Fracas Noir – Susanne Waldau – te Brake ~ for better or worse

January – June 2008

If anything was going to heal the turbulent years of our relationship, a baby was. Or perhaps this is what a woman seeks to believe when she finds herself fighting for her marriage. However banal it may seem, there was a certain truth to it. Because despite raging hormones with subsequent tearful outbursts, our marriage did go through what seemed like a renaissance at the time. The arguments stopped dead in their tracks and the myth of a blooming pregnancy seemed to hold firm.

Three months into my pregnancy we had our first scan. Carl was happy for the sex to remain a well-protected secret, but I was anxious to know. Thinking back, I suppose I wanted to plan for the perfect family in a world that had become increasingly unpredictable and hostile. It was a Thursday morning and we had both taken off from work to finally meet our new family member. The midwife applied gel to my stomach, which was still merely a hard bump, much the shape of a large pomegranate.

“This is going to be cold,” she warned me. She applied the gel and brought the transducer to my belly, slowly moving it around, allowing for the transmitted echoes to translate into image.

“It all looks good,” she shared in an upbeat, sing-songy voice. She smiled at us, the way I would imagine she would do to most couples, calming their nerves.

“Can you see if it’s a boy or girl?” I asked. “We are really eager to know.”

“Well, Justine is.” Carl amended, stroking my cheek in the process.

“You can’t always tell. You are now, according to the scan, twelve weeks and six days – so almost 13 weeks. So it’s with about eighty per cent accuracy I can tell you. Let me see…” She continued probing my stomach. “Here I think… Yes here, looks like you are having a boy. Congratulations!”

I looked at Carl and he at me. His eyes were radiant as he brought my hand he’d been holding to his lips.

We left the clinic sharing an intimate secret no one else was privy to. It was ours and ours alone, and somehow it fused us together forming a unity beyond our mortal souls. Carl became very protective of me. Although I had stopped smoking the moment my pregnancy had been confirmed, Carl insisted on quitting too. His interests took on new directions, most notably that of organic food and alcohol-free wines. His obsessions with our baby’s health went as far as banning me from my daily gym sessions, fearing the baby would get overheated from my vigilant exercising. As I saw my weight ballooning and was not overly happy with his restrictive measures, I turned to yoga. Once again we had reached an equilibrium, which seemed to remain unthreatened.

—

Despite Carl’s concerns about my ever-increasing workload, which I barely managed through delegation to a growing team, I decided to move offices to a grand suite of rooms on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. I’d been lucky: a friend of a friend who was the owner offered me a good rental contract for a five-year period. We moved in April, which Carl insisted on overseeing given the pregnancy, which was in its fifth month. I once again conceded, knowing that there were only four months until the onset of freedom. The offices were clean but needed redecoration. It was beyond our budget, so we furnished it with 70s-style vintage finds, giving it an edgy and arty look.

The move allowed me to get out of the house and away from Carl’s concerns, and as I entered the third trimester I was feeling positively energetic and blooming. The baby, which we had provisionally named David, although we wavered in our opinion to names such as Jonathan or Christopher, was due on August 29. Right after moving office, we turned our attention to the baby room. It was to be a dream in white, blue and green. After repainting the room and installing the last furniture — a baby cot, a cupboard, a chest of drawers and a cream sofa — we stood together like the proudest of parents-to-be, gazing upon our material creation. We both knew it was just weeks before we would live through a far greater experience, the birth of our much-longed-for son. We had entered the final stretch where the weeks could be counted on two hands.

—

It was an early morning that took over from a restless night. As the weeks had progressed, sleep came in clusters of three or four hours. I would feel our baby probing and kicking, keeping me awake – yet the very same movements would lull me back to sleep. This time was different, though, and although I had slept through most of the night, it was ridden with nightmares. I was happy to be awake, praying for the light to dispel the last bit of darkness that had plagued my nocturnal mind. I probed my belly, connecting with our baby son. But there was no response. I poked and pushed, my fingertips digging into my taught, oval midriff. As I continued, without any reaction, an overwhelming sense of dread came over me. I shook my husband, who sat up with a jolt.

“What’s going on? What’s the matter?” He looked disoriented and bewildered, staring at me with wide eyes.

“Something is wrong with our baby,” I cried, almost gasping for air as I uttered the words that were the worst fear of any parents to be.

“What’s wrong, honey? Tell me.” His eyes dashed from my face to my belly.

“I can’t feel him. He’s not kicking. Something is wrong, I know it.” I cried out, one of those howls that only death can instigate. My husband threw himself on his cell phone, and within moments, although it felt like ages, he was connected to an emergency operator. I cradled my belly and felt with my fingers inside of my panties for any signs. A trickle of blood connected with my fingertips, confirming something was desperately wrong.

—

We arrived at the maternity unit in under thirty minutes. Carl tried to soothe me, but it was a half-hearted attempt as I saw what can only be described as subliminal fear in his eyes. I lied down on the examination table while the female doctor asked me a number of routine questions. How far was I in the pregnancy? Had there been any complications previously? Was there any vaginal discharge or bleeding? I answered no to all of these except for the last before she explained to me the procedure and started by turning on the Doppler heart-rate monitor.

I had heard this many times before, always assured of the swishing sounds that it transmitted. At first there was a faint sound, which she explained was the movement of embryotic fluid. She tried to locate the heartbeat, but there was none. She called for a nurse asking for an ultrasound machine to be brought in. An uncomfortable silence filled the room, but I didn’t have the bravery to break it.

“What does this mean?” Carl finally asked. I could see little pearls of sweat forming at his hairline until one escaped, eventually clinging to the edge of an eyebrow.

“We don’t know yet. I need see the results of the ultrasound before I can say more.”

“But it doesn’t look good, does it?”

The doctor waited for a short moment before answering, “No, no it doesn’t.

I was glad for Carl to quit his inquiries when the ultrasound machine rolled in. The doctor told me to relax while she conducted the exam. She could turn away the screen if I didn’t want to see it, but I told her I wanted to. From this moment on Carl was to be excluded from a road exclusively travelled by women. His questions and opinions carried little weight, as I took centre stage to events that paradoxically were outside of my control.

“I am sorry Mrs Bertrand, but there is no sign of your baby’s heartbeat. We will do a final test measuring your hCG levels to determine a possible miscarriage.” She asked the nurse who was now on standby to prepare for a blood test, which would be sent to the lab for analysis straight away.

I was given a private room in the maternity ward, safely away from any confrontation of childbirth and its aftermath. They hooked me onto a drip and a nurse came to check for any foetal heart rate every other hour. But I knew in my heart my baby was lost, lying still and lifeless inside my broken womb.

—

The final results, and what seemed like a coup de grâce to our parental desires, came the following morning when a male obstetrician who I’d not encountered previously came in to inform us of the news we’d dreaded. The baby had died for unknown reasons and we would have to prepare ourselves for the birth. I looked away, gazing as far as I could into the Paris skyline that graced my view. And so I can hardly remember what was being said. Only that the birth was to take place the following day.

—

Although I was given the choice, I was told it would be better for my physical as well as mental wellbeing if I opted for a natural birth. Despite what my fears might have been previously when I’d insisted on a Caesarean, I gave way. Little else mattered and somehow I hoped the mental pain could be obliterated by that of the physical. They induced the labour around midday, breaking the water through a rupture to the amniotic sac, bringing with it a strand of our baby’s hair.

“Your baby has brown hair,” he said. Despite the sadness that I felt — the sadness we all felt — it gave us a glimmer of hope. In the end of it all a little gift would be born, straight into heaven.

—

At 2 PM I was ready to push, holding my thighs wide apart through the soaring pain that now had moved from my lower back down the birth canal and to the opening. It only took five pushes, and a little baby boy, clad in white mucus but perfectly complete, entered this world. What struck me the most was the silence. There were no rushing or hushing, no cheers of joy. And most poignant of all, there were no baby cries. I was cheated the cries I had eagerly anticipated for seven months. They placed our little son, who looked so small yet so perfect, on my chest. An overwhelming sense of love washed over me, so profound there are no words for it. I kept rocking our son, back and fourth, telling him I would never leave him, despite knowing I could not uphold such promise.

We decided to call our baby Emmanuel, not the name we’d previously agreed on. It seemed fitting as it meant God is with us — the only consolation we now hung on to. The next hours were spent in his company, as he laid fully dressed in clothes that seemed more fitting for a doll. The nurse took prints of his hands and feet, and a piece of the little hair he was born with was cut off for keepsake. We made a book from it, and now as I face the prospects of divorce, I wonder who will get to keep it.

We were allowed to keep Emmanuel for one night before saying our final goodbyes. I slept deeply that night. Finally at peace. The next morning I woke up early and instinctively turned to my son, who was now a purple grey. I took him to my chest, kissing his little blue lips. They were so cold to the touch. I recall thinking that whenever I would touch something cold again it would remind me of kissing my beautiful son. To this day it still does.

—

Emmanuel was buried five days later at the Grenelle cemetery. He was interred into the family mausoleum with the words “If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever”.

Monday, February 1, 2010

I have nightmares. Dark, unsettling, they overwhelm me, taking a firm grip over my own reality. I dream of a man, bearing a close resemblance to the taxi driver, yet I know it’s not him. He asks me to follow him into the woods. I hesitate and he asks, “Don’t you trust me?” His eyes look sad and I feel sorry for him. So I follow, against my better judgement. We come to a little cabin that has a padlock on the door. He opens it and tells me to step inside. It’s dark, there are shutters over the windows and only a few dots of light have managed to penetrate, now dots of sunlight on the wooden floor. He closes the door behind me and I feel a hand over my mouth. He pushes a dirty cloth into it before shoving me to the floor. A blade flashes and I feel an immense soaring pain. I wake up with a muted scream. It’s dark and the street is still quiet. Carl is asleep, turned away from me. He must have come back late as I can’t recall his return. I watch him for a while, tracing his pale back with my eyes. In contrast to my own emotional turmoil, he looks peaceful and serene. Like the tribulations of last year haven’t even touched him. I envy his calm in a time I’m convinced I’m about to lose it all, including my sanity.

I go downstairs to make myself some coffee. I’m not sure if it’s the caffeine or just the unsettling dream, but I’m wide awake. So I go back to my drawing board, continuing to make connections between victims and perpetrator. There are a few things that have come to light:

-       Marie Laroche and Leila Girard had been roommates and worked at the same establishment. Leila knew a Madame Douleur, who had also been a roommate.

-       Leila had a regular client, a young man, tall with dark wavy hair. Possibly a student and/or artist. He was never seen again after her disappearance.

-       Jean-Marie was a man linked to Catherine, the 7^th murder victim. Then in his mid-to-late forties, around 1.70 metres with a slim frame. He was possibly seen years later in a bar in Pigalle.

