getting back in the saddle. I had to overcome my fears. But as a result, although I’m not as confident as I was before, this time everything went according to plan. They took the
autoroute
and headed north, towards Lille. Since they always come back the same day, I assumed they were not going far, and I was right. Actually, it’s pretty straightforward: Sophie and her husband are looking to buy a house in the country. They had a meeting with an estate agent in Senlis. They only went into the office for a few moments and reappeared with a guy in full body armour: the suit, the shoes, the haircut, the folder under the arm, that overfamiliar “I’m-an-expert-but-I’m-your-friend” manner that is standard-issue in this business. I followed them, and that’s when things got complicated, because of the narrow country lanes. After the second house they visited, I decided to head back. They show up at a house, stare at it from a distance, they think hard and wave their hands about like architects, go inside and take a tour, come out again, wander around the grounds, ask a few more questions and set off for the next property.

They are looking for a big house. They have money. Most of the ones they’ve seen are in the country, or on the outskirts of dreary little villages, all of which have extensive gardens.

I don’t think I’ll do anything for the moment about their desire to spend weekends in the country, which has no place in the plan I have been formulating.

October 12

I can see from the test e-mails she has been sending herself that Sophie is beginning to doubt her memory. I took the opportunity
to mix up the second test, changing the date stamp. I only change the dates every now and then, it’s much more devious because there is no apparent logic. Sophie does not know it yet, but gradually, I will be her logic.

October 22

Tonight I sat by the window waiting for the lovebirds to come back from the theatre. They got home very early. Sophie seemed anxious and angry with herself, Vincent had a face three feet long, as though irritated that he has married such an airhead. The scene played out in the theatre foyer must have been quite dramatic. Two or three little incidents like that and you begin to doubt everything.

I wonder if Sophie has found her old identity card, and how she felt when she found Vincent’s birthday present in the bathroom cabinet.

October 30

Things aren’t going too well for Sophie. The tone of her e-mail to Valérie speaks volumes about her self-esteem. Plainly, the things that have been happening are all minor, but that’s precisely the problem: with a major event you can draw a line under it, try to work out what went wrong, whereas here, everything is so fluid, so inconsequential. What is worrying is the sheer number. Forgetting . . . no, that’s not right,
losing
one of her contraceptive pills? Or taking two without realising? Making mistakes when buying tickets, forgetting where the car is parked, mislaying your husband’s birthday present. Taken individually, such things
are trivial. But finding the present in a ludicrous place like the bathroom and not remembering that you put it there. Being convinced you sent an e-mail on Monday when in fact it was sent on Tuesday, having proof in black and white that you changed your theatre reservations but no memory of doing so . . .

Sophie explains it all to Valérie. Things have been escalating slowly. So far, she has not said anything to Vincent. But if this carries on, she will have to.

She is having trouble sleeping. In their bathroom I found a “herbal remedy” to help her sleep, the sort of thing a girl would buy. She bought a syrup rather than tablets, one tablespoon at night before going to bed. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly.

November 8

I went to the head offices of Percy’s yesterday. Sophie had the day off. She and Vincent had set out in the car early in the morning.

Pretending to be interested in a forthcoming auction, I flirted with the receptionist.

My strategy is simple: statistically, there are more women in the world than men. More specifically, the ideal prey is a single woman with no children, aged between thirty-five and forty.

The receptionist is overweight, chubby-cheeked and wears too much perfume, there is no ring on her finger and she is instantly won over by my smile (and by a few stupid and gratuitous remarks about some of the contemporary artwork in the auction catalogue). I know I will have to play it safe, but I think I may have found just the person I’m looking for. As long as she knows Sophie reasonably well. If not, she might unknowingly point me in the direction of a better candidate.

November 12

The
internet is a vast market run by killers and degenerates. You can find anything there: guns, drugs, women, kids, anything that takes your fancy. It’s simply a matter of having the patience and the means. I have both. So eventually I found what I was looking for. It cost a small fortune, that was no problem, but having to wait almost two months for delivery was driving me insane. It doesn’t matter now, the package has finally arrived from the States, a hundred little pink capsules. I tested the product, and it is perfect: completely odourless and tasteless. It was originally devised as a revolutionary anti-obesity drug. In the early 2000s, the pharmaceutical company sold the tablets in their thousands, chiefly to women. It had everything going for it: in terms of weight loss, it was unrivalled. But the drug also turned out to have an excitatory effect on monoamine oxidase, an enzyme that destroys certain neurotransmitters in the brain: what had been developed as a weight-loss drug was also a “depressant”. The side effects quickly became evident from the level of suicides. In the greatest democracy in the world, the pharmaceutical company had no problem hushing up the scandal. A class-action lawsuit was circumvented using the most powerful judicial inhibitor: the chequebook. The formula is simple: the greater the resistance, the more zeroes you add. Nothing can resist that. The drug was taken off the market, but it was impossible for the company to recall the thousands of boxes of capsules already sold, which instantly began to be trafficked to the world at large via the internet. You could not make it up: this thing is a veritable anti-personnel mine, and yet people are desperate to get their hands on it. There are thousands of women out there who would rather be dead than fat.