The Cairo Diary (2 page)

1

Paris, November 2005

Paris was muttering angrily.

A storm of indignation was shaking the entire city. The thunder of public rallies battered the fronts of Haussmann's buildings, echoing through the alleyways on the great boulevards, until it reached the ministers.

A leaden sky had lain across the roofs since the scandal began, strangling the capital like a too-tight scarf.

Never had France known a November like it: so icy and yet so electric.

The press had been dining out on it for the last three weeks; certain journalists went as far as stating that November 2005 would relegate May 1968 to the ranks of an anecdotal skirmish if things continued in the same way.

The newspaper stands flashed past like milestones in one of the rear windows of the powerful sedan, issuing their information in regular doses, vital for survival in a civilized environment. All the front pages gave details of the Affair as they saw it; there was scarcely any room for the rest of the news.

The sedan was running alongside a large truck.

Suddenly, the reflection of a face appeared in its rear window.

Marion flinched imperceptibly as she suddenly came face-to-face with herself.

Her face was a ghost's. Her pleasant features were not sufficient today to make her easy on the eye; she had grown too pale, her split lip divided her face like the comma in an eternally unfinished sentence, her sandy hair showed a few streaks of white, and, in particular, her eyes had lost all their brightness. The inquisitive, jade-green flame had given way to two dying embers.

She was approaching forty, and life had just presented her with a really great gift.

The leather squeaked as the man at her side leaned toward the driver and asked him to take a right. Marion blinked in an attempt to forget her face.

Three males, as virile as they were cryptic, were surrounding her in this silent car. Men from the DST.

Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire—the French equivalent of the CIA.

The acronym struck a heavy, slightly terrifying chord.

Especially for Marion, who had never had any problems with the law, who had only been stopped by the police once in her life for a routine identity check, and whose job as a secretary at the Médico-légal Institute and morgue in Paris was the only original thing about her—if indeed it was original.

She had always felt herself to be identical to the millions of other people she lived with in this country, caught up in the system of work, lifting her head a little higher after each year, so she could stay afloat and go on breathing.

Nothing in her life had prepared her to find herself one day in this car, heading for the unknown.

Until she'd returned from her holidays, at the start of October.

Until that morning, very early, when she had entered the cold autopsy room. Each detail was engraved on her mind. Even the stuttering of the neon lights when she pressed the switch. Once again she saw the flashes of white light reflecting off the tiles, the immaculate stainless steel of the dissection table. Her heels echoed at each step. The antiseptic smell hadn't completely masked the other, more acrid smell of cold meat. The only reason she was there so early that morning was to find Dr. Mendès, who was neither there nor in the adjoining storeroom.

Marion had turned around to walk back across the room.

Her eyes fell on it by chance, as though drawn to it.

It wasn't very eye-catching, hardly a cartoon strip.

But it had changed her life.

Until the DST came to see her and told her she was going to die.

Probably.

Unless she agreed to disappear. For a time at least, long enough for things to calm down, for a place to be found for her, for them to rely on her, for a system to be set in motion.

Everything had been so quick.

Paranoia is a virus. Transmit it in the right circumstances and it will develop all on its own. From that moment on, Marion had spotted shadows in her wake, individuals spending the night in darkened cars in front of the building where she lived, and her telephone sounded strange, as if it had been bugged.

Then the attack.

She swallowed, ran her tongue across her lips. The cut was still there.

A warning.

Marion had agreed to disappear.

Before the media discovered the identity of this woman, the initiator of the greatest scandal the Fifth Republic had known; before other people, dangerous in different ways this time, returned to attack.

The man from the DST who took charge of her case had told her just to bring warm clothes, and her most personal possessions, as she wouldn't be returning home for a long time; it could be a month, maybe a year. She knew nothing about her destination.

The vehicle with the darkened windows passed through La Défense tunnel, heading toward the A13 Autoroute, and in a few minutes disappeared toward the west, evaporating into the anger and the gray-white horizon that encircled Paris.

The smell of the sea gave Marion her first clue, but darkness fell too quickly for her to spot any landmarks as they passed by. She rested her head back against the seat, rolled up her window, and confined herself just to following the few lights with her eyes. For now, her future was nothing but a roar in the darkness, a doubt moving at eighty miles per hour, speeding toward the unknown.

She reopened her eyes to find that the car was climbing a forgotten road, with nothing on either side but emptiness. Marion sensed that they were almost there, and pressed her face to the glass like an impatient child in need of reassurance. The vehicle slowed down and turned left before coming to a halt beside a stone wall.

The front passenger immediately got out and opened the door so she could get out. Stiff after the journey, Marion had difficulty straightening her long legs. She stood up gently, numb with sleep. They were standing at the bottom of a steep hill.

Ancient structures rose up from the slope, forming a collection of fortifications and dwellings worthy of a medieval film.

Then the moon pierced through the low clouds, and trained its silver searchlight on the summit.

Out of the shadows loomed a colossal tower, dominating the entire bay, its foundations crushing all architectural pretensions for miles around.

Marion closed her eyes with a sigh.

Behind her, one of the men had just placed her two suitcases on the ground.

She had arrived at the bottom of what was going to be her retreat for the weeks, or maybe months, to come.

Mont-Saint-Michel.

As fleetingly as it had appeared, the summit sank back into the darkness, as the moon withdrew behind its nocturnal sieve, like an insect slipping away, sheltering from predators.

2

The wind suddenly rose, capturing Marion in its vise; her clothes flapped about in the darkness. One of the men accompanying her turned his head toward her. His eyes were cold.
Cold like this journey, cold like in bad films,
thought Marion. He stared at her and blinked. For a moment she detected the man behind the professional, some mercy beneath the austerity. Guessing that she was the intended recipient of this pity hurt her, and her heart felt hollow.

