Cemetery of Swallows (38 page)

“What soil are you talking about?” Judioni demanded. He had no intention of being left out for too long.

“The soil taken from the bottom of the well,” Mallock explained. “The soil in the catafalque is exactly the same. Thus one thing is certain. The body of this soldier comes from that site.”

Judioni paled. That didn't suit him at all. He wanted only one thing: to have Mallock on the ropes and put an end to this preposterous affair.

“Let's assume that this tells us where the body came from; that still doesn't tell us that this corpse consisting of a pile of fragments is your notorious Jean-François Lafitte. You must understand that, given the very strange nature of your theory, we cannot be satisfied with this discovery alone.”

Judioni was not wrong; a jury would find it insufficient. Mallock had already discussed this question with Antoine Ceccaldi. The prosecution could be counted on to argue that casting doubt on Manuel's guilt and backing up a theory as questionable and fantastic as reincarnation would require evidence more convincing than a single deformed vertebra and a soil analysis, even if the latter proved that the body did indeed come from the well, a site itself identified and located solely on the basis of information provided by Manuel Gemoni. What they needed now was an indisputable identification of the body.

If they could prove that this cadaver was in fact that of Lieutenant Lafitte, then how could Manuel have divined that it was in the well? In front of a jury, as strange as it might seem to everyone, there would be only one possibility: recognize that they were confronted by a case that resembled a phenomenon of reincarnation. And that, contrary to what Mallock thought, was a case that could be argued.

Ceccaldi had told him about precedents in India, England, and Germany, proven examples.

In Manu's case, even if the jurors refused to admit the existence of the phenomenon, they would be compelled to grant the accused the benefit of the doubt. If one added to that the benefit of the extenuating circumstances connected with the victim's identity, one could reasonably hope, if not for an acquittal, at least for a light sentence, and perhaps even, given Manuel's lack of prior offenses, a suspended sentence. But they weren't that far yet.

For the moment, nothing allowed them to connect this pile of bones and Lieutenant Jean-François Lafitte. Case closed. Everybody packs away his hopes and Julie's brother goes to prison. Making the most of his advantage and of Mallock's obvious dejection, Judioni said:

“Gentlemen, I believe it is time to close the coffin and leave in peace the remains of the person who is now officially the unknown soldier of the Second World War.”

The president's representative added, as if to seal the coffin:

“I shall report this to the president. I believe that within a week he will give a speech on television to inform the French people of this soldier's existence and make his presence here official.”

Mordome was resigned to the outcome and had begun, with the help of his assistant, to decant the various pieces of the puzzle into the now empty coffin. To set his mind at ease, he examined the largest pieces once again before carefully replacing them in the casket. He looked with special attention at an oblong, cracked object he had not succeeded in identifying, and which he picked up again and shook, as if trying to guess what was in it.

“What is that?” Mallock asked, clinging to this last hope. “It looks like a pouch.”

“No, sorry, it's a piece of the intestine. The part closest to the stomach, the duodenum. It was its form that first surprised me, and then its weight. But that's all it is, unfortunately.”

Then he concluded, for the benefit of all those present:

“I'm finished.”

As in a nightmare, Mallock saw the little group, only too happy to have completed this delicate mission, head for the metal ladder, chattering like magpies. They all had broad smiles on their faces. Those assholes were already enjoying their Christmas dinners and opening their gifts. Mallock would gladly have shut them up inside the crypt to deprive them of their celebration.

They were all startled when Mallock shouted:

“Silence! Be quiet!”

Mordome looked at his friend with concern. Had he lost his head? Judioni was more direct:

“Superintendent, get a grip on yourself. One has to be able to accept failure.”

But Mallock was calm. He stood there, listening intently.

“Don't you hear anything?”

“Nothing, apart from you and your shouts,” the curator said, offended.

“Music,” Mallock insisted. “Coming from the coffin, I think.”

Surprised by such a statement, the whole group fell silent to listen.