-       Catherine frequented some high-society parties. These appear to be linked to sex parties at a Parisian apartment. Taxi driver Davids alludes to a sex ring, which revolved/revolves around hardcore/extreme sex.

-       Apartment – could it be160 Rue de l’Université?

There are several loose ends to be investigated and, after considering my notes, I decide to start with Madame Douleur. She proves easy to find, as sex, mainstream or not, always advertises itself on the web. Madame Douleur has one of those amateur websites that sprang up in the wake of the internet boom. It’s simple HTML 4.0, but has indexed well over time under keywords such as Paris Porn, French Dominatrix and Paris BDSM. It’s a dark website — in many ways suitable to what it promotes — with white contrasting text and some flashing stars that pain my eyes. There are several pictures of Madame Douleur, each in a variation of the same outfit: a PVC catsuit without the tail. Probing further, I find a whole gallery with Madame in action, subjecting her voluntary victims to great pain. Their eyes are obscured with black stripes, but one can still discern the feeling of pleasure and pain mixing in their facial expressions.

I search further for contact details, but there is only a contact form available. I fill this out, asking her for a private audience concerning a matter of great urgency. I end it with my newly acquired alias: Severine.

To my surprise I receive a response only minutes later. Madame Douleur would like to know more. I shoot off an email, explaining my investigation and that I got her details through Mademoiselle Dehasse. I sign it off with my real signature, giving further credence to my inquiry.

This time there is no response. I decide to leave it, and I’m just about to log off when I hear someone behind me. Carl is standing in the doorway, leaning against its frame.

“Honey,” I start with an expression of surprise, “I didn’t see you.” He mutters something inaudible and walks away. I follow the echo of his padding feet against the wooden floor until it ebbs out. Moments later I hear rummaging in the kitchen.

Sunday, January 31, 2010

I’m sitting at Café Marie on Rue de Chabrol. It’s 10 minutes to four as I’ve made sure I’m early. There are not many people on the premise. A young man in his mid-twenties is standing behind the counter. He looks to be Algerian, which I ascertain to be a correct assumption as behind him hangs a poster of the Martyrs Monument in Algiers. One other client sits in a corner reading a newspaper while drinking mint tea. When the Algerian asks what I would like I order the same.

The taxi driver comes in nearly half an hour later. He throws a quick glance at the wall clock before apologizing for being late. I tell him it’s fine and he takes a seat in front of me. I notice he’s been drinking. His breath smells of hard liquor, vodka I think, but I’m not sure. For the first time I’m getting a good look at his face. His features are heavy yet pleasant to watch. He could be an ageing businessman, if it weren’t for his tell-tale red nose that seems so out of place. This also confirms my first impression. His eyes are droopy yet kind, and his cheeks puffy with heavy nasal folds. His mouth is full, lending him an almost feminine appearance. It is a likable man that looks back at me. I ask him if he would like something to drink and he puts up a request for a Schweppes Bitter Lemon. I call for the man behind the counter who takes the order. He nods at the taxi driver, acknowledging an, if however slight, acquaintance.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” I ask. There is officially a smoking ban in France, but there are places where such restrictions are not given much heed. This is one of them.

“I stopped years ago. It was my doctor. Told me I had two problems: my cholesterol and my nicotine. I used to roll my own, you see.” I immediately think to myself that he has left out one crucial fact: the alcohol. For whatever reason, this is a vice that he prefers to keep to himself.

“So you want to hear what I know, right? Madame…?”

“Justine Bertrand. Call me Justine. “

“Edgar Davids.” He stretches out his hand and I take it.

“Like the football player?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly, like the football player indeed.” To which he breaks into rather jovial laughter.

We go on chit-chatting, carefully avoiding the topic, although Monsieur Davids has already mentioned it. Somehow I find it difficult to raise the subject, until out of the blue Davids exclaims, “Did you know, she used to sit at this very table? Having her late-morning breakfast. Or brunch, as the Americans say.” He chuckles at his ingenuity. Something he does more often during the course of conversation.

“How did you meet?” I ask.

“She was my neighbour. Moved in around Christmastime the year before. I saw her carrying boxes up and down and offered to help. There wasn’t a lot of furniture though, just some carton boxes, a bed, table, chairs and TV. But it was late and the lift was of course very small, so we were both dirty and hungry by the time all of it was upstairs. I offered her a shower, which she accepted. Then I cooked us some dinner. Eventually we ended up talking until the wee hours of the morning.”

“Sounds like you became quite close rather quickly.”

“Yes, in fact, we did. Especially in the beginning. She needed some help with shelves and lamps, installing a washing machine, that sort of things.” He takes a few gulps from his soda, then releases a burp, which he pardons before continuing, “I was happy to help out. She was a lovely girl.”

“Did you know about her background, what she was doing back then?”

“No, of course not. I had my suspicions, but I only found out after a ride where I dropped off a client at a side street of Rue St-Denis. She was there, applying her trade. Not dressed as most girls were. Very conservative, actually: just jeans and a t-shirt. I always saw her like that so I never really made the connection. But in any case, she didn’t see me and it wasn’t until a few weeks later when she knocked on my door to fix a light switch that we started to talk about it.”

“How did you manage to bring up something of such delicate nature?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Didn’t want to insult the girl. But eventually I summoned up courage and told her I had seen her talking to a punter in a car.”

“How did she react?”

“At first with silence. Then she started to talk. We ended up having dinner that evening. First time — and only time as I come to think about it — that she cooked for me. Although her story wasn’t perhaps unusual, it wasn’t the typical one either. Both her parents were alive, and by the sounds of it, she had a good relationship with them. She came from Marseille — but I think I told you that already. Had a boyfriend there who had gotten them into some trouble. Some loan sharks she told me. I got the feeling he might have been connected with the mafia. Or at least on the wrong side of what is right. She left for Paris, figuring she would earn more without putting shame on her family. She made it sound so easy, but I don’t think it was. It never is for these girls.”

“No, I suppose not,” I concede.

“So tell me, you mentioned seeing Catherine with someone around the time she disappeared.”

“Yes, that’s right. Well, it was a few weeks before her disappearance. I met her downstairs as I was walking out the front door. She was on her way in, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. Trailing her was a man, maybe late forties, perhaps somewhat older.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, usually I don’t recall someone’s face after such a long time, but then I saw him again, it must have been a year or two later. I was in a bar in Pigalle watching a football game and I see this man, spitting image, sitting in a corner with a girl. I watched him for some time, which must have made him uneasy, and soon afterwards they left, their drinks barely touched.”

“Do you still recall how he looked?”

“Yes, I do as a matter of fact. He was quite short, perhaps 1.70, slim, salt-and-pepper hair. And I know this sounds like any average Joe, but what set him apart was his moustache. Who wears moustache nowadays?” He flays with his arms. Short, fierce gestures  — like an Italian would do at such banality.

“What was his name again?”

“Jean-Marie — like my father.”

“Is there anything else you can remember? Did she ever talk about having a boyfriend or lover?”

He looks at his hands, which he holds in a sturdy grip, one wrapped around the other. “I don’t know. Perhaps she might have. I think I did see her one time before what was to be the last. I recall asking her about the man she’d been with and she smiled. Said it was early days but things were looking good. She even considered quitting the streets. I can’t recall how we ended the conversation, but I don’t think there was more to it.”

“And then she vanished?”

“Yes, the she vanished…I suppose a day or two after the last time I saw her. She was in a hurry. We didn’t really talk apart from saying hello.”

“Did you hear anything after that? Noise from her apartment?”

“No, nothing. Not until the police started to nose around.”

I nod in an attempt to show both understanding and gratitude for the information he’s provided.

“And what about the other girls? Did you know any of them?”

“No, one or two looked familiar. Might have seen them around or had them in my cab.”

“Mmm,” I nod again.

“Do you know of a Madame Douleur?

“Who doesn’t? She’s a famous Mistress in the BDSM scene. How come you ask?”

“Well…” I catch myself changing my mind about what I am about to say. “Perhaps I should tell you a little bit more about my inquiries.” He doesn’t say anything, but I can see from his eyes he’s listening.

“Some time ago, I found a necklace supposedly belonging to Catherine.” I get my phone out and flick through the images until I find the one I’m looking for.

“Here,” I show him. He takes the phone from my hand, studying the image. “Did you ever see Catherine wearing it? If you look at the next picture you can see an inscription with her name.” He tries to scroll to the next image, but accidently goes too fast and skips it.

“What’s this?” he asks, showing me an image with all the jewellery side by side.

“Well, that’s something I’d like to know too. It was shown to me by someone I know. Catherine’s necklace together with other jewellery found in a secret chamber beneath a basement here in Paris. In the Paris catacombs.”

“Holy Mary, you’ve got to be joking!” He looks honestly surprised.

“No, I wish…but I’m not. I am now investigating it. My background is in historical investigations. I run my own company providing such services.” I hand him my card. He places it between his thumbs and index fingers, studying it at length. I can see any apprehension he had about this conversation is dissipating.

“Justine — if I may call you by your first name. There is one thing you should perhaps know. I am not sure if it’s of any importance or value to you, but it’s the only thing I’ve carried with me, not having the balls, I suppose, to come forward with it.” He’s reaching for his glass of soda but discovers it is empty.

“Mahmoud, a Stella Artois please.” He waits for his beer to arrive before continuing.

“Well, as I said, Christine and I became quite close. I cooked for her numerous times, and on a few occasions she disclosed some things that, if I think about it now, she might not have intended to. But I think I was one of the few she could really confide in. Anyways, whatever the reasons, she told me – and this must have been a few months before her murder – that she had been invited to some parties that were frequented by people in the high society, the establishment so to speak. I am not sure how she knew this because she never seemed particularly interested in politics and that sort of things. At first they were regular parties, more like cocktail parties, from what I understand. But later they seemed to have turned into something more sinister. She told me, being a bit tipsy, as we’d both had our fair share to drink that evening, that there was this location, an apartment in Paris, she’d been invited to. She said she felt uneasy there, and I asked her why. She told me it was a sex party, but not the normal kind. I asked her again what she meant and she said something like, “Think about sex where everything goes. Everything.” I told her to get out of whatever she had gotten herself into, but she said she couldn’t. She had already seen too much. I asked her what but she wouldn’t say.”

“Why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

“Because they are already involved.”

“You mean like a sex ring?” He nods and I can see fear in his face. He clams up after this. I ask a few more questions to which he only nods or hums in acknowledgement. The whole conversation fizzles out and, a little after five, we part ways. He asks me to keep his name and information confidential and I promise I will.

I decide to walk home to clear my mind, which is in disarray. I feel like I am being drawn into something dark and sinister beyond my control. The little light that is still shining over the union of Carl and I is rapidly fading, leaving us in the shadows of its once radiant luminescence. With my husband slipping away — the only one able to save me — the force that pulls me can no longer be kept at bay.

