The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (9 page)

As they sat, blithely wittering about their future together, Manfred's stomach was churning. He had no idea how to initiate such a thing. Thus, he had decided that he would trust to fate – if it happened, it was because it was meant to happen. If it didn't, so be it. He also placed his faith in the fact that ever since he had met Juliette, their thoughts and feelings had wholly coincided. Was it not almost certain therefore that she had lain alone on her bed the previous night having entirely the same thoughts as he had? Was it, moreover, not inevitable that she had shared the same thoughts? Perhaps she had brought the cider along with the intention of easing their passage into adulthood.

They finished the first bottle. Manfred felt it go to his head. He broke off a chunk of bread and chewed on it to alleviate the mild nausea he felt. Juliette, seemingly oblivious to the effects, flipped open the stopper of the second bottle and handed it to
Manfred. A little sun filtered down to the forest floor. The soft blonde hairs on Juliette's arm shone as she passed the bottle to him. She let out a small hiccup and covered her mouth with her free hand, giggling a little. This display of tipsiness reassured Manfred.

The time came for Juliette to leave. Manfred was gripped by fear. It was now or never. He grasped Juliette's wrist gently and said her name. She moved her face towards his as if she had been waiting for this invitation. Their mouths met, clumsily at first. Juliette manoeuvred her body so that her face was perpendicular to his. She pushed the tip of her tongue between Manfred's lips. Her hand clasped his neck. Manfred's mind soared off into the trees. He had no idea that such intensity was possible. Soon they were lying next to each other. Manfred's left hand rested on Juliette's hip. Did he dare to slide it down and feel the curve of her buttock under her dress? He did so, his fingertips alive to the grain of the cotton.

Emboldened, Manfred drew his lips down to her neck. Juliette held his head tightly there, her breath quickening. Manfred ran his tongue to the junction of her neck and shoulder. With her free hand, Juliette unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, took Manfred's hand in hers and pressed it onto her breast. Manfred cupped the soft flesh in his palm. Her nipple was firm between his fingers.

Manfred had not counted on such a rapid progress. He had only the sketchiest idea of what was expected of him. The thought of disappointing Juliette appalled him, but they were on the brink of something momentous. There was no choice but to go through with it. Juliette moaned softly as he caressed her breast. Her eyes were closed. Manfred manoeuvred himself on top of her and continued to kiss her on the neck. Then as quickly as it had begun, Juliette gripped his wrist and said, ‘Let's not. Not now.'

Manfred simultaneously felt a wave of relief and a feeling that it was too late to stop, as if he was the driver of a locomotive spotting a car on a level crossing only a few metres ahead.

‘Yes, of course,' he heard himself saying, but as he said it he ground his groin against her. He recalled how his mother had described her feeling of being overpowered by her father as he kissed against a tree in this same forest all these years before. He had his hands on Juliette's neck. He could not now prevent himself from coming and as he did so he raised himself to see Juliette's face. Her eyes were bulging. Her body convulsed beneath him, heightening his passion. Then they both went limp. Manfred felt suddenly ashamed. He rolled off and lay next to Juliette waiting for his breathing to settle, staring at the branches of the trees shimmering above them.

He took Juliette's hand in his.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘I couldn't stop myself.'

She didn't reply. Manfred raised himself onto his elbow. Juliette's head lay slackly to one side. Her mouth and eyes were open. She was not breathing.

Manfred stared at her blankly for a few long moments. Then he nudged her arm. She didn't react. He placed his hand on her heart. It was not beating. Manfred leapt to his feet, his hand over his mouth. He felt himself gasping for breath then he threw up, turning his head away from the rug. He retched until there was nothing more in his stomach. He sat there on his knees for a long time, or what seemed like a long time. Perhaps it was no more than a minute. What he remembered most was the horrible look of disbelief and betrayal frozen on Juliette's face.

Manfred got up from his knees. He surveyed the surrounding trees. Nobody had seen them and there had been nothing to hear. If Juliette had only cried out, he would have stopped. He had not been aware of what he was doing. Manfred realised that what he was about to do was dreadful, but he braced himself to go through with it. He cleared the two bottles off the rug and put them in his knapsack. Then he picked up the apple cores they had left on the ground, the end of a baguette, the wax paper wrapper of the pâté and the knife they had used to spread it. Next he grasped the corner of the rug and tugged it hard. Juliette's
body rolled slowly off it into an ungainly heap. Her face was pressed against the ground and her dress was rumpled around her waist. Manfred pulled it down over her buttocks. Tears were streaming down his face, but he surveyed the clearing for any other debris. He scuffed the thin pool of his vomit into the earth and slowly backed out, unable to take his eyes off the wreckage of Juliette's body. Then he turned and ran through the trees.

