After the Crash (18 page)

On 7 November 1982, however, I was in Turkey once again. I had
been there for two weeks. I heard the news three days later from
Nazim. Mathilde de Carville had not even thought to warn me.
Pierre and Nicole Vitral had been the victims of an accident, in Le
Tréport, just before dawn on Sunday morning. Pierre never woke
up. Nicole was still hovering between life and death.

From our perspective in Istanbul, the story of an accident was
hard to believe. Was it just my profession warping my judgement,
or was there more to it than that? In my room at the Hotel Askoc, I
suddenly felt afraid. For the first time, I realised that continuing to
work on this case for the de Carvilles, for eighteen years of my life,
meant effectively losing those years . . . and possibly losing the years
that would remain to me afterwards.

Nation.
Marc looked up. Sweat was running down his back.
This was where he had to change trains.
He found himself on the platform, notebook in hand, hyperventilating. He walked over to the nearest bench, closed the notebook
and opened his backpack. He was in shock.

The seventh of November, 1982.
That date was stamped on his memory. He had read it so often
in the years since, engraved on his grandfather’s gravestone, because
he’d had nothing else to do while his grandmother stood there
weeping. She went to the cemetery every day. When he didn’t have
school, Marc would go with her, pushing the pram in which Lylie
slept. It was a long way, and they had to walk up a steep hill, with
Nicole coughing constantly . . .
The seventh of November, 1982.
Marc walked in a daze through the corridors of the metro, searching for directions to Line A. Gradually, his breathing returned to
normal and he was able to think. The map of the RER network
unfurled inside his head. He would go to Vincennes, Noisy-leGrand, Bussy-Saint-Georges . . .
He slowed down. It was not a good idea to go too fast, to allow
himself to be sucked into the spiral of events: Grand-Duc’s notebook
and its revelations; the detective’s murder; Lylie’s disappearance. His
grandparents’ accident.
He was not stupid. He could not simply walk into the lion’s
den like this. Not without taking some precautions, at least. He
examined his mental map of the metro. Yes, it would make much
more sense to go the other way, towards La Défense. It was only one
station more and would take only a few minutes longer. That way
he would have time to safeguard what he had learned.
Less than two minutes later, Marc found himself in the crush
of people at the Gare de Lyon. He let himself be carried along by
the human whirlwind, past posters advertising the latest films:
The
Horse Whisperer, Saving Private Ryan
. . .
The latest books and concerts.
Marc barely turned his head.
A poster for Charlelie Couture, in concert at the Bataclan.
He thought about Lylie.

Oh, dragonfly,
Your wings are so fragile,
As for me, my body is broken . . .

Marc took out his telephone. Finally, he had coverage. He dialled
Lylie’s number.
It rang seven times, as usual.
Answering machine.
‘Lylie, wait. Wait for me. Don’t do anything stupid! Call me
back. I’m on this. I’m going to find . . .’
Find what?
No hesitation. Just keep going.
Marc reached the mainline departures area. The orange TGV
trains were lined up like sprinters. The left-luggage office was
located to the right, behind the newspaper kiosk. Marc opened a
heavy steel door and shoved his backpack inside the grey locker. He
was not going to turn up at the Roseraie, the de Carvilles’ lair, with
Grand-Duc’s notebook in his possession. The detective had given it
to Lylie, not to the de Carvilles, and there must have been a reason
for that. Marc would meet the de Carvilles, talk to them, negotiate.
After that, he would make a decision.
He had to enter a code. Five numbers. Without thinking, Marc
typed:
7 11 82
.
The locker door swung shut with a thud. Marc exhaled. He went
to a stall selling sandwiches and bought a ham sandwich and a
bottle of water.
He had made the right decision. It was better to keep the
notebook elsewhere, for the moment, even if he was desperate
to read the next part: Grand-Duc’s version of his grandparents’
accident.
Marc had been four at the time and had only vague memories of it. Grand-Duc’s words were far from ambiguous, however:
‘. . . the story of an accident was hard to believe. Was this just my
profession warping my judgement, or was there more to it than
that?’
Marc had to know. He did a sudden U-turn, walked back to the
locker, and typed in the code.
7 11 82.
His hands trembling, Marc rummaged through the bag and took
out the notebook. He skimmed the pages, glancing at the words:
‘. . . meant effectively losing those years . . . possibly the years that
remained . . . But still I continued.’
This was where he had stopped reading.
Marc grabbed the next five pages between his fingers and ripped
them from the notebook. His grandparents’ accident, as narrated
by Grand-Duc. Then, shutting the locker door, he rushed back into
the maze of the Gare de Lyon.