The weather has turned mild, a consequence of the dense mist that has moved inland. Despite the poor visibility I continue on foot. People as well as buildings appear greyed out, as I walk in this city of ghosts. Sound carries with greater speed than visuals, which only become apparent at close range. I can hear a couple arguing, the woman shouting in an attempt to vocally overpower what I presume is her boyfriend. I must have startled her as I pass because she stops in her tracks, only to resume at a safe distance.

I’m home some two hours later. There is a voicemail from Carl explaining he will be home late. He sounds sombre and dismal, yet ends his short monologue with “I love you”. If loneliness were a tangible substance, it would be thick enough to cut with a knife. I sit down on our bed, contemplating whether I should call my husband and come clean. But fear is stronger than reason, so I click the call away before a connection is made.

2007

We threw ourselves into work with great intensity and vigour. I didn’t see much of Carl as we both kept odd hours. My focus became my business, which grew in assignments. It generated a comfortable income, sustaining a not-too-overly ambitious lifestyle, with wine, cigarettes and dining out as our only foibles. I recruited my first assistant and later on my first fulltime researcher to support my workload. At this point we were still small enough to work out of my house, the souterrain level appointed as our workspace. I worked diligently, often waking up before eight o’clock to the sound of my husband’s departure, upon which I would pull out my laptop from underneath the bed and go through my emails. After a small break for a shower and breakfast I would descend the exactly forty-four steps and greet my staff, who had arrived in the last hour. I suppose they became my extended family, accompanying me to afternoon gym sessions and Thursday dinners. I would often stay late in the office, and only very rarely would my husband visit me. More often that not, we would meet in bed, only to find one of us sleeping. As we lived our lives in parallel, our weekends became our only time for marital bliss. But bliss and felicity soon turned into affliction and woe as we drifted further and further apart as husband and wife, and perhaps more so as man and woman. Soon even our weekends were spent independently, pursuing our diverse interests that never seemed to coincide.

—

One morning, I woke up later that usual. I realised I hadn’t heard the door slam, a sound that had become louder and louder with time. I walked downstairs to find my husband regarding a cup of coffee with great intensity.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, after taking a seat across from him. He remained utterly silent for what seemed like minutes and continued to observe the cup of coffee, which had by now been emptied of its contents.

“Are you going to talk to me?” I tried again. This time he looked up, his eyes red and sunken, as if he’d spent his night in unrest or just been crying. I was afraid both were true.

“I want a divorce,” he said in a quiet almost inaudible voice.

“I’m sorry?” I responded, not knowing if I heard him right.

“I want a divorce,” he repeated, this time with more strength and resolve. My heart started to pound and, if I hadn’t been sitting down, I am sure I would have fainted, because I could feel the blood leaving my head and, for a moment, my focus blurred. As much as I tried I couldn’t come up with a response, eventually conjuring up a lame, “But why?”

“This is not what I want,” he replied.

“What is not what you want?” I retorted.

“This, us, how we live our lives.”

“Do you still love me?” My heart was beating even faster now in anticipation of the final death knell. He waited for a long time before answering, but his answer only bewildered me more.

“Yes.” He waited before adding, “But it’s not going to work. Not like this, anyways.” I wanted to take his hands from his cup, circle them with mine, but decided against it. Instead we sat in silence until our housekeeper walked in.

“I’ve got to go,” he concluded. Moments later I heard the door. This time it was a mere click.

—

I couldn’t leave what had just happened behind me, but I forced myself to get on with my day, which included an all-important meeting with a potential client. I cancelled my later appointments and entered our living quarters before the workday was over, anticipating my husband’s arrival at any moment. But he never came home and my calls were rejected. It was only hours later, as I rummaged through his personal belongings, that I noticed his suitcase was gone along with some clothes, aftershave and his toothbrush. There was no letter or note, just an empty feeling of loss.

I continued to leave numerous messages on his voicemail, and when I called his work I was told he was off on personal leave. No further explanation was given, and I realised I was in for a waiting game until he decided to contact me.

He came back on the Sunday, four days after his departure. Instead of using his key he knocked on the door. It was raining and his hair was curly from the drizzle.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, opening the door enough to allow him to pass through. His bag brushed by my leg and I stretched my hand out to take it, but it remained in my husband’s firm grip.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” he admitted, allowing a brief smile to escape his lips.

We walked into the kitchen and I fried up some deep-frozen pyttipanna, which we’d bough en masse on an earlier IKEA visit. We ate in silence, occasionally stopping for a sip of wine.

Upon finishing, I pushed my plate to the side and reached out my hands towards my husband’s. He hesitated for a moment before responding. I rested my hands in his, squeezing my fingertips into his palms. Not knowing what to say, I said just that. A faint smile passed his lips.

“I don’t know either.”

“I still love you,” I countered.

“I still love you too.”

“I want to make this work,” I pleaded. “Spend more time together, re-evaluate our priorities, our future.”

“Yes. But it’s not going to be easy, though. We both need to change.”

“I know,” I agreed, yet not fully knowing what he meant.

—

Change did come, although not exactly in the way I had anticipated. We turned a new leaf, cut down on our work hours, and spent more time in each other’s company. The love that had once been so evident returned, and as spring turned into summer, l’amour was in full bloom. Carl would surprise me with improvised dinners, and I would take him on excursions beyond Paris’ typical tourist attractions. I would tell him of history less known, recounting Marie-Antoinette’s last days in the Conciergerie, the so-called antechamber to the guillotine, or the murder of Marat forever epitomized by the hands of David. Or the story of the vanishing hotel room during the Paris 1889 exhibition. It welded our worlds and interests once more to something unique and unparalleled and only shared by the two of us.

I can’t recall the exact moment of our decision, but during one of our intimate talks that had by now supplanted the void once there, we decided to try for a baby. We were both ready to take on the commitment that parenting required, and perhaps for more self-serving reasons, create a legacy beyond ourselves. I set out with great enthusiasm, measuring hormone levels whilst being extra vigilant to that familiar pang of pain that would announce an imminent ovulation. I would call my husband, requiring his prompt attendance, and any planned engagements would be subsequently cancelled. Although I could work up arousal on demand, Carl could not, and I knew I was treading a thin line, balancing the act of requirements with buoyance. But four months later, we had seemingly done the impossible, and yet again I was staring down at two stripes of blue.

September – November 2006

Three months after our wedding we booked an impromptu honeymoon to India. Our funds were limited, so with two backpacks filled to the brim with shorts and t-shirts, flip-flops and a second-hand Lonely Planet, we arrived at Delhi Airport in the midst of September. The monsoon season was waning and the temperatures were still hovering above the mid-twenties.

We landed in the early evening at the capital airport. The arrival hall was overcrowded as we tried to push past businessmen, backpackers and a third category I simply couldn’t put a label to. After much hustling we made our way to the exit. The first thing that hit me was the earthy heat followed by the smell. A sweet smell mixed with sweat and dirt. Then came the crowd. A wall of flesh descending upon us, we navigated through endless bodies of people and cattle. I let Carl lead the way until he came upon a rickshaw. I’m not sure who was more happy about our chance meeting, the driver or us. In any case, he whisked us away for a fare of ten Rupees, most likely overpriced, but our gratitude knew no bounds.

When we arrived at the hotel it was dark. The street bustled with people, mixing locals with travellers. Every single rambling house had been converted to a guesthouse with the exception of a few small restaurants that lined the street. The rickshaw driver pulled over and brought us to the reception where he talked to the manager. I saw money exchanging hands before he left us to our fate. The man at the reception asked for our passports and took our most significant details. We paid three days up front for a room with air-conditioning and a communal shower and toilet. Our quarter was small, little larger than the double bed that was parked in one corner, leaving less than four square metres of surface for our belongings. But it was clean, with the exception of a few cockroaches that crawled our walls.

Hunger was permeating my stomach, stirring up a rumbling, churning noise. It was already past midnight and most restaurants were long since closed. But we found a little stall that served scrambled eggs on white bread. I had three before my hunger pangs were satisfied.

—

I don’t think anything prepared me for life as a backpacker. We were both inexperienced, far removed from the hippy and drug-infested traveller communities that had taken over the Indian peninsula. I smelled the sweet odour of marijuana at every block and corner, despite the lingering promise of police clampdowns. But as the weeks went by, we were slowly assimilated into the subculture of backpackers and runaway Westerners that had made India their refuge. Cliques of people came together around various interests and backgrounds. The French kept mostly to themselves, and so did the Germans. The Brits were all over the place, the loudest and most conspicuous of them all. They mixed with the Scandinavians, the Dutch, the Australians and Israelis. And so did we.

—

Carl smoked his first joint three weeks into our travels. We had reached Varanasi, the most holy of cities in India. The place where the wheels of reincarnation stopped in their tracks and Atman, the soul, was allowed to escape and join the supreme universal spirit of Brahman. Our journey had gone through Agra and the majestic mausoleum of the Taj Mahal. We had relived the last days of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan as he spent his final years condemned to watch his lifework from a single room in the Red Fort.

We had just arrived at the Yogi Lodge, a travellers’ haven in the hotel district of Varanasi. It was simple, almost spartan, but cheap yet clean. It was incredibly warm and the humidity had been rising in the wake of a rainfall. We dropped off our luggage and followed the breeze, which was sweeping down a staircase to us. At the top a large roof terrace opened to a view overlooking the crowded streets in the west and the deserted shores in the east. Three men and a woman, all dressed in washed-out t-shirts and knee-length shorts, were sitting around a table playing cards. They looked at us for a brief moment before returning to their game. We sat down at a table to their right, ordering two mango lassis. I brought out a second-hand paperback I’d picked up at a book stall whilst in Delhi. Carl was taking pictures, first of me, but when I waved him away, placing my hand demonstratively in front of my face, he turned to the vast urban scenery unfolding beneath him.

I must have forgotten about time because the sun was setting and Carl had joined the group of travellers next to us. If the game had ended recently, I missed it, but the cards were gone from the table and tobacco, rolling papers and what looked like weed had taken its place. The first joint passed around the table, as if it were a holy communion shared amongst the congregation. I saw my husband taking it, puffing a few times before passing it on to the girl next to him. She laughed at him, exposing him as a newcomer to the illicit world of drugs. I could see him blushing, before he took another spliff. I called for him, but he didn’t answer me, being deeply engrossed in some conversation, which seemed funny only to the ones initiated. Eventually I left, but he didn’t seem to notice.

—

I woke up sometime after 2 AM. I could hear people shouting in German: “Scheiße, Scheiße, Scheiße! Du bist so ein Idiot!”

A door slammed before tranquillity once more returned, with the exception of a humming fan that rotated in a loopy circle. I turned to my right, but I already knew instinctively that Carl was not there. I looked for his bag but it was gone. Carl had never made it back to the hotel room.

