Death from the Woods

Chapter One

IT'S RAINING. A THICK, HEAVY RAIN POUNDING THE WINDOWPANES. I CAN HEAR the gusts rattling the doors and windows. Yvette is puttering around, closing shutters and bolting them tight. In just a minute, she'll be bringing dinner. But I won't touch it; I'm not hungry. She'll insist. She'll get angry. She'll say, "Come on, Elise, you're being silly. You've got to eat, you know, if you want to get back your strength." Bullshit. The only strength left at my disposal is that which maintains my internal plumbing in its present state. As far as everything else goes, I can't even start my wheelchair by myself. I'm what you'd call a quadriplegic. And as if I weren't happy enough to lose the use of my limbs, then I really hit the jackpot when I lost my sight and ability to speak: "We're experiencing technical difficulties." I'm mute and blind, and can't move. Frankly, I'm a living vegetable. Yvette's here, I can hear her rapid steps.

    "Dinnertime!"

    My dinner consists of strained vegetables and proteins, which are crammed into my mouth with a little spoon. It's too hot and I try to turn away. I can imagine Yvette looking exasperated. I remember her round, cream-colored face, crowned with blond hair. For thirty years or so, Yvette, the widow of a railwayman, sixtyish, with sturdy legs and a powerful frame, has been working for my family. She remembers my mother better than I. Of course I was only five when Mom "went up to heaven." When my father died, seven years ago, I came to live here, and Yvette continued to take care of the house for me. Now she takes care of me. The nurse taughther how to give me all the proper treatments. Poor Yvette; she has to wash, feed, and clean me. I wonder how many times she must have wished me dead. How many times have I wished death upon myself?

    I wonder if it's dark. It's the end of May. I can't remember whether or not night falls at around seven or eight o'clock this time of year. I can't ask Yvette. I can't ask anyone anything. My central processing unit is down.

    I was on vacation in Ireland last fall when it happened. With Benoît. October 13, 1994. I remember what he was wearing that day: navy blue pants, a matching sweater, and blue sneakers. I was in jeans, with a round-necked white sweater. And very clean white high-tops. Now I've got slippers on my feet, and I'm almost always in a nightgown. And as far as the color of my nightgown goes, well ...

    Benoît and I took advantage of what time we had to make a quick jaunt to Northern Ireland. The Giants' Causeway. Belfast. That morning in Belfast, we decided to stop in at the bank to cash in some traveler's checks. I can't quite remember the bag I was carrying that day. Was it the blue leather bag or the one with the multicolored back? It's details like these that just drive me mad. All I saw and didn't retain! And now I need images so badly.

    To make a long story short, we showed up in front of the bank and I pushed open the glass door. That's when it happened. The explosion—a car bomb, ten yards away. The driver died, of course, as well as four passersby. And Benoît. First there was a noise; the explosion was just enormous. It felt like being thrown into a furnace. Benoît grabbed me by the arm and threw me to the ground. We were caught in a whirlwind of metal and glass. I saw the car as it exploded, I heard the screams, but didn't understand; no, I really didn't understand what was going on, that this was really happening to me, Elise Andrioli. People were shrieking. I saw a shard of glass embedded in Benoît's throat, and blood spurting out—did I understand then that this was blood? I was shrieking, too. Something struck me over the head. I closed my eyes. And never opened them again.

    For nearly two months I remained in a coma. When I regained consciousness, I was in France, in Paris. It took me a moment to understand that this was not a temporary situation. I would never get up or see again. I couldn't speak to the nurses or doctors. Only through listening to their discussions did I understand how serious my case was. I didn't want to believe it. And still ...

    They put me through a battery of tests before deciding that, even though my spinal cord did not seem irremediably injured, my motor centers were seriously damaged. "Motor cortex ... the cerebellum regulation center ... perhaps a catatonic state ..." In short, a breakdown. And it's the same story as far as my eyes go: the optic nerve is intact, but something in the brain is out of whack and they don't know if I'll ever regain my eyesight. The doctors aren't sure whether I can hear or understand what they say, so they talk to me as if I were some doddering old fool. Everyone else does the same, except Yvette, who insists—and with good reason—that I'm perfectly conscious and that one day I'll spring from my wheelchair like Lazarus, back from the dead.

