The Madonna of Notre Dame (21 page)

“Sacristan to guard, sacristan to guard. Mourad, can you hear me?”

“Yes, Gérard, I’m listening.”

“Where are you now?”

“By the entrance.”

“Could you come and see me, please?”

“What’s it about, Gérard?”

“Do you know how to operate the audiovisual control room?”

“Say that again. It’s noisy here.”

“Do you know how to operate the audiovisual control room?”

“The audiovisual control room? What for?”

“It’s Father Kern. He’d like to see the recording of the Mass last Sunday night again. Would you be able to find it on the computers?”

“Tell Father Kern I’m on my way. I’m just going to get the Chinese group behind me to shut up and I’ll be right over.”

They met at the entrance to the ambulatory and together climbed the dozen or so steps that led to the control room. Mourad sat down in front of the control panel and switched on the computers, the screens, and the editing console while Father Kern took a seat next to him. From this mezzanine floor above the sacristy, it was possible to control all the automatic cameras distributed throughout the nave, and to broadcast the Sunday evening masses live. The Mass of the Assumption was no exception and Mourad, who was handling the system confidently, opened the relevant file. Father Kern watched him, filled with wonder.

“Someday, Mourad, you must tell me where you get your talent for anything related to computers.”

“I’ve always been interested. You know, Father, it’s simply a question of not letting yourself be intimidated by them. These machines are like big toys. You shouldn’t be afraid to try them. The worst that can happen is that you have to switch everything off and start again. Sometimes I do the odd favor, like carry out an urgent repair during the big masses. Sometimes, the automatic cameras get jammed in the wooden cases, so I take them out and put them back in. I take them apart and put them back together again. I check if anything’s come unplugged. I like this stuff. The other day, I even did some technical work for the police. It’s thanks to the cameras that we caught that poor kid.”

“Yes, I know, Mourad.”

“You want to see last Sunday evening’s Mass again, right, Father?”

“Yes.”

“But weren’t you there?”

“Yes, I was, but my eyes and my memory can never take the place of all these cameras fixed in the nave. They might have seen something that escaped me.”

“Tell me, Father, you’re not aiming for a second career as a policeman, are you?”

“A policeman? Good God, no. I’m just interested in the justice system. It’s like you with computers. You mustn’t be afraid of trying. You and I make the perfect team, Mourad.”

The guard had started playing a long sequence that had been broadcast live five days earlier on the Catholic TV channel KTO.

“What exactly are you looking for, Father?”

“I’ll let you know when I find it. Right now I have absolutely no idea.”

On the screen, the large procession at the beginning of the Mass was leaving the square and entering into the cathedral, which was heaving with people. The great Notre Dame organs were rumbling like thunder, while the choir of the Music School could be heard from the chancel. In the central aisle, a string of teenagers brandishing embroidered banners were walking in front of the silver statue of the Virgin Mary, carried by the Knights of the Holy Sepulcher. There followed the long cohort of Notre Dame priests. The procession reached the podium and the fifteen clerics split at the transept crossing, at the bottom of the three steps, while the auxiliary bishop of Paris, in the absence of the Cardinal Archbishop, intoned a litany of four Hail Marys before the altar. Monsignor Rieux Le Molay evoked the memory of the French kings: “Let us renew before the statue of the Pietà,
commissioned by King Louis XIII, the oath of consecration of France to the Virgin Mary, an oath made by the selfsame king on February 10th, 1638. We declared and still declare that, by accepting the most holy and glorious Virgin Mary to be the special patroness of our kingdom, we consecrate to her ourselves, our kingdom, our crown, and our subjects, and beseech her to inspire holy conduct in us, and to defend with equal dedication the kingdom from its enemies.”

Father Kern was fidgeting in his chair. Sometimes, the cameras would ignore the altar and sweep across the dense crowd of worshippers. Kern studied the screen and searched again through his recollections, hoping that seeing these images would dig up fleeting impressions registered that evening during the Mass, then stored away deep in his memory. However, nothing was surfacing, nothing connected with the murder that, a few hours later, would stain the cathedral. On the monitor, the rector, Monsignor de Bracy, came to read from the Book of Revelation. It was a passage about a woman with the sun for a cloak, the moon at her feet, a crown of twelve stars on her head, pregnant and suffering birthing pains. A fiery red dragon with seven heads and ten horns was trying to snatch her child away from her as soon as he was born, in order to devour it. However, the woman finally gave birth to a male child who would become the shepherd of all the nations, and lead them with a scepter of iron.

They read one of Saint Paul’s Epistles to the Corinthians, then the auxiliary bishop climbed the pulpit and read a passage from the Gospel of Saint Luke featuring Elizabeth and Mary. Then the homily began. The prelate encouraged his flock not to let their fervor weaken, and to follow Mary in their internal struggle against the modern world.

Father Kern’s fidgeting increased. At the end of the sermon, the camera swept over the congregation and Mourad pointed at
the corner of the screen. “Look, Father, there she is. The girl in white, sitting in the front row, off to the side, legs crossed. Do you recognize her?”

“Yes, it’s her. I remember noticing her that evening. I think as we all went up to the podium one after the other, we must all have glanced at her. Of course we remembered that afternoon’s incident. I was surprised to still see her there but then my attention got absorbed by the Mass.”

On the screen, they were slowly moving toward Communion. The priests had gathered around their bishop, around the bronze altar, where the chalice and as many cups as there were priests to give Communion were placed. Monsignor Rieux Le Molay raised his hands and said, “Let us pray, as we offer the sacrifice of the whole Church.”