At first I thought it was a simple case of a fun evening being prolonged into the wee hours of the morning. So I went upstairs, only to find the roof terrace deserted. I returned to the hotel room to check if he had come back while I was away. But the room was in an equal state of abandonment as the terrace had been. I walked downstairs to the reception. The night manager was sleeping on a futon but woke up with a start as I neared him.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asked in a distinct Indian accent.

“I hope so,” I replied in a voice that might have come across as rather smug. “My husband, tall, brownish hair, Swedish, was on the roof terrace but he never came back to our room.”

“Have you tried to call him?”

“Yes,” I lied, in the hope of exposing any transgression on my husband’s part without prior notification.

“And he’s not picking up?”

“That’s right,” I lied again.

“Well, I did see some people leave the terrace about an hour ago. They were the only ones left.”

“Do you know where they left to?”

“I don’t think they left the building.” He was quite stringent with his information.

“Can you give me their names, room numbers perhaps?”

“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t do that. If you’d like to leave a message for your partner I’d be happy to take one.”

“No, it’s fine. Leave it.” Expecting the worst, I set out to track any voices emitting from behind closed doors. Like a thief in the night I treaded the corridors, listening in on every sound and conversation. Most rooms were quiet with the exception of a faint whooshing sound from the ceiling fans. Two couples were making love, one louder than the other. I placed my ear against the doors, but when this wasn’t enough, looked for cracks to gain visual leeway. But the sounds were unfamiliar and I pressed on without any luck. I completely lost track of time and, after searching through the whole building like a mad woman, I realised it was past 3 AM. Exhausted, yet wary and alert, I returned to our room expecting it to be empty. To my relief it was not. On crumpled sheets I could trace the outline of my husband’s body. Pearls of sweat glistened in the sliver of light emitting from the door opening. I could hear a faint moan from his lips.

“Justine…”

“Yes honey, I’m here.” I rushed to him, placing my hand on his forehead. It was hot and moist.

“Babe, you gotta help me. I think I’m dying.” He sounded drugged.

My mind was making loops, going back some ten years to my biology classes. I recalled something about THC, the active substance of marijuana and hashish, breaking down fat cells in our body and brain, creating hallucinations, and that coca cola or, if all else failed, sugar water or bread, would combat the worst peaks until the toxin dispersed.

“Honey, I’m going to be right back. You just stay put,” I assured him. As I ran down the stairs to the man at the reception, I heard Carl calling for me. There was a loud thump followed by silence. For a moment I hesitated, about to turn around, but decided against it and ran as fast as my legs could bear.

The night manager was already on his feet, as he had most likely heard my frantic steps.

“I need your help,” I begged, placing my hands on my knees while panting from my sprint.

“What’s this about?” the little man barked, showing enough anger in his voice to make me choose my next words more carefully.

“My husband has got something accidently stuck in his throat. I need something to drink, Coke preferably.” His narrow eyes watched me and I could feel the scepticism before knowing his reply.

“Does this have anything to do with drugs? You are aware of our no drugs policy, I hope.”

“Yes, of course. No, sir I can guarantee you we don’t take drugs. I really need just some Coke. Two or three would be fine.”

He took out three bottles from the minibar behind the reception.

“Could you make that four?” I asked sheepishly. He placed another one on the counter. I handed over forty Rupees, not bothering to wait for the change.

—

I couldn’t sleep that night. Anxious and restless, I coddled my husband as his wretched and tormented body sought comfort in mine. When the first rays of sunlight penetrated the wooden shutters, he was finally at peace. I fell asleep moments later.

—

I tried to piece together the information I got from Carl. The details were sketchy at most, but enough to get a rudimentary understanding of the sequence of events. More people had joined the roof terrace after I’d left. There were twenty, thirty people perhaps; some were dancing to Goa trance and trip-hop as a local DJ spun on the turntables. Carl ended up talking to a couple from Glasgow — Jordy and Julie. He described them as friendly but a tad odd. Living in caravans and working in a local factory, their sole mission was to save up enough money to travel for four months of the year. They referred to themselves as travellers, the heirs to the hippy culture that had sprung up in the 60s.

As the weed kept coming so did the conversation, and although Carl’s memory was failing to a large extent, he recalled challenging their beliefs that India was the mother of civilization. Sometime during their talks he was offered a piece of cake as a substitute for an absent dinner. Grateful for their generosity, he readily accepted. An hour later he started feeling strange and Jordy offered to take him to the communal bathroom for a shower.

“Justine, I can’t remember much,” Carl admitted. “But I must have been there for over an hour. Someone was banging on the door and eventually went in. I must have left the door open. He brought me to my room where I collapsed. Thank God I remembered our room number.”

I watched him. “Everything you had with you, your wallet, camera, passport. Where is it?”

He looked at me in a moment of confusion, before hurling himself out of bed searching through his clothes from the previous night. Besides a heap of flip-flops, his clothes and luckily his passport, everything was gone. I went through my own stuff, and luckily it was untouched as my backpack was resting next to my side of the bed.

So once again I went downstairs. The man who had been in the reception the previous night greeted me suspiciously. He was wearing the same beige short-sleeve shirt, brown trousers and a pair of brown leather sandals with soles that threatened to disintegrate with every step.

“How is your husband doing?”

“My husband is…is just fine.”

“Well there is an issue, sort of,” I added. “My husband had his wallet and camera stolen last night. From two of your guests.”

“OK, Miss. Let’s sit down.” He called for someone in the room behind the reception. Moments later a woman came out with a pot of chai, which she offered me. I readily accepted the generosity and took a few careful sips. The tea was burning my pallet, but it felt strangely good after a sleepless night and a residual headache.

“Miss, I know you are a very good and honest woman, so you need to tell me what has happened. It’s my lodge and I take great pride in that we are friendly, clean and, above all, honest.”

“I really don’t want to get involved with any police.”

“That’s something we all wish to avoid, Miss. Now please tell me what happened so we can find a solution to your problem.”

“My husband was on the rooftop last night. There seems to have been a party there. A DJ playing, people were gathering.”

“Yes, that’s DJ Mike. He’s very popular here and we let him play as long as he keeps the noise down.”

“Carl met a couple. They were from Gloucester or Glasgow, I don’t recall exactly. The guy was called Jordy.” I thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s right – Jordy and Julie. They talked, and I believe they offered him something to eat, and when I came back after talking to you the first time, I found him in bed. He was very ill and sweating profusely.”

“What you are describing is a very old trick. They probably gave him space cake with hashish, or LSD. It makes you hallucinate. Especially if you are not used to it. And in the meantime they take you somewhere quiet and rob you.” For a brief moment I saw anger in his face, but it soon dissipated only to be replaced by a melancholic dismay.

“Can you give me a description of the two? I will talk to Mike. He might know something.”

“Sure, I will ask Carl to come down.”

“And a word of advice, Miss. Don’t take anything that is offered to you. Travel together and always keep track of your belongings.”

“Thanks, I will.”

—

We left Yogi Lodge shortly afterwards and continued our travels southeast through Kolkata to Puri. Varanasi had left me sick enough to seek medical attention at a local hospital where I was diagnosed with giardia, a disease I never came to fully understand other than its symptoms of diarrhoea and vomiting that left me incapacitated for days. When we returned to the capital airport to leave, I was ten kilos lighter than when I started. Round scars, similar to that of cigarette burns, covered my body. They’ve since become a constant reminder of how much I hate mosquitos.

I left India with ambiguous feelings of regret and relief. As the plane left the tarmac and the Delhi skyline came into view, a series of recollections from the past month’s travels flashed before me. Impressions, smells and conversations fused, becoming synonymous with the India I’d come to know. I followed the commerce that took place beneath me until it blended with the static buildings before finally fading from view. We touched down nine hours later. It was November 9, a Thursday. I still have the denotation in my calendar.

—

Thinking back on our travels through the vast Indian subcontinent, I can’t help but feel a sense of ambivalence. There were no arguments, no disputes, yet it all felt bland and placid. Despite a myriad of experiences and impressions, it had become nothing more than a cerebral photo album that could be conjured up when my mind decided to travel down Memory Lane. Perhaps it was the first sign of relationship delinquency. If so, I choose to ignore it, and if Carl felt the same, he chose a similar path.

I walk up to a large steel-framed door. It’s painted black and contains a hatch, which I presume opens when clients call on the door. I announce myself, but the small opening never opens. The door does however, and a female bouncer in a tight-fitted black suit lets me in. She asks me to part way with a hundred euros, which she explains will cover two drinks. I pull out my purse and hand over a hundred-euro note. She scans it before accepting my contribution. She tells me that all the women are bisexual and there is a menu on every table that tells all their rates and specialties.

Despite my ongoing transformation, I feel my confidence waning. Lesbian intermezzo aside, it is a territory I am neither too familiar nor too comfortable with. Yes, there is a certain thrill watching women and even touching them, but anything beyond this leaves me cold. Yet I decide to press on. I’m here to find a connection to the world of the Reaper victims – and perhaps even to the Reaper himself.

I sit down across from an aging prostitute. She introduces herself as Blue. She is Belgian, but considers herself Parisian through and through. She lights a cigarette, exhaling the smoke away from me, so as not to bother her client.
She says, “You know you are buying my company, right? It’s 300 euros an hour.”
“Yes, it’s no problem. I’m just here to talk.”
“That’s usually what the male clients say, but I haven’t had a woman paying for those services yet. Well I suppose there’s always a first.” She looks at me intensively, as if prying into my mind for alternative motives.
“So you say you are a writer, eh? What do you write about?”
“Well, I’m investigating an old crime, which is the basis for my novel.”
“Interesting, so you are a crime writer?”
“Sort of. Have you heard of the Reaper murders?”
“Look, honey…” She shifts herself slightly forward, leaning her elbow on her knee, which is resting on her other leg. “This is not something I can or want to discuss with you. No one here will, understand?” It’s not so much of a question as an order. She stands up, stubs out her cigarette and is about to leave. I grab her arm and look at her. Perhaps it’s my pleading eyes, perhaps it’s some chemistry that, however faint, is nevertheless present. She sits down.
“I’ll pay you well. Just name your price. And your terms,” I add.
She contemplates my offer for a brief moment. “OK, 2000 euros, and my name is kept out of anything you write. I want a contract, that sort of stuff. And we talk somewhere else.”
“2000 is a lot. How do I know the information you have is worth that amount?”
“Well, you don’t. Bring 2000 euros, pay half up front and put the rest on the table. If I haven’t told you what you need to know, then I only walk away with half.”
“Just tell me, do you know a woman by the name of Mademoiselle Ava? I believe she might have worked here.”
“Look, I have the information you need. It’s your call.”
“Fair enough. Where do I meet you?”
“At my apartment. 59 Rue de Lille. I get off in two hours, so 2:30 AM. If you’re not there the deal is off. The house code is 7019A and I’m on the third floor. Dehasse.”
“All right, I’ll be there.”
“Before you leave, have one last drink, but don’t tell anyone about our conversation. OK?” She walks to the bar and I see a man in a grey suit watching her as she passes him. He stands up and walks towards her. They start chatting and before long I see them leave together. I polish off another glass of Champagne before I make my own exit. It’s another two hours until our appointment and, without purpose or direction, I aimlessly stroll the cold streets of Paris. The air is misty and it soon starts to snow.