Nicole Vitral walked slowly along the Rue de la Barre. When she
reached the crossroads near the Sévigné school, she stopped and
coughed. A nasty, hacking cough. She still had to climb the whole
of Rue de Montigny before she reached the Janval cemetery. More
than half a mile. Never mind – she would take her time. Now that
she was retired, this was practically all she had to do each day: visit
her husband’s grave, then buy bread at Ghislaine’s on her way back,
plus some meat every other day. Her legs were not as strong as they
used to be.

Nicole braved the first part of Rue de Montigny: this was the
steepest section. She had just passed the swimming pool when a
van overtook her, then parked in front of her, with two wheels on
the pavement.

The cheerful face of Sébastien, one of the town councillors,
appeared at the window.
‘We’re going up to the gymnasium, Mrs Vitral. Do you want us
to drop you off at the cemetery on the way?’
Sébastien was one of the youngsters at the town hall. Well, he
was in his forties. But he was a Communist, and proud of it. Nicole
Vitral had watched him grow up. He was a good guy: an activist,
and stubborn as a mule, but also mature and likeable. With men
like him in it, the Party still had a bright future, she thought, no
matter what people said on television. They would win the next
local election, she was sure of it.
Nicole did not need to be asked twice and got into the front seat
of the van. Sébastien was accompanied by Titi, who was employed
by the council as a gardener. Nicole had watched him grow up too.
He may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he
was very adept at looking after the flower-beds, and he contributed
greatly to the prosperity of the local bars.
‘You’re still fighting fit, by the looks of it, Mrs Vitral!’
‘Not really . . . You should make the bus go past the cemetery,
Sébastien, for all the old widows like me . . .’
The town councillor smiled. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll add it to
the agenda. So, how’s Marc doing in Paris?’
‘Fine, fine . . .’
Nicole’s thoughts went back to the message Marc had left on her
answering machine that morning. What could she say to him? Of
course she knew where Emilie was; she had guessed the irrevocable
act she was about to perform. She had prayed so often, through the
years, that this would not happen. Life could be cruel sometimes.
Titi’s loud voice woke Nicole from her thoughts. His breath
already stank of booze.
‘That Marco . . . Is he still following Emilie around? He never
even comes back to play rugby on Sundays with the team anymore.
Mind you, it’s no great loss – I know he’s your son and all, Nicole,
but seriously, the guy has butterfingers . . .’
Titi laughed loudly.
‘Shut your face, Titi,’ said Sébastien.
‘It’s all right,’ Nicole smiled.
She looked behind her. In the back of the van were boxes containing hundreds of leaflets.
‘Still fighting the good fight, Sébastien?’
‘Always! Chirac may have dissolved the Right in the Assembly,
but we’re still waiting for things to change, aren’t we? Even with our
comrades in government!’
‘What are the leaflets about?’
‘We’re trying to save the commercial port. They want to take
away our trade with West Africa, which is pretty much all we have
left. Bananas, pineapples, that sort of stuff. If we lose that, the town
will die. There’s a protest march in Rouen on Saturday.’
Titi elbowed Nicole in the ribs. ‘But even if we lose the bananas
and pineapples, we’ll still have your peaches, won’t we? Eh, Nicole?’
Sébastien sighed. Nicole gave him an understanding look.
‘Well, I can’t promise anything about the march,’ said Nicole,
‘but if you bring me a box of those leaflets, I’ll go door-to-door for
you in Pollet. There are still a few people in Dieppe who know me
and may listen to me . . .’
Titi almost jumped out of his seat. ‘That is totally true, Nicole! I
used to love watching you on TV back in the old days. I was fifteen.
I used to get so turned on watching you try to hide your big titties!’
‘Jesus, Titi, shut the fuck up!’ shouted Sébastien.
‘What do you mean?’ Titi asked, taken aback. ‘I was just saying.
Nicole’s hardly going to think I’m trying to pull her at her age. I was
just paying her a compliment.’
Nicole gently touched Titi’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Titi. I wasn’t
offended. In fact, I liked hearing you say that.’
During the brief silence that followed, Nicole could not help
thinking about Emilie. She wished she could be with her now. Not
so she could try to change her mind, just to be there for her. Nicole
knew that this would be the end of Emilie’s innocence. The taste of
death would remain with her for ever, the memory. The remorse.
The van came to a halt.
‘Here we are,’ said Sébastien. ‘The cemetery. Shall I bring you the
box of pamphlets tonight?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You’ll really be helping us out, Nicole. You should stand for election, you know . . .’
‘No, that was Pierre’s thing, not me. That was his plan. He
wanted to stand in 1983.’
Embarrassed, Sébastien said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘I
remember. It was a terrible loss. Jesus, what a waste! Actually . . .’
He hesitated. ‘The . . . the van, the Citroën, did you keep it?’
Nicole smiled resignedly. ‘Yes. I still had to work. And there were
Emilie and Marc to look after.’
‘The best chips on the Côte d’Albâtre!’ said Titi. ‘Believe me,
Nicole, I didn’t go to your van just because of your tits!’
Sébastien laughed, and Nicole smiled nostalgically. Her blue eyes
still retained their sparkle.
‘That van is still in our garden. And now there’s no one there to
ask me to move it so they can play. It’s just gathering rust . . .’
Nicole opened the door.
‘Well, I’d better let you lads get back to work!’
Titi helped her get down. They watched her as she crossed the
empty car park.
Nicole pushed open the iron gate.
Marc would call back. Soon, probably. Maybe he would even
come to Dieppe. What would she tell him? Should she give their
impossible love affair a chance?
She had to decide. To speak or to say nothing. This was urgent,
she knew: she had to make a decision today.
Nicole closed the cemetery gate behind her.
She would ask Pierre for his advice. He always made the right
choices.