Beneath a tower close to the main entrance, metallic hinges began to grate. A narrow postern gate opened, creating a hole in the wall.

A frail silhouette detached itself from the wall and came toward the group. It was holding up a lantern, which glimmered faintly in the darkness as if it were guiding the person and drawing it into the blackness. The person was draped in a robe that changed shape as the wind gusted around it with increasing ferocity. Suddenly, he or she lifted a hand to hold down the linen headdress that concealed the face. The driver of the sedan approached and they exchanged a few words, which were rendered almost inaudible by the distance and the wind.

Then he came back to Marion.

His was the only voice she had heard. He bent forward as he addressed her, so as not to have to talk too loud despite the gusting wind. His eyes only rarely settled on Marion; they swam above her, toward the far distance, already preoccupied with a world elsewhere.

“Anne will show you to your new home. Trust her, she has performed this kind of service for us before. She knows what must be done, so listen to her. Sorry I can't be gallant enough to carry up your cases, but the less time we spend here, the better.”

Marion opened her mouth to protest, but no sound emerged.

“You will receive news via Anne as soon as things start moving.”

“But … aren't you going to … I don't know, search my room or something?”

A half-smile appeared on his lips. In it she saw a degree of affection for her own naïveté.

“That won't be necessary,” he replied firmly. “You have nothing to fear here. Trust me, at least about that.”

She sensed that he was about to turn away and placed her hand on his arm. “How … what do I do to contact you if…”

“The mobile number I gave you the first time, call me on that if you need to. Now I must go.”

He watched for her reaction for a moment, then pursed his lips and gave a slight nod. “Good luck,” he added, with more kindness in his voice.

Then he walked away and signaled to his two companions to get back into the car.

A few seconds later the vehicle had disappeared onto the jetty, leaving behind it two tiny red marks upon the bosom of the night.

*   *   *

“Come on, let's not stay here,” a voice said behind her.

The voice was calming, gentle. Marion turned around to face it. Under the onslaught of the elements, Anne appeared more vulnerable and fragile than a tender young sapling in the storm. The wind had carved myriad deep lines that furrowed her face.

“Let's go in,” she said. “I'll take you home, where you can rest.”

Home.

Marion swallowed with great difficulty.

Everything was moving too fast, she no longer had any control over anything; and she was submitting to it all with disconcerting neutrality.

Already Anne was walking toward the postern gate, carrying one of the two suitcases.

What happened next owed more to the world of hallucinations than to free will. Later, Marion remembered walking up a narrow street, with ancient housefronts made of stone and wood. Then several steps and a passageway winding beneath tiny buildings, on the fringes of a sinister cemetery.

The gate closed again and Anne raised her eyes to look at her. Blue eyes that were smooth and determined, in opposition to the rest of the face.

“Here is your new house,” she said.

That and other words, distant words. Words devoid of meaning, logic, life.

Words that traveled for an instant between the two women before being lost in tiredness. The entrance light was on; it was swaying as though on a ship. It was shining increasingly brightly. Blindingly.

Marion closed her eyes.

Her legs were trembling from the effort of the climb. Her breath was all spent.

She remembered nothing more of what happened next.

Except for the draft of air when the door opened.

And the low rumbling sound of a man's voice.

3

A leftover piece of Babel.

That's what Mont-Saint-Michel was. A proud finger pointing toward the heavens. Marion saw in it not the marvel of religious devotion, but rather a conceited attempt to get closer to God. A gull sniggered as it skimmed the dizzying wall that dropped more than seventy yards. Marion stood bending forward, her hands placed on the low stone wall, overlooking the whole of the mist-drowned bay. A milky tide was gradually receding, releasing smoky trails as it licked at the ramparts. The white cloth coated absolutely everything. Nothing escaped: not a single lost mast or distant cliff, not even the causeway that provided the link to the mainland.

The Mount rose up out of this sea, colossal, like the cutting edge of a patiently shaped flint laid upon an immense expanse of mother-of-pearl.

Marion turned her back to the sight and faced the forecourt of the abbey church, which stretched out at her feet.

“We are on the western terrace,” explained Sister Anne. “Apart from the lace staircase on the church roof, one cannot enjoy a more agreeable view.”

Marion confined herself to a brief nod, as she did with all the sister's comments. Together, they had walked up the main street, then climbed the two “great stairs”—two long series of steps leading to the roof of the world—Sister Anne taking on the role of guide for the occasion.

“I am going to introduce you to our community. They are as impatient to make your acquaintance as they are aware of the need to be discreet regarding your presence among us.”

Marion cast a last glance at the view. The mist was flowing over the ground as if the Mount and its inhabitants were all drifting away, out to sea.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. Drifting. That was the word that best characterized her these past few days.

Waking up in that strange bed had immediately made her feel sick, gripped by the muted anguish that tightens the chest when a situation seems to be overflowing in all directions, completely out of control.

Anne approached her. She gave a faint, but reassuring smile. The icy wind emphasized the whiteness of her face. Lines lay deep between sections that were completely smooth. It put Marion in mind of a folded mask, like the skin of cream on hot milk.

“I know how you are feeling,” said the nun quietly. She was right beside her now.

She laid a hand on Marion's back.

“Confusion thunders inside here, doesn't it?” she added, placing an index finger on her brow. “With a little time that will pass. Trust me.”

Marion gazed at the little woman. “Is this something you're used to?”

Hardly had she spoken the phrase when it disappeared, swept away by the tone, the weakness of her voice. She had always hated showing her weak points, her difficulties, or her worries.

“Not in the way you imagine,” replied Sister Anne. “I have indeed performed this service before. But it isn't … usual.”