—

Her apartment is in the 7th arrondissement, historically home to the Parisian bourgeoisie and upper classes. It surprises me to find a working girl, in the strictest sense, in this part of town. But reality is often stranger than fiction and surprises are one of life’s pleasures, making matters all the more interesting. She’s wearing a silk robe and has a turban wrapped around her head. I write it off to a recent shower. She closes the door behind me before walking ahead through the entrance to the living room. It’s white and airy with a few pieces of modern furniture spartanly gracing the room.
“I don’t have any alcohol besides a bottle of Chardonnay. It’s either that, coffee, tea or water. Your call.”
“Coffee is fine, thanks.” I sit down on a cream-coloured two-seater, listening to the sounds emanating from the kitchen area. A coffee grinder explodes the relative silence only to come to an abrupt halt. I hear cups being manhandled and then bare feet on the wooden floor. Blue stands in front of me moments later. She hands me a mug of steaming coffee without asking if I’d like sugar or cream. It bears little consequence as I take neither, but it is yet another sign of restrained hostility to my presence.
“You have a nice place here,” I start, trying to break the ice.
“Did you bring the money?”
“I did, but there is a slight problem.”
“Which is?” she cuts me off.
“I can only write you a cheque. There is no way I can get ahold of two thousand in cash before Monday. It’s up to you, but it’s my last and only offer.” I take out a cheque that I have already prepared and push it towards her. She looks at it, considering her options.
“OK,” she agrees. “So what do you want to know?”
The first question throws me off, and I realise I’m not particularly prepared for this impromptu inquisition.
“Well, like I said, I am writing a book on the Reaper murders, revisiting the case with fresh eyes. It’s, after all, more than twelve years since the last murders took place, and time does have a tendency to soften people’s motivations to stay silent.” She takes a cigarette and lights it. I feel a compulsive urge to join her, only to find myself staring at an empty pack. She pushes a pack of Marlboro Lights across the table and I gratefully help myself to one.
“Two of the victims, Marie Laroche and Leila Girard, were working at Sin City. Marie was the first victim, Leila the fourth. From what I’ve been able to ascertain they shared an apartment for a while before the murders. And they were both working at the same establishment. I came across an interview with a Mademoiselle Ava who was also a roommate. Now, it seems to me that this is more than a coincidence. Two friends, living together and working at the same place — namely, yours.” I recline into the sofa, waiting for the subject across from me to take the bait.
“You know jack shit, that’s obvious.” She shakes her head. “I will tell you what I know, and you may be surprised, but I want guarantees that my name never figures in any book.”
“You have my word, I can have my lawyer draft a contract for you if you like.”
“I usually don’t trust people, but you seem OK. Do you have an ID and a business card?”
“Sure.” I pick up my wallet once more and hand her what she’s requested. She studies them intently whilst taking a deep drag on her cigarette.
“It’s OK,” she concedes and pushes the ID back to me, keeping the business card.
“Mademoiselle Ava never did work at Sin City, or Golden Key for that matter. She’s a well-known dominatrix, not under that name of course. Everyone who is well versed in the scene knows her. She goes by the name of Madame Douleur. I am not sure if she will talk to you, and don’t think I will make an introduction. It’s not part of the deal.” I wait for her to proffer more information, not sure if this is all she has to offer me. After a drawn-out silence, Blue continues.
“I used to work at the Golden Key back in the old days. It was my first job after arriving in Paris. I came here in 1996. I was twenty years old. It was the same year as the Dutroux case exploded.”
I recall the Dutroux murders, which shook Belgian society to the core, and the country became known to the rest of the world for their paedophilic activities, running far up within the establishment. As if she can read my thoughts, she continues on the topic.
“Dutroux was, of course, on everyone’s lips at the time. I think it overshadowed the Reaper murders. It wasn’t a contest really — kids versus prostitutes. What’s more interesting?” She pauses, taking a sip of her wine before continuing, “And rightfully so. Dutroux was so horrible. The worst of the worst. It’s a stigma, a fucking black stain on the collective Belgian consciousness.” I notice her choice of words. Although her language is raw, there is something beautiful, almost elegant, to it. Like the taxi driver pondering the life choices of his long perished neighbour, I wonder what made her decide to sell herself to hordes of nameless men.
“Of course, France had its own Marc Dutroux. Remember the murders at Chateau Sautou, the Beast of Ardennes I believe they called him?” I nod. “But the world seized on Belgium as if we were a nation of perverts. I was happy to be out.” She spat out the last words, like they were venom, before continuing.
“But you know it happens everywhere. And the truth is far worse than you could imagine.”
“So did you personally know Marie Laroche and Leila Girard?” I ask.
She takes another sip of her wine before answering. “Mmm, only Leila. She was there when I started. It must have been the end of 1996. Just before Christmas.”
“Why did you start in prostitution, if you don’t mind me asking?” She stubs out her cigarette and lights another one. The question has obviously hit a nerve.
“I’m not one of those abuse stories, if that’s what you think. But we weren’t rich either. By all means no. And I was a girl with dreams. Dreamt of becoming a model one day.” She laughs at the memory, as if her ambitions and aspirations hold no anchor in reality.
“So I came to Paris to become a model. Things didn’t exactly work out as I’d planned, but a photographer that I had befriended suggested that I solicit at the Golden Key. I worked there for three years. Then went to work for another establishment, only to return again. As with modelling, I am getting old; the establishments are selective and well…I had some connections there, so I came back. I’ve been back there for four years now.”
She takes another sip of her wine before refilling her glass. Perhaps the wine is helping her talk, which by now she seems happy to do.
“I’ve been thinking of quitting. I’ve done well I think. Been saving, bought my apartment in cash a few years back. It’s time to quit I know, but I really haven’t figured out what to do next. Who wants to have an ex-hooker?” It is a rhetorical question directed at herself, I presume. I remain silent. “Perhaps I should write a book, like you. I have a lot to tell.” She chews on her lip, and emits a slightly nervous laugh, exposing for a brief moment the girl behind the hard exterior.
“Yes, I think you do,” I agree.
“In any case, you want to know about Leila. That’s why you are here, right? So, when I started working at the Golden Key there was a different owner. Not the Russian one that now owns half of the brothels in Paris. We were about thirty girls, all working different shifts. Some I saw more often than others. Some I never even met. Leila was one of the older ones. But she was popular. She had a very sweet nature and took care of the younger girls, myself included. She’d been working in the trade since an early age. She was of Moroccan descent. She told me she’d had a lot of problems with her conservative family and ran away when she was sixteen or seventeen I think. Well, very young anyways. Then she married a French guy, had a kid young. A girl. He was abusive and the kid ended up with social services. And she ended up on the streets. It’s quite sad, really.” She pauses for a moment, as if reflecting on her memory.
“She used to carry a photo of her girl. It was from when she was two or so, a sweet little toddler with dark curly hair. The picture was specked with white creases. She used to take it out a lot. She loved that girl beyond life itself.”
She remains silent for a while before continuing, “Leila told me about the murder of Marie. But back then there was no talk about a serial killer on the loose. It was just a bizarre murder. Some of the older girls knew Marie, as she had worked there only months before she was murdered. But she quit, or got fired I think. There were rumours she had taken to drugs. We do drug tests every two or three months, so I guess she was caught. Marie and Leila shared an apartment, but when she left the establishment she also packed her bags and, from what I understood, Leila didn’t hear anything about her until the murder made the headlines. There were rumours, of course, but everyone thought she had just met the wrong punter. It happens, of course.” She draws on her cigarette, letting it bring her relief.
“Was there any talk about the other murders?”
“Yes, of course, when the third victim turned up dead, decapitated like the rest, we were all spooked. It was almost like they had been executed. But it’s different working in an establishment to being on the streets. So we didn’t see a great deal of cause for concern. But with Leila’s murder this changed, of course.”
“Can you tell me more about how that happened? She wasn’t discovered until some twelve weeks later, so you must have suspected something was wrong.”
“Yes, we did. If I’m not mistaken, she went missing end of May or June. Our shifts often coincided, and I recall the night she didn’t show up. It wasn’t like her, and the manager on duty tried to call her on her cell phone, but she didn’t pick up. As security is strict, we always send someone over to the house if we don’t hear anything from any of the girls. It’s up to the girls, but they often leave a spare key with management so they can access their apartments in case something seems to be wrong. Lizette, one of the other girls, went there the following morning and discovered she wasn’t there. There was no sign of an argument or that she had left the place in a hurry. Her bag and wallet were gone and so was her jacket, but her passport was still in a drawer. We reported her missing, and at the end of the summer they found her.”
“Were there any clues as to her disappearance? Anyone she was seeing?”
“She didn’t have a boyfriend. I don’t think she ever had one after her divorce. Her husband left more than physical scars on her you see.” She looks down at her bare feet that she’s curled up on the sofa.
“Were there any regular clients she was seeing?”
“I can’t recall much, to be honest. I do remember one younger guy who would come there quite regularly. He always wanted to see Leila. Coming to think of it, I never saw him after her disappearance. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Well could be just a coincidence, but yes it does seem kind of odd. Do you remember how he looked like?”
“Average guy. Quite tall, though, with dark, wavy hair. Looked a bit like a student, artsy kind of. A little dishevelled.”
“Do you remember a name?”
“No, sorry that’s about all I can recall. You should talk to Madame Douleur. She was Leila’s only friend. As friends go.” The last remark left a sour aftertaste. Perhaps we all had that in common. The absence of friends. We continued our conversation until the wee hours of the morning. I signed the cheque and added her name to it. Only then did I find out her name was Michelle Dehasse. She asked me if she could ever call me. I told her she could. Before we parted she gave me the name of the establishment where Madame Douleur could be found. I thanked her and left, doubting if my 2000 euros had been well spent.

Saturday, January 30, 2010

I wake up late. The house is completely still and there is no sign of Carl. I step outside, carefully treading the parquet floor, trying not to make any noise. The guestroom door stands ajar, the bed has been left unmade. There is a smudged wine glass and a discarded towel, both left on a bureau. The rest the room is empty. I make my way through the house, but there is no sign of my husband or of his whereabouts. My instincts tell me this is the beginning of the end. Like those fateful events years before, I can feel his absence stronger than ever. I speculate about whether there are lovers involved, but feel the truth is of little importance. Somehow it would even be a relief, as any moral dilemma I currently battle would be made entirely superfluous. A quick calculation and I know I am self-sufficient without Carl. My house, my company are all I need. With that in mind, I promise myself to engineer my escape, or more realistically the self-chosen departure of my husband.