    So there you have it. I'm thirty-six years old. I used to ski, play tennis, go walking and swimming. I liked the sun, going for drives, traveling, and reading novels about love. Love ... Now I'm buried inside myself and every day I pray to die completely.

    Often, when I hear Yvette fussing over me, I think back to a film I saw on TV one night. It was the story of a poor soul like me, but what's more, his arms and legs had been amputated—basically, he was a blind, mute human torso, trying to communicate with his nurse to convince her to kill him. Benoît and I almost cried. We were happy and healthy, sitting comfortably on our sofa, with a cup of something at arm's reach. All set to shed tears over someone else's sorrow.

    Yvette's scolding me. I'm trying to swallow, but it's hard. Every day I wonder why some muscles function while others don't. Why is it that my heart goes on pumping blood and my neurons reason logically? Why has my skin remained sensitive to the touch and capable of shuddering? Every day since I've regained consciousness, I channel every ounce of will, with one single goal in mind: to move. Move, move, move. Two months ago I managed to blink my eyes, and last month I was able to lift my left index finger. I can also move my head, but these are uncoordinated movements I can't quite control. Raybaud, my doc, says I'm making immense progress. And then he goes off windsurfing. Raybaud's not exactly what you'd call sensitive. He thinks I belong in a special institution. An aseptic dying place, an electronic victory garden for human vegetables.

    Dinner's over. Yvette's taking everything away. She's turning on the TV and doing the dishes. "A crane toppled over on a building in Bourg-en-Bresse." Sirens, screams, coverage. The anchor's overexcited voice. Better yet, there was a police snafu in Lille. "A young Beur was shot down by mistake, all because of a car theft. The minister of the interior ..." What the hell were we doing in front of that goddamned bank? Is there such a thing as destiny? "The police are still looking for Michael Massenet in Yvelines ..." If this is to be my destiny, then how am I to bear it? What good is it to complain? "The anticyclone in the Azores...." The commercial thunders at me. I'm listening to enthusiastic voices vaunting the merits of diapers, mattresses, detergents, cars, toilet paper, batteries, perfume, cheese, and frozen food. It all seems so far away. The program Yvette has chosen has just started—a debate on drugs and delinquency in schools. I listen piously.

    Debate's over. No one agreed on anything, but everyone's congratulating himself. Yvette sighs and rolls me to my room. She flops me onto the bed. The masseuse should be coming tomorrow. She'll pull on my dead limbs, anoint them with oil, and knead them interminably, wondering if I can feel anything. And I won't be able to answer.

    "Good night," says Yvette.

    Good or bad, it's always night.

THIS MORNING YVETTE TOOK ME WITH HER TO THE SUPERMARKET, AS SHE DOES every Saturday since the weather became mild. It's not far, so she walks, pushing me in my wheelchair. Marvelous Yvette, who persists in treating me like a being with thoughts. Yet one more opportunity to remain seated. At least I'll have the pleasure of feeling the sun upon my face; hearing birds, car horns, and shouts of children; breathing in exhaust and the scent of freshly mown grass; guessing at the colors and movements of a whole world around me. Yvette put dark glasses on for me. She claims the sun might hurt my eyes. Personally, I think it's so that children won't be frightened by my constant stare. Hurt my eyes ... For whatever that's worth! Sometimes, I jokingly tell myself that what I miss most is being able to look at myself in the mirror. It's futile, of course, but am I still pretty? Is my hair properly set? I'm moderately confident in Yvette's talents.

    Yvette set me up by the tree—she told me so. Nice and calm, and not far from the guard in case some little hooligans take it into their heads to make off with me. I can imagine the headlines: "Ravishing Quadriplegic Raped by a Gang of Antisocial Youths." Yvette's gone inside to do her shopping. I'm waiting. People exchange comments on the weather, the elections, unemployment, and so on. Before I was a vegetable, I used to manage the Trianon, a small movie theater at the edge of town—correction, the new urban zone. Three brand-new screening rooms. My father left it to me. I'd carved out this arty, trial-run niche for myself, which offered the opportunity of being invited to a number of festivals and to go to Paris often. Film, theater—all over now. No, I mustn't get started on self-pity again.

