The Cairo Diary (3 page)

Marion was still staring at her.

“I'm going to say this to you now, so it is done: I know nothing about the reasons that have brought you here, and that doesn't interest me. I just want to help you so that the time you spend among us is as pleasant as possible.”

She bore Marion's gaze without defiance or hardness.

“For everyone,” she went on. “Pleasant but discreet. Nobody undesirable will come and find you on the Mount, have no fear. It is the ideal place to spend these few weeks, or months. Famous all over the planet for its remoteness. You will melt into the background.”

She rubbed Marion's back. “I will be with you for as long as it takes you to get your bearings. All will be well. You'll see.”

Marion opened her mouth to speak, but could not expel the air. She must look frightful, she thought. With her hair blown all over the place by the gusts of wind, her damaged lip, and her sunken eyes.
An old harpy, that's what you are.… A harpy rendered decrepit by events
. Overtaken
by events. Drowned, even.

“Let's not linger, everyone here is in turmoil. They won't have much time to spare for us, with the storm that's coming.”

“The storm?” Marion repeated quietly.

“Yes, you didn't hear the news.… A few days ago, they announced that there's going to be an enormous storm on the coast, the like of which hasn't been seen for several centuries. Even the army has been mobilized in rural areas to help people prepare their homes and to assist in the event of emergency. Everyone here is busy making the Mount as waterproof as possible, and protecting what needs to be protected.”

Sister Anne scanned the western horizon. “You might think it was going to be fine, that this carpet of mist would lift to reveal a sunny day. But tonight, it'll be war.”

Her eyes were shining with excitement. “Anyhow, come, you have work to do. A whole list of names to learn, and the faces that go with them, of course.”

Marion slid her hands back into the pockets of her woollen coat.

She fell into step behind Sister Anne and entered the abbey church.

*   *   *

The eastern sun dissolved in a gigantic and blinding gray puddle, which bathed the high windows of the choir. A long procession of massive columns ran along the central aisle as far as the transept. Starting at the entrance, all of the architecture converged on the flamboyant choir in a sort of optical illusion, as if the nave was no more than a prolongation of the earth's entrails, toward the supreme elevation right at the end, below the high windows, before the altar.

The abandoned feeling lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough for Marion to rid herself of the weight on her chest, like an excess of breath that had stayed in her lungs too long, expelled all at once in a spontaneous exhalation. Since it had happened—
no! for the last few weeks
—Marion had been unable to create a state of emptiness in her mind, unable to avoid feeling crushed by the situation. Each of her words, and each of her actions were motivated by—or a consequence of—this escape. And for the first time, she had opened her eyes and really looked, without any thought related to her exile.

For an instant, the majesty of the place had washed away her troubles.

The semblance of a smile appeared on her lips.

Marion raised her head toward the ceiling. High up, the arches of an ambulatory formed patches of opaque shadow.

These were not completely still; they turned around and around and stretched out as if long, black silk sheets were moving around each arch.

Marion watched intently, her nose in the air.

The door had been left open, and the wind gusted against her back.

The flames of a few candles danced, faltering dangerously in this ever-stronger breeze.

Marion heard Anne's footsteps as she walked away down the nave, paying her no attention.

She felt as if she was being observed.

The little hairs on the back of her neck stiffened.

The more she became aware of it, the more the feeling spread with increasing confidence.

Her tongue was coated. She knew this searing feeling of paranoia. The past weeks had brought both emotions closer together, turning them into veritable rivals in a fierce competition, in which serenity was at stake. An almost daily match. And all that was required to unleash the paranoia was an ounce of anxiety; once it had that, it spread like burning oil on a lake.

Marion swallowed, forcing herself to curtail all speculation, all imagination, to rid herself of this anguish by refusing it any fuel.

The sensation grew less acute.

Sister Anne had disappeared, turning into the northern arm of the transept.

Marion started walking again, along the rows of cold benches. All the same, she glanced briefly at the dark arches before turning.

The ambulatory that stretched out behind these mysterious mouths was still just as invisible. And the shadows were still moving.

Sister Anne was waiting for her at the top of a staircase leading down into the depths of the building. Her eyes scrutinized Marion to assure herself that all was well and the little woman set off first down the stairs. They came out at the lower level, in an enclosed chapel, with fewer than ten tiny benches, a handful of lit candles, and a very low, rounded ceiling that reinforced the impression of warmth and intimacy. An amber half-light trembled on the walls of the crypt of Notre-Dame-des-Trente-Cierges.

There, in the dusk of the last bench, seven motionless silhouettes were waiting, their heads bowed beneath masks of fabric. Seven pious statues, as immovable as stone.

All seven were dressed in religious habits.

They all wore coarse, inhuman faces, with irregular, clumsy features, distorted mouths, and monstrous eyes, like a group of gargoyles staring at the crypt's altar.

Then the Mount's spell was broken.

And the stone changed.

The fabric of a cowl gently folded back.

And suddenly a hand appeared. It rose to make the sign of the cross, and the fabric mask crumpled as the priest pushed back his hood.

4

There were four men and three women.

The most striking thing was how similar they all were in shape.

Apart from one brother who was much taller than the others, the six followers were of the same height, and of a relatively slender build, as though forged from the same mold.

I can't help it, it's my job,
Marion thought.
Too many autopsy reports to draw up properly and file, and you find yourself focusing on people's external aspects: their physical data.

It was true, she couldn't deny it. Her job overflowed into her judgment. When she encountered new faces, she often saw first of all a piece of funereal statistical data relating to their appearance. A portly fifty-year-old man with flabby skin who'd clearly enjoyed the high life made her think of heart attacks, while a white neck whose tendons were forever protruding beneath the chin because of stress raised the specter of a ruptured aneurysm.

