First Blood (44 page)

He stood up when the nurse entered the room. She carried a tray with some puree, yogurt, and half a dozen capsules and pills in poisonous colors. She set it down in front of Madeleine.

“I’ll be back in two weeks,” he said. His voice sounded hesitant. “And I’m sure I’ll have good news.”

His client did not pay any attention but picked up the plastic glass full of water and mechanically swallowed the pills.

The man sighed, greeting the nurse as he walked to the door and knocked to be let out. He did not realize that Madeleine, in her ghostly detachment, was watching him carefully as he left the room.

Then she looked at the nurse. A reflection glimmered in her eyes.

“You took all your pills now, didn’t you, Mrs. Reich?” the woman in uniform asked. “Show me.”

Madeleine opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue.

Madeleine heard the keys turn in the lock.

Then she listened to the wheels of a cart creak in the hallway. The nurse was going to take the multicolored poisons to other patients.

It was only after total silence had returned that her eyes became active again. Her pupils dilated.

Madeleine leaned over the table, stuck her hand in her mouth and spit out the pills she had pretended to take.

Then, she threw them in the toilet.

Maybe it did not change much, but she did not want their drugs in her body.

On the bathroom wall, there was a mirror behind a film of acrylic. Madeleine approached it and looked at her reflection. It was a reflection of a woman she did not recognize. With her bald head and scarred face, how could she feel anything but disgust? She focused on the eyes. She dove into them. Her gaze was the only real opportunity for escape that she still had. When she had stared long enough at her entirely dilated pupils, when she finally had the impression to be deep inside them, to be surrounded by their darkness, then the suffering grinding away at her bones and muscles seemed to soften a little bit.

So she stayed like that. Seeking forgetfulness. A little more forgetfulness every day.

Her mouth was slightly open and shiny with saliva.

That was all there was.

By gazing into this mirror for as long as it took, by disregarding the cinder-block walls they called a room, she managed to see something else. It looked like a shape. Far away. So far from her.

She saw a young woman who still had a mane of white curly hair, a woman who was free.

A woman whom she so envied.

Eva started.

For an instant, she had the impression that someone was leaning over her, running a hand through her hair.

She thought she had dreamed it.

In recent weeks, waking dreams had surprised her more often than usual.

It had to be fatigue, which was becoming harder and harder to ignore.

And she had cramps.

They were new. At first, they had worried her.

She got up from the sofa, where she had spent too much time lounging. The afternoon was coming to a close. The wood floor in her apartment was bathed in the red blaze of dusk.

Seven twenty.
Alexandre must be getting ready to board the plane. She knew now that she would be counting every minute until he arrived. That was something she would never admit to him, of course. But deep down, she secretly savored this feeling of waiting. She already imagined his strong, reassuring arms around her. She recalled the smell of his skin. She thought about how he was staying longer than usual, not just the weekend, but three full days. She planned to take Monday off to be with him. Everything was ready. They would probably stay here. They would order takeout. They would make love. They would talk. A little. They would make love again. And she would feel good. For a few days, for a few hours, before he left again.

She had never felt this kind of thing for anyone else. And that thought made her quiver.

She looked out the window in her living room at the park across the street.

The grass was green again. The plum trees were blooming, forming diaphanous red and pink clumps, like dashes of bright paint on the gray city.

Eva could not repress a vague feeling of fear. Deep inside her.

A slight heat rose in her chest. The nausea was never far away. It was bearable.

She placed a hand gently on her belly.

She had once considered this gesture a stupid cliché when she saw others do it. She had made fun of them. She had always imagined that she would be different and less predictable the day it happened to her. She was not.

She had to announce the news to Alexandre. This weekend. She couldn’t wait any longer. The problem was, she did not know how to tell him. She had always been unable to open up.

One of her numerous fears.

But fears were made to be faced.

The only thing that mattered was to keep Alexandre from those anxieties, from all those doubts that hung on her like old spider webs. She knew he asked questions and that he worried about her sometimes. Yet there was no way she was going to talk to him about her dreams. He could never find out about the images that assailed her. The pointy teeth reaching for her neck.

Not the same blood.

She could not change anything about what had already happened. But she could heal the wounds of the past.

And she could change the future.

She knew that she could.

She was ready.

She turned her back to the blazing dusk and looked at the clock to see how long it would be until he was there.

Time that eateth his children hath no power on them that would not be children of Time.

—Aleister Crowley

There are some people who, for different reasons, made this book what it is today, and I would like to thank them here from the bottom of my heart.

The first of these is my companion, Orlanda, the light of my nights, my first reader.

My bubbling and incredible family, certainly, with a wink to my grandfather Jojo and to memories of Montréjeau.

My gratitude goes to the French publishing team at Pré aux Clercs, and particularly to Isabelle for her friendship, patience, and skill. A big thank you also goes to Laurent and to Valérie, at Pocket, who made an old teenager’s dreams come true.

For various, very important reasons, thank you to Eva, queen of the camera, and to David, the coolest cop ever, and to Robert for the ride with flashing lights on. And thank you to Naamah and to Ariane, Jean-Marc, Julie, Cricri, Matthias and Ralph. Special thoughts go to Coyote, my Jedi brother, who knows that magic exists.

Indirectly, I have to thank certain musicians whose work cradled my writing and influenced it to one degree or another: Behemoth, Moonspell, Nick Cave, Doro Pesch, and David Lynch.

I would also like to thank Olivier, Caroline and the entire Wavrin Ruche aux Livres team, for their support and kindness.

Also, I would like to mention Hervé, Fabrice, Clémentine and the legendary Bikini family, who have the best rock club in all of France.

My final thanks go to all you readers, who hold this book in their hands. Without you, it wouldn’t have much meaning, would it?

Toulouse, January 12, 2012

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Le Pré aux clercs, a division of Place de Éditeurs, 2012
First published in France as
Le premier sang
Translation arranged by Le French Book

Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

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