A delicate ray of sunlight greeted Marc when he got off the RER
train at Val-d’Europe. It was the first time he had set foot in the new
town, which had opened a few months earlier. He was amazed by
the vast circular square of Place d’Ariane. He had been expecting
to find a modern, high-tech city, along the lines of Cergy or Évry.
Instead he found himself in the centre of a Haussmannian square,
just like those in Paris’s established arrondissements, except that the
square was not a hundred years old. It was not even a hundred days
old. New imitating old, and quite convincingly too.

Cranes towered above him, above the gutters and fake gargoyles.
A sign announced:
Arlington Business Park
. The unfinished glass
towers in the business district already towered over the fake ‘old’
square by a hundred feet or so. Far away, beyond the bypass, Marc
could see the peaks of Disneyland: the highest tower of Sleeping
Beauty’s castle; the red rocks of the miners’ ride; the dome of Space
Mountain . . . The effect was surreal.

Which was undoubtedly what the planners had hoped for.
A snippet of conversation from an evening at Nicole’s house in
Pollet rose to the surface of his memory. It had been a few months
ago, after they had watched a news report on television about the
new town created by the Disney consortium. The new shopping
centre had just been opened. In the kitchen, Nicole had cursed:
‘It’s already bad enough people taking their kids to Disneyland and
making that capitalist rat Mickey even richer. But giving them land
so they can build towns in France . . . it’s unbelievable!’
Lylie had been clearing the table. As always, she had known more
about the subject than the rest of the family.
‘But it’s a kind of utopia, grandma. Did you know Walt Disney
had dreamed of creating an ideal city in Florida, called Celebration?
No cars, no segregation, everything under a climate-controlled dome
. . . But he died before it was built, and his successors changed the
project. Val-d’Europe is only the second city in the world to be built
by Disney. The only one in Europe. The newest town in France,
with twenty thousand inhabitants . . .’
‘A utopia! Are you kidding?’ Nicole replied. ‘Private schools. A
golf course. Houses costing three million francs . . .’
Lylie did not respond. Marc was sure she would have liked to
defend the concept: the urban planning, the green spaces, the architectural challenges, the carefully thought-out transport system.
But Lylie, as always, remained silent. She had simply smiled as she
picked up a dishcloth to help Nicole, and had contented herself by
talking to Marc about it, briefly, later that evening. Everyone knew
that the de Carvilles lived in Coupvray, one of those pretty villages close to Val-de-Marne, whose French traditionalism had been
so perfectly integrated into the American project at Val-d’Europe,
sending house prices rocketing even higher. A marriage of tradition
and modernity.