“There's nothing at all,” Judioni said. “You're off your head, Mallock.”

Judioni must have thought he needn't use Mallock's title. But he was far from having seen everything yet. With a person like Mallock, you always have to be ready for anything. Mordome knew that, but he hardly expected what was about to happen in front of him.

Amédée stood there as if frozen in the silence. The omnipresence of amber throughout the investigation could be no coincidence. Amber still had things to reveal. Who had recruited those insects, those involuntary pilots? Why had they been sent to the future in their microscopic capsules of resin? What was their message? Caught in a drop of thought and blood, couldn't souls also be immobile travelers? In the well, there were thousands of swallows, in the amber vial there was ayahuasca, in the earth there was a cross, in Manu's mind, another man, and in . . .

Mallock rushed back to the coffin and began rummaging around with his big hands among the various bones. The officials, stunned, watched him with the expression you assume when you think somebody has lost his mind. A mixture of reprobation and sympathy.

Sympathy for the Superintendent
: that sounded like the title of a thriller.

Suddenly, Mallock stopped and raised his right arm in the air, with a smile of victory on his face. He'd found the pouch-like object that had intrigued Mordome for a moment.

He carefully placed the object on the table, observed it very closely, stood up, grabbed a mallet and, with a sudden blow, shattered the bit of intestine.

The assembly was stupefied.

Mallock, without paying attention to anyone, was now blowing on his discovery and dusting it off with a brush. When he finally turned around and faced the little group, music filled the crypt. A magical moment: the notes began to ricochet off the stone, like the pearls from a necklace falling on the pavement.

Mallock was holding in his hands, between his thumb and his index finger, the ultimate proof that Manuel Gemoni's fantastic ideas were nothing of the sort: a pendant in the form of a heart, opened to show two yellowed portraits, was playing Erik Satie's third
Gnossienne
.

It seemed that now they'd seen everything. Mallock was organizing a Christmas Eve party. All his friends in a flurry of preparation. In a paradigm shift, Amédée was becoming civilized. It was a little late to send out invitations, but he had nonetheless managed to get enough people together to make a good-sized group.

Claudius, of course, GG and Machi, Kiko and Julie, who hadn't been able to stop smiling ever since the discovery of the locket, Jules, who was always where Julie was, Mordome and his partner, who had cancelled their own party to celebrate “that” with the superintendent. Michel had come in from Rambouillet. Ken had not been able to get away from his in-laws. Beatty was in Dordogne with her new boyfriend. JF was also in the provinces, near La Rochelle. As for Léon, Mallock had gotten the impression that a certain new acquaintance made during his research on the cross had to be explored. Whether male or female was not mentioned and or important. Amédée sincerely hoped that this would be for Léon the companion he'd been so long awaiting. He had also called Bob to invite him to the meal. But Bob had reminded him that this was the big day. He had succeeded in convincing and assembling his whole flock, and he was as happy as a boy with his first bike. In all, there were nine guests, and that was perfect for a big Christmas dinner at the home of the superintendent.

At noon, as soon as he returned from his office, Mallock had rushed to the phone to order half a suckling pig from his butcher. That little morsel was for his female guests. For the men, the real men, he'd gone to his poultry man at the Raspail market:

“Can you get me five grouse for this evening? Don't say no!”

There was no machismo in the choice of dishes. It's in the genes. Only a man, a real man with whiskers, is properly equipped to eat grouse. Women hate it, that's just how it is. Mallock just wanted all his friends to be happy.

When he got home around 3
P.M.
, Mallock noted with relief that everything had been delivered. He immediately prepared a marinade, cleaned the five grouse, and laid them raw in the marinade. He added a few cloves of garlic, laurel, and thyme to the half suckling pig and put it in the oven at 250°. For the last half-hour of cooking, he made a mixture of honey, sake, and soy sauce to baste the skin before setting the oven on grill. Then he had only to take out of the freezer the fresh chestnuts that Julie's mother had sent him, lovingly “shelled in Corsica.” It was written on each package with the date of processing.

