I Kill (19 page)

The man goes into the room. It is a room with grey metal walls, the colour of lead. On the right there is a metal bed, and next to it a simple night table with just a lamp on it. The blanket is
pulled tight, without a wrinkle; there is a perfectly clean pillow and a clean sheet folded neatly over the blanket.

Parallel to the bed, about a yard away, is a crystal case about ten feet long, held up by two trestles like the ones supporting the table in the other room. The back of the case has a hermetic
gasket set in a hole and the rubber tube connected to it leads to a small machine on the floor between the legs of the trestle nearest the door. A cord connects the machine to a socket in the
wall.

Inside the crystal case lies a mummified body. It is the body of a man about six feet tall, completely naked. The dried-out limbs indicate that his build must have been very similar to that of
the man, although the wizened skin now shows ribs and is taut over the knees and elbows, which protrude sharply.

The man places a hand on the case. The warmth draws a halo on the perfectly clean glass. His smile is broader now. He raises the box and holds it up over the body, at the height of the
shrivelled face.

Come on, Vibo. Tell me what it is.

The man looks at the body affectionately. His gaze runs over the face and head from which someone, with surgical ability, has completely removed the skin. The man returns the mysterious smile of
the cadaver, seeking its lifeless eyes with his own, anxiously examining the fixed expression as if he can perceive a movement of the dried muscles, the colour of grey wax.

‘You’ll see. You’ll see. Want some music?’

Yes. No. No, afterwards. First, let me see what you have there. Let me see what you have brought me.

The man steps back as if playing with a baby whom he wants to restrain to protect it from its own impatience.

‘No, the moment is important, Paso. We need some music. Wait here. I’ll be right back.’

Come on, Vibo. Afterwards. Let me see.

‘It’ll only take a second. Wait.’

The man places the box on a wooden folding chair next to the transparent case.

He disappears through the door. The body lies there alone, motionless in its tiny eternity, staring at the ceiling. Moments later, the mournful notes of Jimi Hendrix playing ‘The
Star-Spangled Banner’ at Woodstock float through the air. The American anthem no longer sounds triumphant on that distorted guitar. There are no heroes and no flags. Only longing for those
who went off to fight a stupid war and the sobbing of those who never saw them return.

The light in the other room goes off and the man reappears in the doorway.

‘You like this, Paso?’

Of course. You know I always liked it. But now, let me see what you brought.

The man goes to the box on the chair. He is still smiling. He raises the lid with a solemn gesture and puts it on the ground, next to the chair. He picks up the box and places it on top of the
case over the chest of the body lying inside.

‘You’ll like it. You’ll see. I’m sure you’ll like it.’

With a regal gesture he removes the face of Allen Yoshida wrapped around the mannequin’s head like a plastic mask. The hair moves as if it has a life of its own, ruffled by a wind that
would never reach them there, below the ground.

‘Here, Paso. Look.’

Oh, Vibo. It’s beautiful. Is it really for me?

‘Of course it’s for you. I’ll put it on you right now.’

Holding the mask in his left hand, with his right he presses a button at the head of the case. He hears the slight whistle of air filling the transparent coffin. Now the man can open the cover
by rotating it around hinges on the right.

Holding the mask with two hands, he carefully places it on the body’s face, moving it delicately to match the eye openings with the dead man’s glassy eyes, nose with nose and mouth
with mouth. With infinite care he tucks a hand behind the nape of the corpse’s neck and places the mask carefully over the back of the head as well, bringing the ends together to avoid
wrinkling.

The voice is impatient and fearful at the same time.

How does it look, Vibo? Let me see.

The man takes a step back and looks hesitantly at the results of his work.

‘Just a minute. Just one minute. There’s still something missing.’

The man goes to the night table, opens the drawer and takes out a comb and a mirror. He returns to the body’s side like an anxious artist putting the last brushstrokes on his
masterpiece.

