Blood Wedding (6 page)

“Where do your parents live? I can drop you off. I’ve got a car.”

“No, I’ll be fine, honestly, but thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

“That’s very sweet of you, but it’s really not necessary.” She says this in a sharp tone and for a moment they are both silent.

“Are they expecting you? Maybe you should give them a call.”

“Oh,
no!”

She has answered too quickly: be calm, composed, take your time, Sophie, don’t just say anything . . .

“The thing is, I wasn’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Véronique says, stubbing out her cigarette. “Have you eaten?”

This is the last thing on her mind.

“No, not yet.”

She glances at the clock on the wall: 1.40 p.m.

“Maybe I could invite you for lunch? My way of saying sorry. For the suitcase. I only live round the corner . . . I don’t have much, but there’s bound to be something in the fridge.”

Remember, Sophie, do things you have never done before. Go where no-one will expect to find you.

“Why not?” she says.

They smile. Véronique pays for the coffees. On the way, Sophie stops to buy two packs of cigarettes and catches her up.

Boulevard Diderot. Elegant buildings. They have been walking side by side, making small talk. No sooner do they reach Véronique’s building than Sophie is regretting her decision. She should have said no, she should have walked away. By now she should be a long way from Paris, heading in some unexpected direction. She accepted because she was weak, because she was tired. She follows Véronique automatically, stepping into the lobby of the building, allowing herself to be led like a casual guest. Into the lift. Véronique presses the button for the fourth floor, the lift jolts, creaks and sways, but it moves steadily upward and comes to a juddering halt. Véronique smiles.

“It’s not exactly a palace,” she says as she delves into her handbag for her keys.

It
may not be a palace, but stepping inside, it reeks of the moneyed middle class. It is a huge apartment. The living room is vast, framed by two windows. To the right, a russet leather sofa and armchair, to the left a baby grand piano, on the back wall a floor-to-ceiling bookcase.

“Come in, please . . .”

Sophie steps across the threshold as though into a museum. The décor, she immediately thinks, is like a variation in a minor key of the Gervais’ apartment on rue Molière, where at this very moment . . .

Instinctively, she looks around to find out the time and sees a small ormolu clock on the mantel of the fireplace in the corner: 1.50 p.m.

As soon as they arrived, Véronique hurried into the kitchen, suddenly animated. Sophie can hear her talking and answers distractedly as she studies the apartment. Her eyes flick back to the carriage clock. Time seems to have stood still. She takes a deep breath. Be wary in your answers, mumble the occasional “Yes, of course . . .”, try to gather your thoughts. It is as though she has woken from a night of restless sleep to find herself in a place she does not recognise. Véronique busies herself, babbling excitedly, opening cupboards, programming the microwave, slamming the door of the fridge, laying the table.

“Can I help with anything?” Sophie says.

“No, no.”

The perfect hostess. In a few short minutes, the table is laid with a salad, a bottle of wine, a fresh baguette (“Actually, it’s yesterday’s”, “It’ll be fine”) which she carefully cuts with a bread knife.

“So, you’re a translator . . .”

Sophie
has been trying to think of a topic for conversation. She need not have bothered. Now that she is at home, Véronique is very chatty.

“English and Russian. My mother is Russian, which helps.”

“So, what do you translate? Novels?”

“I wish. No, I do more technical stuff, letters, brochures, that sort of thing.”

The conversation meanders, they talk about work, about family. Sophie invents relations, colleagues, a family, a beautiful, brand-new life, taking care to keep it as far from reality as possible.

“What about your parents, where did you say they lived?” Véronique says.

“Chilly-Mazarin.”

She blurts out the name, she does not know where it came from.

“What do they do?”

“I persuaded them to retire.”

Véronique has uncorked the wine, she serves a fricassée of vegetables with lardons.

“I should warn you: it’s cooked from frozen.”

Sophie realises that she is ravenous. She eats and eats. The wine gives her a woozy feeling of well-being. Thankfully, Véronique is very talkative. She sticks to small talk, mainly, but she has a talent for conversation, mixing everyday details with little anecdotes. As she eats, Sophie picks up information about her parents, her education, a younger brother, a recent trip to Scotland. After a while, the flow trickles, then stops.