In ten minutes, everything was ready. It is a curious legend that cooking is a long-term operation. After having put foil over the game, Mallock went down to his cellar to choose a bottle of Côte-Rôtie, with a Pommard representing the Burgundies and a Pomerol the Bordeaux, wines that would have the power to stand up to the grouse. For the suckling pig, two bottles of Saint-Julien would do. An '81, a forgettable year in every respect, and an '82, a glorious year for Bordeaux wines. All he needed then was a green, a salad of fresh spinach, with a little shredded arugula and lots of herbs. His produce man had promised him delivery by 7
P.M.
at the latest: “It's Christmas Eve and my wife is attached to traditions, so I close around six. I'll drop off what you need on my way home, Superintendent.”

Why should there be only disadvantages to being a well-known cop?

To finish his preparations, Mallock put three bottles of Sail-les-Bains mineral water in the door of his refrigerator.

He thought the design was brilliant.

 

At five, he called the Ministry of Justice. For once, they had moved rapidly. Aware of the impact that the results of the investigation might have, they had decided to continue the trial behind closed doors. That would be announced on Thursday. Manuel's family and his lawyer had already given their consent. In a public trial, a possible acquittal on grounds of reincarnation would produce, if not necessarily a bad impression, at least a hell of a mess. So everyone had rapidly agreed to keep a low profile. No one had any interest in generating all this publicity that could only cause problems. Mallock agreed, even if no one had asked his opinion. In fact, this decision, made with such celerity, had put him in a very good mood. There seemed to be an excellent chance of gaining a dismissal. With any luck, one could even hope to see Manuel released in time for New Year's Eve. Kiko and Julie were going to be wild with joy.

He hung up and rubbed his hands. The investigation looked like it was going to end with an apotheosis. Nobody knew exactly how it would turn out, but it didn't really matter, after all. He would have won, and that was good. It was still the same feeling of accomplishment and relief. As if, for a few seconds, all the injustices in the world, ever since the beginning of time, had been waved away by a magic wand. It wouldn't last long, but it was still that much in hand.

 

At 8
P.M.
, his friends all arrived at practically the same time. Amédée had just basted the grouse to thicken the gravy. They immediately sat down to table. Mallock was against aperitifs. Why drink alcohol and eat junk food, when good wines and delicious dishes were in the offing?

Happy to see each other, and to see their Amédée so happy and relaxed, they did justice to the meal. As they ate dessert–Mallock had just served them a rum soufflé with vanilla ice cream–Jules brought up the already famous “scene of the heart-shaped music box.”

He addressed Mordome first:

“Tell us, since you were there. How did that happen? We'd like to know the details.”

Mordome indicated that he first had to swallow an enormous mouthful of soufflé he had just put in his mouth. Then he said:

“To tell the truth, I didn't see it coming. I think everyone believed our Amédée had gone off the deep end. He looked like a man possessed. When he turned around with the golden music box . . . ”

Mordome fell silent for a few seconds. He was moved:

“In any case, I can tell you that it's a moment I'll never forget. It was magic!”

“You don't know how right you are, Barnabé. Everyone was taken in!”

“What do you mean, taken in?”

“You didn't understand how I went about it?”

“What did you do?”

Mordome didn't understand what Mallock was implying.

Amédée seemed to hesitate. Then he said:

“Just between us, I'm going to admit something to you. I didn't really know what to do to save Manuel, so since I was certain of his innocence, I did the only thing that could get him out of this fix. Can't you guess what it was?”

Jules and Mordome on the one hand, and Kiko and Julie on the other, looked at each other uneasily and doubtfully.

Julie broke the silence:

“Nothing illegal, Boss, I hope?”

Mallock hesitated again. Suddenly he seemed less sure of himself.

“To be straightforward, it's not really straightforward. But at my age, we can sometimes allow ourselves to manipulate the law a little, can't we?”