    Something has just fallen on my hand. It's humid. Above my head, I hear something cooing. Fucking pigeon. The very thought of guano on my hand disgusts me. I can't stand being unable to use my body anymore. I can't stand this powerlessness—

    "Why don't you wipe it off?."

     Someone has spoken to me. A child. A shy little voice. I say nothing, obviously.

    "Ma'am, a pigeon's just made a cocky on you."

    The kid must be wondering why I'm not saying anything. He's getting closer, I can hear his breath nearby.

    "Are you sick?"

    Perspicacious little kid, isn't he? I gather up all my will and raise my index finger.

    "You can't talk?"

     No, I can't. I raise my index finger again. I don't even know if the kid realizes this.

    "My name is Virginie."

    It's a little girl! I definitely haven't acquired that overdeveloped sense of hearing of the blind. I feel her placing her hand over mine—a cool little hand. What's she doing? Ahh, she's wiping my hand. I can feel the contact of either a napkin or a Kleenex.

    "I'm wiping your hand, ma'am. Do you live around here?"

    Index finger.

    "When you raise your index finger, does that mean yes?"

    Index finger.

    "I live around here, too. I came to go shopping with my dad. He doesn't like me to speak to strangers, but it's not the same with you because you're paralyzed. Did you have an accident?"

    Index finger. It's the first conversation I've had in months. I wonder how old she is.

    "My father works in a bank. My mom's a librarian. I go to school at Charmilles. I'm seven years old. You want me to tell you a story?"

    I raise my index finger, thinking. Seven years old. Her whole future in front of her. To say that I was seven and had sworn that I would do great things ...

    "Once upon a time there was a little boy named Victor. He was the son of the tobacconist. He was a very bad boy, and so one day he died in the woods where, it so happens, he was forbidden to go."

    What's she talking about?

    "The police came, but they didn't find anything. After Victor, Death from the Woods took Charles-Eric, the son of the lady who works in the post office. The police came, but they didn't find anything. And then there was Renaud. And ever since yesterday, Death has taken Michael, by the edge of the stream."

    This kid's crazy. What an idea, to be making up such stories! She leans on my forearm and whispers, "But I know who killed them."

    What?! First of all, where does she come from? Where's her father?

    "Because I saw the murderer. You're listening?"

    I raise my index finger. What if this were true? No, it's ridiculous. She must be one of those kids who watches too much TV.

    "Since then, I've been scared all the time. So my schoolwork's not that good, and they all think it's because Renaud died. Renaud was my big brother, you understand?"

    I raise my index finger. This girl has a totally morbid imagination.

    "I saw when it happened to Renaud. In the little shed at the back of the garden. You know, those sheds for kids—they're made out of cloth and have windows painted on them. Renaud was inside and—"

    "Virginie!"—a deep, warm masculine voice—"I've been looking for you for a quarter of an hour. I told you to stay by the kiosk. At least she's not bothering you, is she, miss? Oh, excuse me ..."

    People always say "excuse me" when they realize what condition I'm in.

    "Say good-bye to the lady, Virginie."

    "Good-bye, ma'am. We come to do our shopping every Saturday."

    "Virginie! That's enough! Excuse us ..."

    He has a young voice. Nice tone to it. I can see him as a big guy with short hair, in jeans and an Izod Lacoste.

    "Is there a problem?"

    That's Yvette.

    "No, no, it's just Virginie, who came to chat with the lady. I hope she hasn't bothered her."

    Out of all the things that bother me, this is really the least painful. Yvette's whispering. I can only imagine what she must be telling him. "A terrible accident, yada, yada, yada, crippled, lost her sight, her speech, horrible, isn't it, blah, blah, blah, so young, and her fiancé dead, too; poor girl, no hope, the doctors are pessimistic, life's so unfair ..."

    Into my ear, Virginie breathes, "If you come back next Saturday, I'll tell you the rest."

    "Okay, let's go! Say bye-bye."

    I imagine her father tugging her by the hand, rushing to get away.