—

The afternoon is late and the sun has already begun to set. I work diligently on mapping timelines and events. The first picture is starting to emerge.

I’m convinced the first two victims, prior to the seven canonical ones, are unrelated. Despite both being strangled, one murder was committed in late autumn, the other in the winter of 1995. One of the victims appeared to have been robbed, and it is not known, apart from the theft of the jewellery, that the Paris Reaper was motivated by money. Furthermore, the murders were committed during the Reaper’s off season, and no decapitation was involved. Last of all, both were scantly clad, but clad nevertheless. The Reaper victims were all naked.

I cannot find sexually motivated killings of prostitutes prior to the murders, and thus believe these are probably the first ones. If so, the killer would have probably been in his twenties or thirties at the time, putting his date of birth between 1960 and 1970, with a few years’ margin. Having gathered enough information about the victims’ whereabouts during their last sightings, there seem to be no known eyewitness accounts of suspects. In fact, a few victims’ last known whereabouts are linked to their apartments. Does that mean they knew the killer?

I decide that the best starting point is Marie Laroche and Leila Girard, who according to sources had shared an apartment and also worked in the same brothel. A local paper had interviewed a Mademoiselle Ava, a woman in her early thirties who had been Marie and Leila’s roommate during a short stint in 1995. Perhaps if I can find her, she will be able to shed further light on the murders.

I call Cyril, but he is not picking up his phone. After the third call I let it go to voicemail and leave a brief message that I would like to talk to him. I wait all evening but he doesn’t return my call.

—

At ten o’clock sharp I embark on my dark-side life. I close the curtains and lock my study. There is still no sign of Carl, and yet again this concerns me little, if at all. After a shower, I dress, layer on a heavy coating of Fracas perfume and insert my feet into narrow stiletto heels. I take a cab to Rue St-Denis and ask the driver to drop me off at Sin City.
He turns around with a perplexed look. “Are you sure this is where you want to go, Madame?”
“Yes,” I respond evenly.
“I take it you don’t work in the industry.”
“No. No, I don’t.”
“It’s a terrible destiny. All those girls being trafficked from Eastern Europe and Africa.”
I nod at his remark, then add, “It’s for my research. Do you remember the Paris Reaper?”
The taxi driver, who is in his late sixties, looks at me in the rear view mirror. “Of course I do. Terrible murders. I remember it like it was yesterday. Believe it or not, I was even interviewed by the police at the time.”
“Really, how come?” I lean forward. Now I want to know more.
“Well, you see, I used to live on Rue de Chabrol and there were a lot of working girls living there at the time. I used to say hello to them. Talk to them, that sort of thing. Many were not from Paris and I think some needed a friend. Someone who cared. And trust me, there aren’t a lot of those.” He makes a turn with his car, shifting into second gear, before continuing. “I didn’t even know most of their names, but we sometimes would run into each other at the boulangerie in the morning. We sort of kept the same working hours, you know.” He pauses for a while before continuing. “But there was one girl who I knew better than any of the others. Not intimately, not that sort of thing. She was my neighbour — Catherine.”
My heart flutters, and the image of her pendant passes before my eyes, if ever so briefly.
“Catherine da Luz, right?”
“Yes, what a lovely girl! Came from the south and spoke with, you know, an Occitan accent. I remember her like it was yesterday. Long, dark, straight hair. A little bit like a model from the 70s. Well, she reminded me of a girlfriend I had in those days. Gorgeous girl.”
He stops for a moment, as if allowing himself to indulge in the faded memory of his youth.
“I wasn’t a taxi driver back then, you see. I was working for my father’s printing firm, but it was small and came on hard times, so eventually we closed our doors in the 80s, and I started to drive a taxi. C’est la vie, eh?” he shrugs, yet again seeking eye contact through the rear view mirror.
“So, do you know what actually happened to her?” I ask, carefully directing my question towards Catherine’s horrific demise.
“Well, if you are researching the murders you probably know as much as I do. Most was in the papers anyways. They found her in the outskirts of Paris. Same as the rest, with her head chopped off.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Well the police asked me the same question. Many times, I might add. For a while I thought I was a suspect, but I had alibis for several of the murders.” He pauses again before continuing. “Well, believe it or not, I was probably the last person to see her. It must have been in July, because the police came knocking shortly before Bastille Day. I hadn’t seen her for some time then, which was quite unusual, as I would catch her in the grocery store or having breakfast at Café Marie every other day. So I traced back the days and remembered seeing her a few weeks earlier when she came home late one evening. I would normally talk to her, but she was in a hurry for an appointment. She didn’t say whom she was seeing. And I didn’t think of it much. I just thought it was to meet a client. That’s what I said to the police anyways. But later I’ve come to wonder if it wasn’t someone she knew.”
“Like a boyfriend?”
“Yes, or a suitor. She was beautiful, you must know. I always wondered why she turned to prostitution. But I’ll never know, I guess.”
“Did you tell the police about your suspicion?”
“No, it came years later, actually after seeing a man in a bar that looked like someone she once brought home. Met him as she was letting him in through the door. She introduced him as Jean-Marie. I remember because it was my father’s name.”
“And this you never told the police?”
“No, I didn’t, and besides, the murders stopped. I saw the same man years later. They say serial killers never stop, so couldn’t have been him then, if you know what I mean.”
“Could you give me a description of this man?”
“Madame, I could, but we are just around the corner from where you want to be. Sin City. It’s one of the few that allow women as clients, but you probably know this already,” he chuckles heartily.
“Thank you, Monsieur. But a last question. Could we possibly meet up, let’s say tomorrow? I will naturally tell you more about my research.”
“Well, tomorrow would be Sunday and my day off, so that would actually work. It’s been a long time though, and my memory fails me at times, but if you can get past my oncoming dementia, then it would be a pleasure.”
“Good. Where could we meet?”
“Why not Café Marie on Rue de Chabrol? I can show you around a bit if you like. It might even jog my memory.”
“I’d like that very much. Shall we say four o’clock?”
He nods. “Four o’clock would be fine.”
I pay him his fee and am stepping out of the cab when he calls after me, “Now you take care of yourself! This is not a neighbourhood to be visiting at night.” I smile at him before walking the other way.

Friday, January 29, 2010

I’m sitting behind my computer, aimlessly trawling sex sites on the net. Carl left hours ago. He didn’t say goodbye, and I pretended to be asleep. You might expect me to feel guilty, but such thoughts have long since been expelled. Like a drug addict, my mind is on my next fix. Where, what and how are words frequenting my thoughts. I cancel all of my projects and tell Lucille not to expect me for the coming weeks. I fabricate a story about an improvised holiday. The mail circulates in the office and I immediately receive several replies wishing me a happy holiday. After clearing out work-related emails and handing over my most immediate tasks, I return once more to the sex sites I’ve been visiting.
I find myself strangely drawn to S&M sites, or BDSM: Bondage, Domination and Sadomasochism. I get a bizarre thrill as I watch women in humiliating and degrading positions, most of them bound whilst being fucked in all of their holes and cavities. Yes, I use such language now. The prude and demure Justine is but a memory, her place taken by her brazen, strong-headed and sexually unrestrained sister. As I scroll through the images, I masturbate until I come, imagining myself in an equally degrading position as I’m made to pleasure several men. I come in an explosion of lust, surrendering myself to exhaustion. I must have fallen asleep because I wake up to my phone going off.

—

I realise I need a suitable cover for my dark-side activities, and decide to use the Reaper murders as pretext. I take a shower and walk downstairs in my dressing gown, nursing a cup of coffee as I start the investigation. I follow the basic checklist of any research I conduct. I first start reading up on any applicable case studies and general information, in this case on Wikipedia, crime sites and casebooks dedicated to the crime. I take notes on information regarding suspects, established as well as potential victims, informants, policemen involved in the investigation, etc. I print a map and mark all the sites relevant to the crime: discovery sites, sites where the victims were last seen, work areas, living quarters, etc. From there on I dig deeper, searching independently for the facts to be revealed in the course of the research. Lastly, I start mapping events. This is done via a timeline as well as an interconnected super system of involved people, places and objects. It’s only at the last stage that the super system starts to reveal clues that can be used to form a hypothesis waiting to be proven.

I’m transfixed to the screen of my computer for the whole day, only stopping for short breaks as hunger grabs hold of me. I scan through numerous articles going back to the period of 1996 to 1998. The overall picture tallies with that of general consensus, but there are small details and variations that I note.

1.    There were two murders before the first official victim, both prostitutes and both strangled. The only suspect was a pimp connected to the women, but evidence was never strong enough to indict him.
2.    Both murders were done in haste, the bodies dumped in backstreet alleys.
3.    All of the girls except for Celine Martin and the Jane Does whose occupations couldn’t be confirmed were applying their trade in and around Rue St-Denis.
4.    The last sightings of the girls were with different men, some later offering alibis. This leads to the conclusion that the women may have visited an area with restricted public access.
5.    Two girls, Marie Laroche and Leila Girard, appear to have been close friends, sharing a flat for two years prior to the murders. They both worked at a brothel called the Golden Key, now going by the name of Sin City.
6.    Two victims where strangled prior to decapitation, the other five having their cause of death ruled as the decapitation itself.
7.    Several articles mention the women being raped prior to their death, although police sources remain silent on this. An unidentified police informant leaked to the press that all victims had been both vaginally and anally raped shortly prior to death.
8.    All victims were found naked. Their belongings were never found.
9.    Two sources, one related to a crime site and another to an anonymous crime blog, list six of the seven victims as being found with their hands tied behind their backs.
10.    A few articles include a picture of the double-headed eagle tattoo that one of the Jane Does bore. At the end of the right claw, the initials DT can be discerned.
11.    There is no mention of jewellery or any other objects taken as trophies from the victims.
12.    Speculations as to the perpetrator vary. The first two murders, which didn’t cause much of a stir beyond the unusual death by beheading, didn’t appear linked at all, and it was only after the third murder the following year that media reported of a possible serial killer. A pimp, a butcher and possibly a doctor have all been mentioned. There were also allegations of links to satanic rituals, although this has never been established.

I put my notes away, neatly transcribed into my notebook, and start mapping the names, the locations and the facts that are known to me. I work until past midnight before I surrender to sleep. I wake up to the guest bedroom door opening and closing. Then I fall asleep again. There are no dreams.