T
HE WOMAN WAS STANDING
by the bank of metal mailboxes in the foyer, leafing through her post. Manfred was leaving for work as he always did at 8.15. She was wearing a grey business suit and the blouse he had found in the laundry room. Manfred felt pleased by this, as if it was a gift he had given her and she was wearing it to please him. Manfred normally collected his mail in the evening when he returned from work, but he stopped and unlocked his box. There was never anything of interest in there and there was no wastepaper basket in the lobby to discard junk mail, which meant either stuffing it into his briefcase and disposing of it at work or carrying it in his hand to the litter bin in the street. The woman looked up from her mail and said good morning. She did not seem displeased to see him. She smiled. There were laughter lines around her eyes.

‘Oh, good morning,' Manfred said, trying to appear as if he had only just noticed her.

‘How are you?' she said.

‘Well,' said Manfred. ‘And you?'

The woman shrugged, widened her eyes slightly, as if the answer to Manfred's question was self-evident. Manfred reached into his box and retrieved a handful of pamphlets. There was a pet product catalogue along with leaflets advertising offers at local supermarkets.

‘The usual,' he said.

The woman proffered her own bundle in a show of solidarity. ‘I can't believe they think anyone actually looks at this stuff,' she said.

‘Actually,' said Manfred, ‘studies have shown that direct mailings are by far the most effective form of advertising. In comparison, television or radio commercials are rather inefficient. Mail-outs can be much more easily directed at the target market. They're cheap and can be easily adapted to local communities.'

The woman raised her eyebrows, rolled her eyes slightly. ‘Quite the smooth talker, aren't you, Manfred Baumann?' Manfred could feel his cheeks colouring. Despite the woman's sardonic tone, he was pleased that she remembered his name.

‘I wouldn't say that,' he said.

‘Actually, I owe you an apology,' she said. ‘I was very rude when we met before and didn't introduce myself.' She held out her hand. ‘Alice Tarrou.'

Manfred stuffed his mail back into his box and took her hand. ‘Manfred Baumann,' he said.

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I know.'

They moved towards the entrance of the building. Manfred held the door open for her. Alice indicated that she was walking in the opposite direction from town. Without thinking, Manfred accompanied her. It was sunny and there was the characteristic freshness in the air of the time of year. The grass verge that separated the apartment block from the main road glistened with dew. Manfred commented that it was a pleasant morning and Alice agreed. They walked in silence for a few steps. The heels of Alice's shoes clacked on the pavement. Manfred glanced up at the windows above them. Anyone who happened to see them together might assume that they were husband and wife, or at least that they had spent the night together. It was quite thrilling. He pictured them sitting at the table in his kitchen; Alice, hair dishevelled, bundled in his robe eating a croissant, a pot of coffee bubbling on the hob. Manfred stole a look at her out of the corner of his eye.

‘You're wearing the blouse,' he commented.

‘So I am,' said Alice. She glanced at him.

Manfred wondered if he should pay her a compliment. He was not in the habit of making personal comments to women.

‘It's nice,' he said.

Alice smiled. ‘Thank you.'

They had reached the end of the block. Alice turned left and doubled back around the building. Manfred followed her.

‘Is your car round here?' Alice asked.

‘No,' said Manfred. ‘I don't drive.' He had never seen any reason to learn.

‘Gosh,' she said.

She asked where he worked and Manfred told her. Alice looked puzzled. He was walking in the opposite direction from the bank.

‘I have a meeting in Strasbourg this morning,' he said. ‘I'm taking the train.'

Alice nodded. ‘Ah,' she said. Manfred was pleased. The idea that he had a meeting in Strasbourg seemed to have impressed her. Then he was gripped by a fear that she would say that she too was on her way to Strasbourg and would offer him a lift. What plausible reason would there be to refuse? He would have to say that he was car-sick and preferred to take the train. That would make him appear feeble, however. Car-sickness was not the sort of thing a man who travelled to Strasbourg for business meetings would suffer from. In any case, what if Alice offered him a lift on another occasion, perhaps to drive to a country inn on Sunday afternoon? He would have to pretend that there was some medication he could take in advance in order to facilitate such a trip. It was in fact true that Manfred did not enjoy travelling by car. He suspected it brought on the migraines from which he suffered periodically.