Whereas others tended to catalog people according to their socio-professional category or in relation to their general cultural background, she did so according to the probable circumstances of their death.

Sister Anne rubbed her hands together as she turned toward Marion.

“Here is a part of our community,” she said. “Marion, let me introduce you to Brother Damien.”

The man in question emerged from the group to come and greet the newcomer. He was around forty. His hood was drawn back, revealing cropped gray hair and a full face that contrasted with his rather svelte body. There was a certain joie de vivre in his eyes. He greeted Marion with a bow of the head, his eyes constantly on the move.

Hyperactive, always cheerful, you might say; the type who eats too quickly and swallows without chewing. He'll probably choke to death when something goes down the wrong way.

She adored that expression. Dying because something “goes down the wrong way.” So as not to say: “death by suffocation, due to the presence of a foreign body in the airways.” The classic story of a Sunday afternoon that turns into a nightmare. Lunch with friends, plenty of wine, everybody eating hungrily and then … one mouthful too many, swallowed too quickly, without really thinking about it. The food gets stuck in the diner's throat, and panic grips the impatient eater. You found them each Sunday evening, lined up in the basement at the Médico-légal Institute, one behind the other on their aluminium gurneys, while their relatives were howling somewhere that it was impossible, that people couldn't just die, not on such a peaceful Sunday, not like that.

Marion had seen an awful lot of “impossible corpses” like that, in her ten-year career.

It was settled. Brother Damien was to be “Brother Wrong Way.”

Giving free rein to her idiotic little game did her a world of good. She relaxed, became herself again.

Next was Brother Gaël, a young man of around twenty, with the look of a babe in arms, and by all accounts the son of a good family—
the second son of the noble ancien régime family, the one who's destined for the Church
—too young to inspire Marion in her guessing game.

Sisters Gabriela and Agathe had no greater effect on Marion. They were young—around thirty—and at first glance as smooth as a block of polished marble.

The tallest of the seven was a man approaching fifty, slow in word and deed, pale, and visibly on the verge of breathlessness after welcoming her. Marion opted for “Brother Anemia” in place of his real name: Brother Christophe.

The two last members were Brother Gilles and Sister Luce, two individuals of a highly respectable age, whose eyes were as piercing as they were taciturn; two eagle faces, prominent noses, and thin lips, so alike that one might think they shared the same blood.

Marion had no desire to play with them. It wasn't funny anymore.

Brother Gilles stared at her for a long time without saying a word. He merely folded his long, wrinkled fingers upon his belly.

“I think you know everybody now,” commented Sister Anne.

Brother Gilles coughed exaggeratedly to indicate his disagreement.

“Ah, yes! Almost everybody! There is still Brother Serge, the hierarchic leader of our community. He could not get away, but you will meet him a little later.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Brother Damien leaned toward Marion. “If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask.”

There was nothing forced or overly charitable about his affability, thought Marion. His sincerity was actually rather touching.

“Thank you,” she whispered, rather too softly for her liking.

Sister Gabriela, who had the face of a porcelain doll, laid a hand on her arm. She had not pushed back the fabric headdress that hid her hair, and this gave her an even more angelic appearance.

“You will get used to this place very quickly, you will see,” she confided in a musical voice.

“On that subject,” interrupted Sister Anne, “we thought it would be best to organize some way for you to pass the time during the days to come. For today, that will take the form of a tour of the Mount, which will acquaint you with your new environment. After that, Friday and the weekend will be a little strange, with the storm.… And next week, Brother Damien suggested he might take you with him to the library in Avranches, to classify some books in the reserve collections, if that appeals to you.…”

Marion nodded without great enthusiasm. She noted that every eye was on her.

“Don't worry,” Sister Anne said finally. “Here, within these walls, you will spend a winter … like no other.”

Marion froze. No, she wasn't going to spend the winter here. It would only be a matter of weeks, perhaps months, one or two, in the worst case, but not a whole season. She swore to herself that she would be home for Christmas.

“Soon our faces will be familiar to you,” continued the nun. “These halls will be like a series of drawing rooms for your soul; you will enjoy strolling through them. Give yourself a little time. That is all the Mount demands of you: a little time. It will do the rest.”

“Very well said,” Brother Gilles said abruptly, in a rough voice.

Marion observed him. Thick gray and black hairs peeped through his withered skin. His face was marbled with numerous fine red veins and white creases, like a crumpled garment. He looked back at her without blinking, the keen brilliance in his eyes bearing witness to a fierce stubbornness.

“We shall leave you with your protégée, Sister Anne,” he continued. “We shall all have time to get to know her better; right now, the storm demands all our attention.”

Marion could not take her eyes off him.

He didn't like her. Her or her presence among them, that was obvious. In other circumstances, she would have allowed herself a cutting remark on the pointlessness of welcoming someone if that welcome was a chore in his eyes, but she was hardly in the mood. And she had only just arrived; one could begin the introductions better than that.

Bit by bit, she was regaining consciousness. And her sodden character was awakening, she noticed.

Everyone left by the little door at the far end, taking their leave of her with a swift wave of the hand. The majority seemed nice, even pleased that she had come.

When they were alone, Sister Anne turned to her. “I am sorry if Brother Gilles seemed a little less than—”

“That's not important,” interrupted Marion. “In any event, I think we shall have to get along together during the weeks to come.”

She managed to crack a friendly smile. “We'll get used to each other, don't you think?”

Sister Anne nodded with pleasure. “I am happy to see you smile at last.”

Me too,
Marion almost said. She caught herself as she drifted with the tide for a moment, as she took in what was happening to her with a benevolent sense of fatality.