Spring 2006

It was a warm, spring day towards the end of April. I remember it as one carrying a premonition of summer. I had been helping our gardener trim the bushes and plant roses. The magnolia tree was in full bloom, scattering white and pink petals across the newly cut grass.
I spent the afternoon sprawled on the lawn reading a book. The house was quiet, Carl having left earlier for a midday appointment. I must have dozed off in the sun because I woke up to a shadow blocking the warm rays that had moments earlier lulled me to sleep. Carl was standing over me with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a picnic basket. He sat down, unfurling a blue and white tablecloth and unpacking a selection of mini pies, sausages and deep-fried shrimps, spring rolls and calamari.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, squinting my eyes against the sun.
“Well, the occasion is this.” He took out a little black box and kneeled down on one knee.
“Justine, there is something I have wanted to ask you for a long time now. You are my love, my life. My everything. I once made the terrible mistake of letting you go — under atrocious circumstances I know…but I soon realised how much I truly love you. I love you so much, Justine. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So…” He faltered momentarily before regaining his composure. “Will you marry me?” He opened the box and looked at me, smiling nervously as if hoping for the best but fearing the worst.
I can’t recall exactly what went through my mind during those few seconds. I remember I looked at the ring, a solitaire diamond with an inlay of brilliants around a band of white gold, and wanted to try it on. So I said yes. Not because of the ring, not because of anything really, apart from buying into the dream of married life until death do us part. We toasted, and kissed, and talked about our budding future. I looked at my calendar and we decided on August 19 as the date. As our finances were still under strain, it had to be a small and intimate wedding for our closest friends. I appointed myself to be in charge of the project and set out with great excitement to orchestrate the nuptials.

—

Just as any bride, I soon became engrossed in the whole affair, finding very little else mattered. Carl continued to work long hours, and I suppose he was happy to let me run the show. Occasionally I would come to him for a budget approval as costs were rising well above what we had originally agreed upon. The wedding dress was from a small atelier in le Marais, but expensive nevertheless as I sought to recreate the classic, demure style of Grace Kelly. Our wedding invitations grew too until we had well above a hundred guests. We had decided on having our wedding and reception at Château d’Esclimont outside of Paris, and with a lavish reception, dinner and party, our budget had nearly tripled, and the nuptials were threatening to financially cripple us.
I called Carl to report my findings as I was sitting at the computer shifting around numbers in spreadsheet cells in a bid to minimise the damage. Carl flew into a rage, which was both rare and unexpected, when he received the news.
“It’s not really as if it’s that bad. Eric and Marlene’s wedding was well above a hundred thousand euros,” I retorted.
“You gotta be kidding. And go figure, they both have parents…parents who can pay. Remember, my family isn’t exactly as wealthy as yours, and with you choosing to…to fritter away your inheritance on furnishings, we don’t exactly have a buffer. Jesus, Justine. What were you thinking?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have an answer. He was so right. Instead of living frugally I had spent all our savings, all for living the Parisian bourgeoisie dream.
“I don’t care what you do, but you have to stop this now. Cancel it all; we can get married in the town hall. There is no need for all this fairy tale bullshit.”
His words angered me, so I hung up on him. He didn’t call back and neither did I. Instead I went to my mother’s jewellery box, which I shoved into a sports bag before leaving the house for the nearest antique jewellery store.

It was a small shop on a backstreet not far from where we lived. The window was dressed in gold pendants, rings and earrings. I also noticed several silver and gold-plated menorahs, which together with the name Isaac Leibowitz denoted a Jewish ancestry. I stepped inside. A bell jingled as I closed the door. An old man, well into his seventies, came out from a pantry concealed with an Afghan rug.
“Bonjour!” I greeted him.
“Bonjour,” the man replied, his voice rough and metallic. I suspected he might have suffered from throat cancer.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would like to sell some of my jewellery.”
“Fine, you know you are required to ID yourself.”
“Yes, sure. That won’t be a problem. Let me see here…” I picked up the jewellery box inlayed with mother of pearl and placed it in front of the man.
“I have several necklaces, rings and brooches,” I said as I laid them one by one on the glass counter. The man picked up a magnifying glass and started to examine a gold watch before replacing it for a diamond and sapphire ring. I tried to analyse his face for any evidence of interest or enthusiasm. But he remained stern, showing little emotion at all. After five minutes of silence, he stopped.
“I think I have seen enough. Do you want to sell individual pieces or everything?”
“Everything,” I replied succinctly.
“Very well then. I am actually only interested in the diamond and emerald collar, which I can offer five thousand euros for.”
“Five thousand!” I exclaimed. “It must be worth at least three times as much. This is well below what I expected.”
“Well, this isn’t a seller’s market. You are more than welcome to go elsewhere, but I can assure you, you won’t get a better price.”
“And what about the rest?” I queried. “How much will you offer for that?” He did some calculations based on the weight he had noted down.
“Well, I can only sell a few as pieces. The rest will have to be melted down. Twelve thousand euros.” I stood there, stunned by his offer.
“I’m sorry, this is well below what I was hoping for.”
“And how much was that?”
“Well, about fifty thousand,” I snipped haughtily.
He sneered, as if this were the reaction I would get at any place I went. I started to sweat profusely and noticed my cheeks rouging as I sought to handle the situation with dignity.
“Thirty thousand?” I tried.
“Twenty,” the man countered.
“Twenty-five?”
“You are one persistent lady.” He released a sigh. ”I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you twenty-two, and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” I conceded. I handed over all the jewellery that was in the box, which he placed on a silver tray and stashed on the other side of the counter. As he took my passport and personal details, I watched the heap of precious stones and metal glimmer under a spotlight. It was the last time I would ever see them, and I made an effort to imprint the vision in my memory before it was lost to posterity.

I emerged outside, and despite the sun shining, and despite knowing that the funding had mostly been secured for my dream wedding, I registered little else than the bitter taste of regret. I didn’t tell Carl what I had done until after dinner. Perhaps it was in an attempt to break the silence that had driven a wedge between us. When I told him, he remained quiet for a few minutes before leaving the table and walking upstairs. He came down with the empty jewellery box and placed it in front of me, then he took his keys and his helmet and walked out the door. Moments later I heard the rev of the motorcycle engine. I listened to it fade away as it sped down the street.

—

Carl didn’t come home that night, and I didn’t even bother to call. I rationalised my actions as being far greater and selfless than his.
He reappeared in the early dawn, kissing me on my forehead. I lay my head in his lap, playing with the buttons on his leather jacket.
“I will get your jewellery back. I promise,” he swore. He looked stern, but I knew it was out of kindness and compassion.
“It’s fine. I’d rather get married to you. We only have two months left, so let’s not look back from here on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I whispered. He kissed me on my head again. Then he lied down next to me and we fell asleep.

—

We got married eight weeks later. It was drizzling as I made my way to a nearby church in a rented Rolls Royce. We had to circle several times around the village as we were told some of our guests were late. Robert, a very good friend of mine, was my companion and would lead me down the isle in lieu of fatherly support. He kept telling me how beautiful I looked and that I shouldn’t be nervous, but most of his wisdom was lost on me as I sat watching drops of rain trace winding trails down the passenger-side window. I breathed on the glass and drew a heart in the condensation. Someone must have seen it and decided it didn’t belong there, because it was gone when we came out.

—

I walked down the isle to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. Carl was standing to my right with his best man and male entourage. With every step I took, I felt a faint flutter in my heart, making little leaps in harmony with the peaks of the violin. I turned to reciting silly jokes in my head to counteract the tears I felt welling up behind my eyes. I looked at Carl, beaming with happiness, as I was about to become his wife. Carl returned my gaze, and overcome by emotion I saw a single tear run down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, he took my hand and we walked to the chairs placed in front of the altar.

I can honestly say I don’t remember much of our wedding. The priest might as well have been reciting in Greek, because I can only recall repeating the marriage vows and his subsequent blessing of our rings. When the ceremony was over and I was about to walk out, Carl stopped me, whispering that we were supposed to walk out last. I’ve been pondering this ever since, as I am sure the wedding couple always walks out first, followed by the congregation. Or perhaps I’ve watched too many royal weddings. Nevertheless, whoever was erroneous, we came out to the decidedly un-regal sound of plastic trumpets and paper confetti.
The weather had cleared up as we received the wedding guests on the lawn in front of the chateau. I had been on a starvation diet for months and ate several pieces of marzipan-wrapped wedding cake to compensate for my voluntary hunger strike. After wedding pictures and a short recess, we proceeded with a lavish dinner where our friends and Carl’s family gave speeches. Lastly, as coffee was being served, Carl stood up, directing his attention to me.
“Dear family and friends. I am — or shall I say, we are — so happy to have you here with us on this truly special day. It’s three years since I met this wonderful and very special woman. She walked into my life — or rather, sat next to me in a café, both of us minding our studies, when at some point I looked up and noticed this beautiful girl with her red curly hair. I’ve always been biased when it comes to redheads, so I knew it was my lucky day when she looked right back at me.” There was a burst of laughter before he continued. “As you all know — some more intimately than others — we had a whirlwind romance, which came to a brief end, before I came to my senses and came back for her.”
He paused and took a sip from his Champagne. Noticeably nervous, he licked his lips.
“Justine, you are my one and only woman. My true love, and the one I shall spend the rest of my life with. I love you so incredibly much for the warm and sensitive person you are. I love your wicked humour and funny French accent. You make my heart leap, and I honestly thought it might stop all together when I saw you in your wedding dress today. A more beautiful sight cannot be found. Justine, this song is for you, for us.”
He stretched out his hand and I stood up and went to him as Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” started to play. He wrapped me in his arms, and we danced slowly and intimately, as if there were no one else in the room. I put my head on his chest, smelling his cologne and sweat, wishing the party would come to an end.Spring 2006

It was a warm, spring day towards the end of April. I remember it as one carrying a premonition of summer. I had been helping our gardener trim the bushes and plant roses. The magnolia tree was in full bloom, scattering white and pink petals across the newly cut grass.
I spent the afternoon sprawled on the lawn reading a book. The house was quiet, Carl having left earlier for a midday appointment. I must have dozed off in the sun because I woke up to a shadow blocking the warm rays that had moments earlier lulled me to sleep. Carl was standing over me with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a picnic basket. He sat down, unfurling a blue and white tablecloth and unpacking a selection of mini pies, sausages and deep-fried shrimps, spring rolls and calamari.
“What’s the occasion?” I asked, squinting my eyes against the sun.
“Well, the occasion is this.” He took out a little black box and kneeled down on one knee.
“Justine, there is something I have wanted to ask you for a long time now. You are my love, my life. My everything. I once made the terrible mistake of letting you go — under atrocious circumstances I know…but I soon realised how much I truly love you. I love you so much, Justine. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. So…” He faltered momentarily before regaining his composure. “Will you marry me?” He opened the box and looked at me, smiling nervously as if hoping for the best but fearing the worst.
I can’t recall exactly what went through my mind during those few seconds. I remember I looked at the ring, a solitaire diamond with an inlay of brilliants around a band of white gold, and wanted to try it on. So I said yes. Not because of the ring, not because of anything really, apart from buying into the dream of married life until death do us part. We toasted, and kissed, and talked about our budding future. I looked at my calendar and we decided on August 19 as the date. As our finances were still under strain, it had to be a small and intimate wedding for our closest friends. I appointed myself to be in charge of the project and set out with great excitement to orchestrate the nuptials.