Mourad was growing impatient. That day, he’d attended five masses in his role as guard. He’d also already gone through this solemn celebration of the Assumption. Besides, he could see himself on and off in the footage, standing in the south transept, making sure people were quiet, dissuading tourists from using flash photography, keeping a constant eye on the podium in the unlikely event some lunatic would decide to attack the prelate celebrating the Mass.

At last, the circle around the bishop broke up. Some of them, including Father Kern, went into the nave, each holding a cup full of hosts in his left hand, in order to give Communion to the crowd of faithful at the back, while others came down to the bottom step of the podium and let the worshippers in the front rows approach. Mourad saw himself on the screen, organizing as many lines as there were officiating priests. Monsignor Rieux Le Molay was standing in the center of the row, with four priests on his left and five on his right, including the rector, Monsignor de Bracy. Communion had started. Each celebrant would raise
the host in the air, then present it to the worshipper in front of him. On their lips, Father Kern could guess the words, as though repeated ad infinitum, which he himself had uttered many times throughout his life, “The body of Christ. The body of Christ. The body of Christ.”

The cameras were filming the sacrament from every angle, sometimes wide shots, sometimes in close-up, sometimes in profile, other times head-on. The rows of chairs were gradually emptying then filling up again, keeping pace with the progression before the podium.

“She doesn’t seem to want to go up for Communion, Father.”

“So it would seem, Mourad. She hasn’t stood up yet.”

The lines of worshippers were already breaking up. In some shots, you could see the priests who’d gone to the back of the nave returning to the chancel. Mass was coming to an end. Finally, she stood up in that white outfit that seemed to attract the light, and walked the few paces that separated her from the steps. The shots succeeded one another rapidly and Kern was suddenly worried that, at the fateful moment, a more distant camera would be chosen and would pick the worst possible time to focus on the Pietà, the north stained glass window, or the great organ.

“Assuming we see her take Communion, which priest do you think she’s going to choose, Mourad?”

As though by miracle, the camera seemed to linger on the last communicants. Kern sat at the very edge of his seat. From where he was, the faces on the screen looked made of pink and ochre pixels. The young woman in white made her choice and went to stand at the foot of the podium. Her lips moved, then those of the priest opposite whom she was standing. Then the latter placed the host on the tip of her tongue.

Kern sank back in his chair and, for the first time for nearly
an hour, looked away from the monitor. He put his hand on the guard’s arm and spoke only after a long silence. “Thank you very much, Mourad. Thank you for your time.”

“Don’t you want to see the end, Father?”

“You can switch off the machine, Mourad. I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

The mule watches them enter the village, as though indifferent, bored, used to the recurrent presence of armed men in camouflage uniforms, communicating in gestures or whispers. They advance between the clay walls, cautious, vigilant, submachine guns in ready position. They pop their heads through the mechtas, cast inspecting glances inside, the barrel of the gun following exactly the movement of their eyes, as though the weapon had become much more than a metal extension of their arms—an integral part of their bodies. So far, they’ve inspected only empty shacks: no furniture, no food, no clothes, and no people. So far, they haven’t found a living soul in the village, except for the mule.

The sergeant takes it by the bridle and pulls it behind him. At first, the animal refuses to budge, not recognizing its master, resisting with the stubbornness and distrust typical of its breed the noncommissioned officer who’s hoping to drag it to the bottom of the village. The sergeant has to pat its neck before the animal makes up its mind to follow with its heavy, irregular step. The sergeant, who comes from a family of stock breeders, feels respect and perhaps even love for animals, just as he does for weapons and machinery.

Now the sergeant is walking at the head of his men, the mule on his left and the second lieutenant on his right, like a kind of smalltime emperor entering a conquered land in search of the first subject to enslave. It’s at the bend of the sixth mechta, where the path follows a slight recess in the ground, that they find the old man sitting on his heels, a bit out of the way, in the shadow of a wall, already trying to shield himself from the sun that’s still low on the horizon. The sergeant signals the rest of the paratroopers to halt, squints at the old man, and sends four soldiers to inspect the last two houses.

The sergeant goes up to the grandfather and, as the latter stands up at the soldier’s approach, puts the bridle in his hand. “Is this your mule?”

The old man looks as though he doesn’t understand. The sergeant turns to one of the Harkis among the paratroopers, who translates right away. The old man first hesitates then responds affirmatively.

“Is this your mule?”

The old man nods to confirm.

“What about the girl in there? Yours, too? Who’s that girl? Your daughter? Your granddaughter?”

The second lieutenant follows with his eyes the gesture his sergeant has just made toward the nearest house. As the minutes lapse, the sun becomes increasingly blinding. It repaints the loam walls with a golden light, plunging the inside of the shacks into darkness in contrast. The second lieutenant crosses the distance separating him from the entrance, looks inside, and allows his eyes to get used to the half-light. He makes out the outline of a white dress with patterns, flowers perhaps, two bare feet on the earthen floor, hair tucked into a scarf that goes around the back of the neck and is tied in front, with a few black strands escaping. The girl is crouching, her face looking up at the shape of the officer outlined in the doorway. She has her hands over a dish on the ground. Her fingers are still covered in the semolina paste she’s been mixing. The windowless little room smells of olive oil and sweat.

“Does your granddaughter cook well? Make cakes? Make arhlum? She makes some for all the men, right?”

The old man nods.

“Are you both from here? From the village? Is this your house, grandfather?”

The old man nods.

“You know this village is forbidden? You know you can’t be here? This area is off-limits. You have to go back to the group camp, do you understand?”