He combs down the hair, which now looks dull and dry. The man is both mother and father at this moment. He is pure dedication, without time or limit. There is infinite tenderness and affection
in his gestures, as if he has life and warmth enough for them both, as if the blood in his veins and the air in his lungs were equally divided between him and the corpse lying without memory in the
crystal coffin.

He raises the mirror in front of the body’s face with an expression of triumph.

‘There!’

A moment of stupefied silence. The strings of Hendrix’s guitar unravel in the battle cry of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’. It contains the wounds of every war and the search for
meaning behind all those deaths performed in the name of empty values.

A tear rolls down the man’s cheek and falls on the face of the masked corpse. On the dead man, it looks like a tear of joy.

Vibo, I’m handsome now, too. I have a face like everyone else.

‘Yes, now you’re really handsome. More than all the others.’

I don’t know how to thank you, Vibo. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Before
. . . The voice is touched. It contains gratitude and regret. The same affection
and dedication as in the man’s eyes.
First, you freed me of my illness and now you’ve given me . . . You’ve given me this, a new face, a beautiful face. How can I ever thank
you?

‘Don’t say that, do you understand? Not ever. I did it for you, for us, because the others owe us and they have to give back what they stole. I’ll do everything I can to repay
you for what they did. I promise.’

As if to underline the threat in that promise, the music suddenly transforms into the electric energy of ‘Purple Haze’, with Hendrix tormenting the metal strings in his tumultuous
race towards freedom and annihilation.

The man lowers the lid of the box. It slides silently along the rubber runners. He goes to the compressor on the floor and presses the button. The machine turns on with a hum and starts
extracting air from inside the coffin. With the vacuum, the mask adheres even more closely to the dead man’s face, making a small fold on one side, giving the body a satisfied smile.

The man goes over to the bed and removes the black shirt he is wearing. He throws it on to a stool at the foot of the iron bed. He continues removing his clothes until he is naked. He slides his
athletic body between the sheets, lays his head on the pillow, and stares up at the ceiling in the same position as the body inside the shiny coffin.

The lamp goes out. The only light comes from the red and green of the electronic displays on the equipment in the next room, furtive as the eyes of a cemetery cat.

The song is over. In the tomblike silence, the living man slips into a dreamless sleep, like that of the dead.

Frank and Hulot reached the main square of the village of Eze. Passing the Fragonard perfume boutique, Frank remembered with a stab in his heart that Harriet had stocked up on
perfume there during their trip to Europe. He could see her body under the fabric of her light summer dress as she held out the inside of her wrist to test the scent. He saw her rub it against her
other wrist and wait for the liquid to evaporate before smelling the combined scent of skin and perfume. She had been wearing that perfume on the day . . .

‘Are you here, or millions of miles away?’

‘No, I’m here. A little tired, but here.’ Nicolas’s voice dispersed the images running through Frank’s mind. He realized that he had been completely absent.

Actually, Nicolas was the more tired of the two. He had dark circles under his reddened eyes and was in desperate need of a warm shower and a cool bed, in that order. Frank had gone up to Parc
Saint-Roman and slept a few hours in the afternoon, but Nicolas had stayed at the office to catch up on all the paperwork that comes with every police investigation. When Frank had left him at
headquarters, it was clear to Frank that the police could probably save a lot more ordinary people and maybe even the rainforests if only they didn’t have to waste half their time writing
reports and filling in forms.

Now he was going for dinner at the home of Nicolas and his wife Céline. They drove past the restaurants and souvenir shops, turning left on the street leading to the upper part of the
town. The Hulots lived not far from the church overlooking Eze. Their house was built right on the edge of the valley, and Frank often wondered what the architect had done to keep it from obeying
gravity and sliding to the bottom.

They parked the Peugeot in the reserved spot and Frank waited as Nicolas opened the front door. They went inside and Frank stood and looked around. Nicolas closed the door behind them.

‘Céline, we’re home!’

‘Hi, darling.’ Mme Hulot’s brunette head peeked out of the kitchen door at the end of the hall. ‘Hello, Frank. I see you’re still as handsome as I remember. How are
you?’