    Yvette places the plastic bags filled with pointy things upon my knees, hangs some others from the arms of the wheelchair, and we're off. As she walks she talks to me as she always does when she takes me out. She's gotten into the habit of giving these monologues. She told Raybaud that, in her opinion, I could understand her. And it's true. Raybaud replied that she shouldn't harbor too many illusions. It's too depressing. The only one who showed any real interest was Professor Combré, the neuropsychiatrist from the hospital. He's a brain surgeon. In three months he should be seeing me again. Sometimes I start to dream that he'll decide to attempt one last-chance operation. But how would I convince him? Yvette's talking nonstop.

    "And to think they raised the price of sole again. You've got to be a billionaire if you want to keep eating fresh fish. I know you don't care a whit, but still ..."

    I don't know why, but Yvette has always insisted on being so formal when she speaks to me. She addressed my parents in the third person, and I was Miss Elise. There's something about it that's slightly retro. Now she's talking about Virginie: "Quite a pretty little girl, yes. Her father, too, a nice boy. Good people, it shows. The little girl was well dressed, neat, and polite. And he was very elegant, wearing a pale green polo shirt, a clean pair of jeans, but modern still, you know? It's a shame you don't get any more visits. I know you're not thrilled to hear that, but still. To wind up all alone like that ... oh, you might even say your friends just let you go. But, like I say, people nowadays only like you when you're of some use to them."

    My friends ... I never had many friends. I could count them all on the fingers of my hand. Frank and Julia live in Paris, Cyrille was just transferred to just outside Grenoble, and Isabelle and Luc live in Nice, near where my uncle lives. Since I'd met Benoît, I saw practically no one, and most of the time, the few acquaintances we went out with lived in Paris. At first my friends called. In shock. Benoît dead, me crippled ... Then the phone calls became few and far between. I understand; it must be annoying, so they preferred to forget me.

    "Did I remember to get Ajax Window Cleaner?" Yvette suddenly wonders aloud.

    On and on she goes, recapping her purchases. I'm not listening anymore. I'm thinking about what Virginie told me. Now that I think about it, I remember this little Victor very well; he was the tobacconist's son. Everyone was talking about it. Strangled near the canal. It must have been at least five years ago.... And then there was that other one, the one whose name was a real mouthful ... yes, I remember, I was discussing it with Benoît. He was also strangled, I think. The police suspected an uncle, but came up with nothing. But this sort of thing goes on so often ... people talk about it, then time goes by and they forget. And what about this little Michael? Was this also very recently? Didn't I hear that name on the news last night? I've got to listen to the TV news tonight. That is, if Yvette leaves me in the living room. Sometimes she rolls me into my room and leaves me there like a bundle of dirty laundry until dinnertime. I'm supposed to be resting. Resting from what, I wonder. She puts on the radio or music. She fumbles through my CDs, eliminates anything that might be jarring, and force-feeds me classical music or popular waltzes. I must have listened to Riquita, Java's Pretty Flower, two hundred times, and often I dream of strangling Riquita, beating her to a pulp.

    Yvette has put all her purchases away. She's left me in the living room, in the sunlight. It's starting to get hot; Yvette has opened the windows wide, and I can feel the wind on my forehead and smell the flowers outside. I can't tell their fragrances apart, but I can smell; I breathe in the scent of spring in the flowers and avidly embrace the sun.

    Someone's ringing at the door. It's the masseuse. A torture session awaits.

    Fate has smiled on me. As she goes to work on my distended limbs, Catherine—the physical therapist—suddenly shouts to Yvette, who's busy in the kitchen, "Did you hear? They found that kid, strangled."

"What?" Yvette replies, turning off the faucet.

    "Little Michael Massenet, from La Verrière. His mother sees me because of her neck. She had whiplash last year. They just found him in the woods. Strangled."

    It's Yvette's voice now, closer. I imagine her wiping her hands on a cotton-print apron—pastel-colored spring flowers. "What kind of times are we living in?" she says with indignation. "How old was he?"

    "Eight years old. A pretty little blond boy, full of curls. I just heard it on the three o'clock news. The body was discovered at the edge of the stream by some fisherman returning to his car, at the stroke of noon. They say he was dead at least twenty-four hours. You can imagine what a shock it must have been for that guy. If I had any kids, I'd never let them outside now. You realize this is the fourth one in five years?"

    "The fourth?"