—

Just as any bride, I soon became engrossed in the whole affair, finding very little else mattered. Carl continued to work long hours, and I suppose he was happy to let me run the show. Occasionally I would come to him for a budget approval as costs were rising well above what we had originally agreed upon. The wedding dress was from a small atelier in le Marais, but expensive nevertheless as I sought to recreate the classic, demure style of Grace Kelly. Our wedding invitations grew too until we had well above a hundred guests. We had decided on having our wedding and reception at Château d’Esclimont outside of Paris, and with a lavish reception, dinner and party, our budget had nearly tripled, and the nuptials were threatening to financially cripple us.
I called Carl to report my findings as I was sitting at the computer shifting around numbers in spreadsheet cells in a bid to minimise the damage. Carl flew into a rage, which was both rare and unexpected, when he received the news.
“It’s not really as if it’s that bad. Eric and Marlene’s wedding was well above a hundred thousand euros,” I retorted.
“You gotta be kidding. And go figure, they both have parents…parents who can pay. Remember, my family isn’t exactly as wealthy as yours, and with you choosing to…to fritter away your inheritance on furnishings, we don’t exactly have a buffer. Jesus, Justine. What were you thinking?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have an answer. He was so right. Instead of living frugally I had spent all our savings, all for living the Parisian bourgeoisie dream.
“I don’t care what you do, but you have to stop this now. Cancel it all; we can get married in the town hall. There is no need for all this fairy tale bullshit.”
His words angered me, so I hung up on him. He didn’t call back and neither did I. Instead I went to my mother’s jewellery box, which I shoved into a sports bag before leaving the house for the nearest antique jewellery store.

It was a small shop on a backstreet not far from where we lived. The window was dressed in gold pendants, rings and earrings. I also noticed several silver and gold-plated menorahs, which together with the name Isaac Leibowitz denoted a Jewish ancestry. I stepped inside. A bell jingled as I closed the door. An old man, well into his seventies, came out from a pantry concealed with an Afghan rug.
“Bonjour!” I greeted him.
“Bonjour,” the man replied, his voice rough and metallic. I suspected he might have suffered from throat cancer.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would like to sell some of my jewellery.”
“Fine, you know you are required to ID yourself.”
“Yes, sure. That won’t be a problem. Let me see here…” I picked up the jewellery box inlayed with mother of pearl and placed it in front of the man.
“I have several necklaces, rings and brooches,” I said as I laid them one by one on the glass counter. The man picked up a magnifying glass and started to examine a gold watch before replacing it for a diamond and sapphire ring. I tried to analyse his face for any evidence of interest or enthusiasm. But he remained stern, showing little emotion at all. After five minutes of silence, he stopped.
“I think I have seen enough. Do you want to sell individual pieces or everything?”
“Everything,” I replied succinctly.
“Very well then. I am actually only interested in the diamond and emerald collar, which I can offer five thousand euros for.”
“Five thousand!” I exclaimed. “It must be worth at least three times as much. This is well below what I expected.”
“Well, this isn’t a seller’s market. You are more than welcome to go elsewhere, but I can assure you, you won’t get a better price.”
“And what about the rest?” I queried. “How much will you offer for that?” He did some calculations based on the weight he had noted down.
“Well, I can only sell a few as pieces. The rest will have to be melted down. Twelve thousand euros.” I stood there, stunned by his offer.
“I’m sorry, this is well below what I was hoping for.”
“And how much was that?”
“Well, about fifty thousand,” I snipped haughtily.
He sneered, as if this were the reaction I would get at any place I went. I started to sweat profusely and noticed my cheeks rouging as I sought to handle the situation with dignity.
“Thirty thousand?” I tried.
“Twenty,” the man countered.
“Twenty-five?”
“You are one persistent lady.” He released a sigh. ”I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you twenty-two, and that’s it. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” I conceded. I handed over all the jewellery that was in the box, which he placed on a silver tray and stashed on the other side of the counter. As he took my passport and personal details, I watched the heap of precious stones and metal glimmer under a spotlight. It was the last time I would ever see them, and I made an effort to imprint the vision in my memory before it was lost to posterity.

I emerged outside, and despite the sun shining, and despite knowing that the funding had mostly been secured for my dream wedding, I registered little else than the bitter taste of regret. I didn’t tell Carl what I had done until after dinner. Perhaps it was in an attempt to break the silence that had driven a wedge between us. When I told him, he remained quiet for a few minutes before leaving the table and walking upstairs. He came down with the empty jewellery box and placed it in front of me, then he took his keys and his helmet and walked out the door. Moments later I heard the rev of the motorcycle engine. I listened to it fade away as it sped down the street.

—

Carl didn’t come home that night, and I didn’t even bother to call. I rationalised my actions as being far greater and selfless than his.
He reappeared in the early dawn, kissing me on my forehead. I lay my head in his lap, playing with the buttons on his leather jacket.
“I will get your jewellery back. I promise,” he swore. He looked stern, but I knew it was out of kindness and compassion.
“It’s fine. I’d rather get married to you. We only have two months left, so let’s not look back from here on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” I whispered. He kissed me on my head again. Then he lied down next to me and we fell asleep.

—

We got married eight weeks later. It was drizzling as I made my way to a nearby church in a rented Rolls Royce. We had to circle several times around the village as we were told some of our guests were late. Robert, a very good friend of mine, was my companion and would lead me down the isle in lieu of fatherly support. He kept telling me how beautiful I looked and that I shouldn’t be nervous, but most of his wisdom was lost on me as I sat watching drops of rain trace winding trails down the passenger-side window. I breathed on the glass and drew a heart in the condensation. Someone must have seen it and decided it didn’t belong there, because it was gone when we came out.

—

I walked down the isle to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. Carl was standing to my right with his best man and male entourage. With every step I took, I felt a faint flutter in my heart, making little leaps in harmony with the peaks of the violin. I turned to reciting silly jokes in my head to counteract the tears I felt welling up behind my eyes. I looked at Carl, beaming with happiness, as I was about to become his wife. Carl returned my gaze, and overcome by emotion I saw a single tear run down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, he took my hand and we walked to the chairs placed in front of the altar.

I can honestly say I don’t remember much of our wedding. The priest might as well have been reciting in Greek, because I can only recall repeating the marriage vows and his subsequent blessing of our rings. When the ceremony was over and I was about to walk out, Carl stopped me, whispering that we were supposed to walk out last. I’ve been pondering this ever since, as I am sure the wedding couple always walks out first, followed by the congregation. Or perhaps I’ve watched too many royal weddings. Nevertheless, whoever was erroneous, we came out to the decidedly un-regal sound of plastic trumpets and paper confetti.
The weather had cleared up as we received the wedding guests on the lawn in front of the chateau. I had been on a starvation diet for months and ate several pieces of marzipan-wrapped wedding cake to compensate for my voluntary hunger strike. After wedding pictures and a short recess, we proceeded with a lavish dinner where our friends and Carl’s family gave speeches. Lastly, as coffee was being served, Carl stood up, directing his attention to me.
“Dear family and friends. I am — or shall I say, we are — so happy to have you here with us on this truly special day. It’s three years since I met this wonderful and very special woman. She walked into my life — or rather, sat next to me in a café, both of us minding our studies, when at some point I looked up and noticed this beautiful girl with her red curly hair. I’ve always been biased when it comes to redheads, so I knew it was my lucky day when she looked right back at me.” There was a burst of laughter before he continued. “As you all know — some more intimately than others — we had a whirlwind romance, which came to a brief end, before I came to my senses and came back for her.”
He paused and took a sip from his Champagne. Noticeably nervous, he licked his lips.
“Justine, you are my one and only woman. My true love, and the one I shall spend the rest of my life with. I love you so incredibly much for the warm and sensitive person you are. I love your wicked humour and funny French accent. You make my heart leap, and I honestly thought it might stop all together when I saw you in your wedding dress today. A more beautiful sight cannot be found. Justine, this song is for you, for us.”
He stretched out his hand and I stood up and went to him as Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” started to play. He wrapped me in his arms, and we danced slowly and intimately, as if there were no one else in the room. I put my head on his chest, smelling his cologne and sweat, wishing the party would come to an end.

Spring 2005

“When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men.”
~Rumi, Persian and Sufi Poet, 1207-1273

We moved into the Maison de Maître that my father had left us on Rue de la Faisanderie in the 16th arrondissement. Carl was now working for an American computer conglomerate as a logistics and support manager, making long hours to further his ambitions and prove his merit. Papa had left me a considerable inheritance, which I used to bring the house up to modern standards. I launched myself into renovations and interior design, redesigning kitchens and bathrooms whilst overseeing the workmen completing structural changes. We lived for six months on a building site, and by the end of it I had squandered most of the financial assets left to me. Thus I found myself living in a house with silk tapestries and taffeta curtains, fine art and Louis XVI antiques that didn’t reflect our meagre wealth or status.
The day I sold our last shares in Renault was the day I realised my life as I had known it was well and truly over. Gone were the security and safety, the wisdom and sapience, and perhaps most of all my childhood. They were all admitted to legacy, stored within the walls of a Parisian townhouse with its volumes of leather-bound books, silver-framed photographs of generations of family members and monogrammed cutlery and linen serviettes. They all spoke of my childhood and the family victories as well as defeats. I walked through the house in silence, touching the rich textiles, picking up the little family heirlooms, trying to remember every story attached to them. It was my way of saying goodbye to the past, with the promise to care for their tales and guard their secrets.
I once read that for as long as we are being remembered, we remain alive. I savoured those words as if they were the most exquisite of caramel bonbons, promising my father never to let go of his memory. As I did so, a book seemingly about to fall from the library shelf caught me eye. It was an ordinary blue notebook dated 1998. I had never noticed it before, and went to push it back into place when I discovered several others, all placed in chronological order. I removed some, leafing through their handwritten pages. Most entries were rudimentary logs of work schedules, outlining my father’s days in tilted block letters. There were meetings and lunches, sometimes a particular patient would be described. His writing was matter of fact, devoid of sentiment or emotions. I put them back again, making a mental note to come back to them one day. It would take five years until a good reason to do so would present itself.

—

I used what was left of my inheritance to set up my own business. It was never something I had planned or particularly desired, but one day my old history teacher contacted me for a research project for a book he was writing on the historical legends and myths of the Spanish-speaking world. I needed the money, and perhaps more so something to do as I was slipping further down into the black hole of monotone tediousness. I threw myself into stories of La Llorona and the ghost faces of Belmez, tracking and tracing the ripples cast by long-gone events. It took me three months to conclude the assignment, and after this more projects started to drop in. And so my business started to grow, slowly but surely, under the hospice of our townhouse basement.