“Married?” Véronique asks, gesturing to Sophie’s right hand.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

“Past tense.”

“But
you still wear it?”

Remember to take off the ring.

“Habit, I suppose,” Sophie improvises. “What about you?”

“I was all set to get the habit.”

She says this with an awkward smile, hoping to forge a sisterly bond. In other circumstances, maybe, Sophie thinks. But not here.

“But?”

“It didn’t work out, but who knows . . .”

Véronique brings out a platter of cheeses. For someone with nothing in the fridge . . .

“So you live on your own?”

Véronique hesitates.

“Yes.” She bows her head over her plate, then raises it and looks Sophie in the eye almost defiantly. “Only since last Monday. It’s still a bit raw.”

“Oh.”

All Sophie knows is that she does not want to know. Does not want to get involved. She wants to finish her lunch and go. She does not feel well. She needs to leave.

“These things happen,” she says inanely.

“Yes.”

They talk a little longer, but something in the conversation is broken. A small, private grief has come between them.

Then the telephone rings out in the hall.

Véronique turns towards the hall as though expecting someone to appear. She sighs. The telephone rings once, twice. She apologises, stands, and goes to answer it.

Sophie drains her glass of wine, pours another, stares out of the window. Although Véronique has closed the door behind her, her muted voice is still audible. An awkward situation. Were
Véronique not in the hallway, Sophie would grab her jacket and leave right now, without a word, like a thief. She can make out a few words and, without meaning to, pieces together the conversation.

Véronique’s voice is grave and harsh.

Sophie gets up, takes a few steps away from the door but it makes no difference, Véronique’s words are so clear now that she might as well be in the same room. The terrible words of a banal break-up. Sophie is not interested in this woman’s life. (“It’s over, I told you: I’m through with you.”) Sophie does not care about this failed relationship. She moves to the window. (“We’ve been through this a hundred times, let’s not rake over it again.”) On her left, there is a little writing desk. An idea begins to form in her mind. She cocks her ear to listen to the conversation. It’s got to the point of “For Christ’s sake, just leave me alone”, she still has a little time, she pulls down the central panel of the writing desk and finds two rows of drawers. “Save your breath. I don’t fall for that kind of emotional blackmail.” In the second drawer she finds a few 200-euro notes. Four of them. She stuffs them into her pocket and goes on searching. Her fingers (“I suppose you think that’s going to upset me?”) locate the stiff cover of a passport. She flicks it open but postpones examining it until later. She slips it into her pocket. She picks up a half-used chequebook and a driving licence. By the time she has reached the sofa and crammed everything into the inside pocket of her jacket, she hears: “Sad loser!” Then there is “A pathetic excuse for a man!” and finally “Scumbag”.

The receiver is brutally slammed down. Silence. Véronique stays in the hall. Sophie tries to look suitably casual, laying one hand on her jacket.

Finally Véronique reappears. She apologises clumsily, tries to smile.

“I’m
so sorry, you must have felt . . . I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sophie says, quickly adding, “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, don’t,” Véronique says. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“I really ought to get going.”

“It’ll only take a minute, really.”

Véronique wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, attempts another smile.

“It’s so stupid . . .”

Sophie decides she will give herself fifteen minutes and then she will leave, regardless.

From the kitchen, Véronique says:

“He’s been calling me non-stop for the past three days. I’ve tried everything. I even unplugged the telephone, but that’s not very practical given that I work from home. And I can’t bear just letting it ring. So, from time to time I go out for a coffee. He’ll get bored in the end, but he’s a weird guy. Clingy, you know the type . . .”

She sets the cups on the coffee table in the living room.