    "Yes! At first they didn't make the connection, but now ..."

    "Is there a trail? Any clues?" Yvette interrupts, all keen on crime novels.

    From the sound of her voice, the Great Catherine must be making a face. "You'd think! They're fumbling around in the dark. Just like her. Just look" she adds, pinching my calf.

    Yvette must have cast a disapproving glance, for right away the Great Catherine explains, "In any case, she's making progress. It's incredible!"

    But Yvette won't let herself be distracted. "But tell me, wasn't Michael Massenet that cute little boy who played piano at the cultural center?"

    "Yes, that's him. Very polite, very precocious for his age ..."

    They continue on this theme for a while and I don't miss a crumb. Michael Massenet, eight years old, a student at CE2 in Charmilles, the new school in the new urban zone. His father was an instructor at the auto school, and his mother's a secretary. He's a good student, from a strong family. "Well, the crime must have been committed by some sadist," Yvette concludes.

    Now I'm stretched out on my bed. Yvette has turned off the television. It must be eleven o'clock. At around three in the morning she'll make a round to see if everything's okay: Am I thirsty? Do I need to pee? Is it warm enough? ...

    Saint Yvette. I hope at least my guardian is paying her a generous salary. My uncle was named my guardian. My Uncle Fernand, the brother of my deceased father. He heads a masonry firm near Nice; he's what they call an honest man.

    But that's not the subject of the day. The subject of the day is this murder business. We listened to the eight o'clock news. By chance, when Yvette grows passionate about a subject, she'll leave me next to her so that she'll have someone to whom she can make her comments. Surely they spoke of the little Massenet boy. Strangled. They've tied this to other crimes dating further back, perpetrated within a thirty-mile radius: Victor Legendre, strangled in Valencay in 1991; Charles-Eric Galliano, strangled near Noisy in 1992; and Renaud Fansten, strangled in his parents' backyard in 1993. No one had ever solved these murders. What's more, and as the anchor has pointed out, different teams were working on each case: the police were assigned to the first two, and the homicide division to the third. To make a long story short, the Michael Massenet murder has kicked off more investigations. Yvette hasn't stopped uttering exclamations, railing against the cops and people with sexual obsessions, who really ought to be given lobotomies.

    An owl hoots in the distance. I'd like to turn over; I'm sick and tired of being on my back. One night I'm on my back, another on my side. Yvette wedges me in with pillows, placing cushions between my knees and ankles, as Raybaud recommended, to avoid points of compression that could lead to bedsores. Now, that must be a pain in the ass, propping me up like that every night. Stop it! I can't get started with these complaints again. So that little girl was telling the truth. Several children, including her brother, were murdered, or so she says. Terrible. I can understand how she would feel the need to talk about it. But there was something disturbing about her tone of detachment when speaking about these murders. She must be quite disturbed.... I would very much like to see her again ... well, really, what I mean is, to hear her again. Charmilles? Isn't that the name of the school where she said she goes? That big glass thing surrounded by trees that someday must grow?

    I dozed off, but just woke with a start. How did little Virginie know about Michael Massenet? She said, quite distinctly, "And ever since yesterday, Death has taken Michael, by the edge of the stream." However, the Great Catherine was quite specific when she said that the body was not discovered until noon today. How is it, then, that this little girl could know about it at ten o'clock this morning?

    Because she saw it. She saw the body.

    Or the murder.

    That's why she was so knowledgeable. Perhaps she was walking around there and saw everything! She wasn't lying when she said she knew the murderer! And to think I don't even know who she is. Virginie. Now I'm jogging my memory. I saw plenty of kids parading by at the movie theater, but there are lots of new housing estates—people are moving in every day. The only Virginie I remember was a chubby little girl, around ten years old, who used to pig out on bonbons. This Virginie told me she was seven, so the two don't match. And then the other one had a loud, squawking voice, whereas this one had a calm, gentle voice. Cold.

    If this little girl had seen the murderer, something ought to be done. But what? Obviously, I'm unable to notify the police. And even if by some miracle I could, what would I tell them? To go looking for a seven-year-old girl named Virginie, a girl I know so little about that I don't even know if she lives here or in one of those "residential communities" surrounding the woods?

    All I want is to make it to Saturday.