Alice came to a halt next to a small silver sports car. It had a roof that could be taken down. She fished in her bag for the key.

‘You don't seem like a bank manager,' she said. Manfred was not sure what she was suggesting by this, but imagined she did
not mean it negatively. People usually thought of bank mangers as officious, older men, old-fashioned in their appearance.

‘Thank you,' he said.

Alice laughed. ‘You're welcome.'

She unlocked the driver's side door and tossed her bag on to the passenger seat. She climbed into the car and put the key in the ignition. She did not offer him a lift. Manfred stood on the pavement, unable to think how to end the encounter. Alice closed the door and wound the window down.

‘We should have that coffee some time,' she said.

‘Assuredly,' he said, immediately regretting his ridiculous choice of word.

‘How about tomorrow?'

‘Tomorrow?' Manfred repeated.

‘Why not?' said Alice. ‘Are you busy?'

Manfred shook his head. He wondered if he would be missed at the Restaurant de la Cloche.

‘Why don't we make it dinner?' said Alice. She suggested a restaurant. ‘Seven?' she said.

Manfred nodded dumbly. She fired the engine and drove off. Manfred waved. Then he continued through the car park, past the children's play park and exited on the opposite side, in the direction of the railway station. He looked at his watch. It was 8.25. He had spent less than ten minutes in Alice's company. He walked purposefully into the station. He could not risk the possibility of Alice seeing him on Rue de Mulhouse. He liked to arrive early at the bank, but what of it if he was a few minutes late? Mlle Givskov had keys and was authorised to open the premises. He would still arrive by the time the bank opened to the public at nine o'clock. He headed through the underpass to the platform where the trains for Strasbourg departed. He contemplated buying a ticket, but decided against it. Anyone observing him would assume that he had a weekly ticket or was making a return journey. In any case, it was possible to buy a ticket from the conductor on the train.

There were around twenty people on the platform. Most of them stood hunched over
L'Alsace,
a briefcase at their feet. Manfred did not recognise anyone and nobody so much as glanced in his direction. He placed his own briefcase at his feet and stood with his back to the red brick wall of the waiting room. A train pulled in. Nobody got off. The commuters boarded in an unhurried fashion. Manfred remained against the wall. A whistle blew from the end of the platform and the train pulled away. Manfred picked up his briefcase and took the stairs back down to the underpass. Anyone seeing him leave the platform would assume he had disembarked from the train that had just left. He felt quite pleased with himself. He took the back way along Avenue de la Marne to the bank and arrived just as Mlle Givskov was opening up.

The morning passed swiftly. There was no further talk among the staff of the missing girl, at least not within Manfred's hearing. Manfred greeted Carolyn cheerfully when she brought in his mid-morning coffee and successfully engaged in small talk. The girl seemed pleased to have the opportunity to pass a few amiable moments with her boss. Manfred ploughed through a backlog of loan reviews and applications. Decisions he had been putting off for days now seemed straightforward. If a person defaulted on their loan, it was their responsibility, not his. The bank could not be expected to throw money away willy-nilly.

By twelve o'clock Manfred had cleared so much work he decided to take his lunch early. If he bumped into Alice, it was perfectly plausible that he could have had his meeting in Strasbourg and returned by this time. The air was clear and Saint-Louis seemed to have shaken off some of its drabness. Manfred passed the little park at the Protestant Temple. Two old women were sitting on a bench with bags of shopping at their feet. They did not look up as Manfred passed. As he had some time on his hands, he decided to take a walk to the Rhine before he had lunch. He walked briskly, working up a light sweat on his brow. These last few months he had noticed a thickening around his
midriff. If he weren't careful, he would end up like Lemerre. As he strode along he twice thought he spotted Alice, but on both occasions it was just a woman dressed in a similar fashion. Most likely she did not work in Saint-Louis. Nevertheless, he found himself hoping to bump into her or even spot her driving past in her little sports car.

Manfred half-expected Gorski to be waiting for him at the Restaurant de la Cloche, sitting at his table with his raincoat folded on his lap, nursing a glass of wine. The prospect did not worry him. Yes, he had behaved foolishly, but Gorski had no way of knowing he had lied. If he had any evidence to back up his insinuations, he would have questioned him formally. It would all blow over in a few days.