‘Exhausted. The only thing that can revive me is your cooking, judging by that delicious smell.’

Mme Hulot’s smile lit up her suntanned face. She came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. ‘It’s almost ready. Nick, give Frank something to drink while you’re
waiting. I’m running a little late. It took me longer than usual to clean Stéphane’s room today. I’ve told him to tidy it thousands of times but it’s useless. He
leaves it in a mess every time he goes out.’

She walked back to the kitchen, her skirt swaying. Frank and Nicolas exchanged glances. Stéphane, Céline and Nicolas twenty-year-old son, had died in a car accident a few years
before, after a prolonged coma. In her mind, Céline had never accepted her son’s death. She remained the woman she had always been: gentle, intelligent and sharp-witted, losing nothing
of her personality. She simply behaved as if Stéphane were still somewhere in the house instead of in a grave in the cemetery. The doctors who examined her gave up after a few sessions,
suggesting that Hulot simply go along with his wife’s harmless fantasy. They saw it as a relatively healthy solution that was protecting her psyche from worse damage.

Frank knew about Céline and had adjusted to her problem when he had come to Europe the first time. Harriet had done the same when they had holidayed together on the Côte
d’Azur. After Harriet’s death, Frank and Nicolas had grown closer. Each of them knew the other’s suffering and it was because of this bond that Frank had accepted the invitation
to come back to Monaco.

Hulot took off his jacket and hung it on a coat rack on the wall. The house was decorated in a modern style that blended pleasantly with the period in which it was built. He led Frank into the
living room, which had double French doors that opened on to a terrace overlooking the coast.

Out on the terrace, the table was exquisitely set, with an arrangement of yellow and purple flowers in a vase placed at the centre of a pristine tablecloth. The Hulots’ manner was relaxed,
with carefully chosen yet simple objects and a love of the peaceful life, without ostentation. Nicolas and his wife shared an indissoluble bond: pain for what they no longer had and regret for
everything that could have been.

Frank could feel it in the air. It was a state of mind he knew perfectly well, that sense of loss that inevitably comes to places that are touched by the harsh hand of suffering. Yet, strangely
enough, instead of being frightened, Frank found some solace here in the lively eyes of Céline Hulot, who had the courage to survive the loss of her son by escaping through innocent
delusion.

Frank envied her and was sure that her husband felt the same. For her, the days were not numbers crossed off one after another, time was not an endless wait for someone who would never come.
Céline had the happy smile of a woman in an empty house, who knows that her loved ones would soon be home.

‘What can I get you to drink, Frank?’

‘It feels so French here tonight. How about a French aperitif? Pastis, even.’

‘Coming up.’

Nicolas went to the bar and started taking out bottles and glasses. Frank went out on the terrace to admire the view. A long stretch of the coast was visible, with coves and inlets and cliffs
that jutted into the sea like fingers pointing to the horizon. The red of the sunset was a promise that tomorrow would be another beautiful day, blue skies for everyone but them.

Frank knew they would be marked by this story for ever. He started thinking of a Neil Young record,
Rust Never Sleeps.
All the colours of paradise were before him. Blue water, green
mountains emerging from the sea, the red gold of the sky in a sunset that could break your heart. But they were men of this earth who, just as in a hundred other places, were at war over everything
and could only agree on their desperate desire to destroy it all.

We are the rust that never sleeps.

He heard Nicolas behind him. He held two glasses of opaque, milky liquid. The ice clinked as Nicolas handed him the aperitif.

‘Here, feel French for a sip or two. Then go back to being American. For now, that’s how I want you.’

Frank brought the glass to his lips, tasting it and taking in the pungent flavour of anise. They drank calmly, in silence, standing side by side, alone and resolute in the face of something that
seemed endless. A day had passed since Yoshida’s body had been discovered and nothing had turned up. A useless day spent looking for a clue, a trace. Frenetic activity that felt like racing
at breakneck speed along a road that stretched to infinity.

‘What do we do now, Frank?’