In a fit of disgust, he seized a bottle and hurled it. It shattered against the wall. The wounded man coughed; he was suffocating. His breathing quickened and he fixed his eyes on the tall figure standing over him. He tried to sit up, but his strength was draining away with the blood oozing from his mouth and he fell back. It was over. The bearded man crossed himself mechanically, murmured, ‘May his soul rest in peace, Amen.’ He closed the dead man’s eyes.
Now he had to carry out his plan without fail. He would wait until dawn before washing the body – and, most importantly, concealing the wound. Then he would notify the local official, who would come and certify the death and arrange with the magistrate for the speediest burial possible. Las Juntas had been chosen because it had no priest or carpenter; the body would be buried in the ground wrapped in a simple shroud, and in a few months only the bones would remain.
The man threw himself down without taking off his boots. But despite his exhaustion, he could not sleep. He was thinking about what he needed to do. When it was all over, a good mule would get him to the port of Buenaventura in five or six days’ time, and there he’d board a Panama-bound steamer from the English Steamship Company. He’d arrive in Barranquilla in time to catch the train. Twenty-four hours later, the ship La-Fayette would leave Colombian waters and in mid-December she’d drop anchor at St Nazaire.
He searched in the dead man’s pocket and pulled out a half-crushed cigar, which he lit. The vampire bat, hanging from a joist, watched anxiously as the tiny red eye glowed in front of the man’s mouth.
Four months later …
‘LORD, he was so good and kind. We loved him so dearly! Lord, he was …’
The words, tirelessly repeated, filtered through the veil masking the face of a woman who sat huddled against a carriage window. From time to time, another woman, seated opposite, emphasised them with a hurriedly executed sign of the cross. This litany, barely audible above the screech of axles and the clatter of wheels over paving stones, had long since ceased to have meaning, like a monotonous nursery rhyme.
The cabman pulled on the reins and the carriage came to a halt beside the entrance to the Père-Lachaise cemetery on Rue de Rondeaux. He came down from his perch to settle up with the gatekeeper and, having slipped the man a coin, clumsily heaved himself back on to his seat and gave a crack of his whip.
The carriage entered the cemetery gates moments ahead of a funeral cortège and proceeded down one of the looped avenues. The rain formed a halo of light above the vast graveyard. On either side of the avenue was a succession of chapels, cenotaphs and mausoleums adorned with plump cherubs and weeping nymphs. Among the tombs was a maze of footpaths and avenues invaded by undergrowth, still relatively sparse in these early days of March. Sycamores, beeches, cedars and lime trees darkened an already overcast sky. On turning a bend, the carriage narrowly avoided colliding with a tall, white-haired man who was engaged in contemplating the ample posterior of a bronze nymph. The horse reared up, the cabman let out a stream of oaths and the old man shook his fist and cried out: ‘Damn you, Grouchy!1 I’ll cut you down!’ before stumbling off. The cabman muttered a few threats, reassured his passengers and, with a click of his tongue, calmed his horse, which set off towards an avenue running southwards, where it stopped beside the tomb of the surgeon Jacques René Tenon.
A very young woman in simple black clothes consisting of a woollen dress, a waisted jacket covered with a shawl, and a cotton bonnet from which a few strands of blonde hair had escaped, opened the carriage door and jumped to the ground to help another woman, also blonde, but more buxom, of heavier build, and in full mourning. It was she who had invoked the Lord from behind her veil. In her chinchilla hat and astrakhan coat she looked more suitably dressed for a polar expedition than a visit to a cemetery. The women stood side by side for a moment, staring at the carriage as it gradually darkened into a silhouette against the fading afternoon light. The fur hat leaned towards the cotton bonnet.
‘Tell him to wait for us in Rue de Repos.’
The younger woman passed the order on to the cabman and paid him. He doffed his oilcloth topper and with a loud ‘Gee up!’ hastened away.
‘I ain’t waiting about for queer birds who don’t know ’ow to tip a bloke. They can go ’ome on foot!’ he muttered.
‘Denise!’ cried the woman in the fur hat.
‘Yes, Madame,’ the young girl replied, hurrying to her side.
‘Come along now, give it to me. What are you gaping at?
‘Nothing, Madame. I’m just a bit … scared.’ She pulled a flat rectangular package out of her basket and handed it to her mistress.
‘Scared? Of what? Of whom? If there’s one place where the Almighty is sure to be watching over us, it is here in this cemetery. Our dear departed are close by, they are all around us, they can see us and speak to us!’ cried the woman.
Denise grew more flustered. ‘That’s what scares me, Madame.’
‘You poor, foolish child! What am I to do with you? I shall see you shortly.’
Alarmed, the young girl grasped her mistress’s arm. ‘Am I not going with you?’
‘You will remain here. He wishes to see me alone. I shall return in an hour and a half.’
‘Oh, Madame, please. It’ll be dark soon.’
‘Nonsense, it’s not yet four o’clock. The gates close at six. If you don’t want to die ignorant, you’ve plenty of time to visit the tombs. I recommend Musset’s, over there in the hollow where they’ve planted a willow. It isn’t very grand but the epitaph is most beautiful. I don’t suppose you know who he is. Perhaps you’d better go up to the chapel. It’ll do you no harm to say a prayer.’
‘Please, Madame!’ implored the young girl. But Odette de Valois was already walking away briskly. Denise shivered and took shelter under a chestnut tree. The rain had turned to drizzle and a few birds had resumed their singing. A ginger cat moved stealthily amongst the tombstones, and the lamplighter, carrying his long cane in one hand, crossed the avenue and winked at the young girl. Telling herself she couldn’t stand there for ever, she tied her shawl over her bonnet and wandered about beneath the gas lamps, around which raindrops formed haloes.
She tried to put her mind at ease by recalling the walks she’d taken in the Forêt de Nevet with her cousin Ronan, with whom she’d been in love when she was thirteen. How handsome he had been and what a shame that he had chosen another! Lost in thought, she gradually forgot her fears as she relived the few happy moments of her childhood: the two years spent in Douarnenez with her uncle the fisherman, her aunt’s kindness, her cousin’s attentiveness. And then the return to Quimper, her mother’s illness and death, her father’s increasing violence after he took to drink, and the departure of her brothers and sisters, leaving her all alone at home, dreaming that a prince would come and whisk her away to Paris …
She was suddenly reminded where she was when she came upon a dilapidated, pseudo-Gothic mausoleum adorned with interlocking names. She walked over to it and read that the remains of Hélöise and Abélard had lain there since the beginning of the century. Was it not strange that her memories of Ronan had brought her to the tomb of these legendary lovers? And what if Madame was right? What if the dead …
‘Soldiers, your general is relying on your bravery! It’ll be a bloody battle, but we’ll take this enemy stronghold and plant our flags here! Zounds! Let them have it!’ roared a drunkard, popping out from behind the monument.
Denise recognised the old man who’d nearly been knocked over by the carriage. Arms flailing, he rushed towards her. She turned and ran.
Odette de Valois stood motionless in front of a funerary chapel that