Sophie realises that she has had too much wine. Everything has started to spin slowly, the posh middle-class apartment, Véronique, everything starts to blur and then Léo’s face, the carriage clock on the mantelpiece, the empty wine bottle on the table, the child’s bedroom as she steps inside, the huddled figure under the duvet, the clack of drawers opening and closing and the silence as terror takes hold. Objects dance in front of her eyes, she sees the passport she stuffed into her jacket. A wave washes over her, everything gradually goes dim, fading to black. From far away she can just hear Véronique’s voice asking: “Are you alright?” It seems to come from the bottom of a deep well, it echoes. Sophie feels her body go slack, then crumple and there is only darkness.
This is another scene she can remember perfectly. Even today, she could describe every last detail, even the wallpaper.

She wakes to find herself lying on the sofa, one foot dangling on the floor, she rubs her eyes, searching for a flicker of consciousness, now and then she tries to open them but feels something within her that resists, that wants to remain asleep, far from everything. She is so tired, so much has happened since this morning.

Eventually, she props herself up on one elbow, turns to face the room and slowly opens her eyes.

At the foot of the table Véronique’s body lies in a pool of blood.

Her first reaction is to drop the kitchen knife in her hand, it clatters ominously on the floor.

*

It is like a dream. She gets to her feet and staggers. Instinctively she tries to wipe her hand on her trousers, but the blood has already dried. She slips on the crimson pool slowly spreading across the floor, but manages to steady herself on the table at the last minute. She reels for a moment. She is drunk. Without realising, she has picked up her jacket and is trailing it behind her like a leash. Like the wire from a bedside lamp. Hugging the walls, she makes it to the hallway. Her bag is there. Once more, her eyes blur with tears, she snuffles. She crumples and sits down heavily. She buries her face in the jacket now wrapped around her arms. She feels something on her face. Raising her head she notices that she trailed her jacket through the blood and has just smeared it on her face . . . Wash your face before you leave, Sophie. Get up.

But she does not have the energy. It is all too much. She lies back on the ground, her head close to the front door, desperate to drift back to sleep, desperate to do anything but have to face this reality. She closes her eyes. Then suddenly, as though a pair of hands has
lifted her up by the shoulders . . . Even today she cannot say what happened, but she finds herself sitting up again, then standing. Staggering, but upright. She feels a brutal determination welling in her, something animal. She goes back into the living room. From where she is standing, she can see only Véronique’s legs, sprawled half under the table. She moves closer. The body is lying on its side, the face obscured by the hunched shoulders. Sophie comes closer still and leans down: the blouse is black with blood. There is a deep wound in the middle of the belly where the knife went in. The apartment is silent. She goes to the bedroom. These ten paces took all the energy she could muster and she sits on the corner of the bed. One wall of the room is lined with wardrobes. Hands on her knees, Sophie painfully shuffles over and opens the first door. There is enough here to clothe an entire orphanage. She and Véronique are about the same size. She opens the second door, the third, and finally finds a suitcase which she tosses, open, onto the bed. She chooses dresses because she does not have time to find tops that would go well with the skirts. She takes three pairs of well-worn jeans. The effort of doing something brings her back to life. Without even thinking, she picks out things that are most unlike her own style. Behind the last door, she finds drawers full of underwear. She puts a handful into the case. As for shoes, at a glance she can see that they range from horrid to hideous. She takes two of the ugliest pairs and a pair of trainers. Then she sits on the suitcase so that she can snap it shut, drags it into the hall and leaves it next to her bag. In the bathroom, she washes her face without looking at herself. Looking in the mirror she notices that the sleeve of her jacket is stained with blood and rips it off as though it were on fire. Back in the bedroom, she opens the wardrobe again, spends four seconds choosing a jacket, opting
for something bland in navy blue. In the time it takes to transfer the contents of her pockets to the jacket, she is standing in the hall, her ear pressed to the front door.

She can still picture herself clearly. Gingerly she opens the door, takes the suitcase in one hand, her handbag in the other, and leaves, taking the lift, her stomach heaving, her eyes now dry of tears, as though drained. Jesus, the suitcase feels heavy. Probably because she is so tired. A few steps and she is opening the door to the street, she is out on boulevard Diderot and turns left, away from the train station.