Thomas and two other children were in the courtyard outside the studio when the block of marble was delivered. Several tons of beige stone veined with traces of crimson. In his dream, Mallock began to work that same day. It was urgent. A commission from a Venetian prince. Naked women begging. He had a free hand as to the number and position of these figures. In the dream, days and nights passed and he, sweating, exhausted, worked on. Worked. Again and again. On his hands, hundreds of bruises, blisters, and cuts appeared without any pain weakening his determination. Sometimes he stopped for a few minutes to drink or urinate, before returning to work even harder. He slept little and ate at random.
Six months later, his statue was finally finished. Outside, autumn was turning everything orange. Mallock-the-sculptor had reopened the doors of his studio as he waited for the transporters. Soon these men would take his work all the way south, to the right of the Italian boot.
He felt both pride and sadness. They were going to leave.
As he was going back into the courtyard to look at his work one last time, Thomas came up to him. He had not seen the stone again since the day it had arrived. Putting his soft little hand in his father’s bloody paw, he asked him solemnly:
“The ladies must have been imprisoned for a long time in the big stone. See, they’re very thin.”
Mallock smiled at what he took to be a simple child’s notion. It was a beautiful image, already-sculpted women waiting to be delivered from their gangue of stone. Then his mind shifted to another interpretation that was far more painful.
What if he was right? What if these figures were already there, determined by the veins and cracks in the marble. Hadn’t he worked around all the weaknesses until he’d found his subject? And what about the urgency he’d felt? Like a rescue worker scraping the ground after an avalanche. What if everything was already written? Already sculpted? What if we were on Earth only to place our feet between the dotted lines, to follow the arrows in ascending order and unearth the clues to this kind of obstacle course that life was? What if we couldn’t do anything about it? Neither the tragedies nor the happiness.
My God! What if even the dignity of choice was denied us?
As Mallock slowly emerged from his dream, he realized that someone was crying inside his apartment. He leapt to his feet and grabbed the revolver that he hid under the bed. He listened, feeling a little silly. The moans seemed to be coming from all over. Very close, like murmurs. He went into the bathroom. In front of him, the mirror revealed the truth to him, a face with puffy eyes full of tears: his face.
He set the gun on the soap dish and resting his arms on the two sides of the sink, facing the mirror, he violently closed his eyes. As if engraved under his eyelids, in the dark, he glimpsed the form of a cross. He was too used to these visions not to recognize the signs. Dry mouth, vibration in the ears, loss of balance. This one was rapid. Light, like the back of a cuttlefish surfing like a cork on the salt sea.
Mallock got dressed and went up to his office. He sent the photograph he’d taken of the cross, along with the reworked segment on which the inscription “MPF” could be seen, to three people, three historian friends, including Léon Galène. This crucifix was part of the solution, but in what way? Mallock preferred to leave his vision untouched by any mental manipulation. Intelligence not only straightens things out but also twists them.
By reflex, he turned on the television as he went back downstairs to make himself coffee. Captain Jean-Marie Mireille appeared on the screen, lit by flashlights. To his right, the inevitable judge. That must have been recorded the preceding evening, after Mallock’s departure. Who had informed the television team? Mallock would have answered: “Who benefits from the crime?” Very handsome in his gray suit with a Mao collar, Judioni had adopted a hoarse voice:
“I’ve just spent the whole day and part of the night with these men (a little movement of the arm to let the camera make a quick panorama), digging up the earth on the urgent orders of Superintendent Mallock. It’s exhausting work!”
So this was the reason for the yellow boots and the orange hard hat, the outfit of an experienced man who has sweat on his back.
“To avoid any new rumors, I want to state that although we have in fact found various . . . things, there is absolutely nothing that directly concerns the Gemoni case.”
Then, after a hesitant silence:
“And still less the body of a lieutenant from the Second World War that was supposed to be sought in the context of this case, as some of your colleagues have claimed.”
Having said this, the judge raised his right hand, spreading his fingers to signal that he would not answer any questions.
Now broadcasting live in the news channel’s studio, the journalist, Jacob Callas, introduced his guest. The same judge, him again. Judioni hadn’t lost any time. Being on television was the second thing he’d thought about when he woke up that morning. The third was to smile and the first was to groom himself down to the last hair. Judioni, who had been careful, for once, not to shave and even to set the famous hard hat within sight on the table, began by offering a caveat:
“I won’t pretend not to be a little tired. If I have agreed to your request to spend a few minutes with you this morning, it is because I have the greatest respect for journalists in general and for you in particular, Monsieur Callas. But I cannot emphasize too much that my duty is to remain discreet and to scrupulously respect the secrecy of the investigation.”
“But what can you tell us, then? What did you discover? There has been talk of infants’ skeletons.”
Contrary to what he had just said, the interview had been arranged on the magistrate’s initiative. Jacob Callas was hoping the judge had come to unveil something.
“I’m only a citizen like others. A great deal of information is already publicly available and I understand very well why it raises so many questions. I also think that the French people are once again showing great wisdom in following, and in such detail, what is happening in our country. Personally, I think they are not given a sufficient voice.”
A short silence. A clearing of the throat in the back and a glance toward the high seas of demagogy.
“You know, Monsieur Callas, in my work as a judge I meet the French people when they come, as members of juries, to aid me in my difficult task. I am talking about the work I do every day in the courts of our beautiful provinces. And I can assure you that there is a true pertinence, a deep understanding and moral sense in our fellow citizens. I know that one must not lie to them or conceal from them a truth they have a right to know. But here, things are simple: I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.”
The journalist, after a broad smile of assent, tried to restart the discussion. Apparently the judge would not discuss this rumor about baby skeletons that had been circulating in editorial offices and on the Internet since the day before. But what about the story of the Second World War lieutenant? Callas let himself go a bit:
“I understand, judge, that you can’t tell us everything, and that is entirely to your credit. But allow me to speculate in your place. Let’s imagine that someday we find the body of this Jean-François Lafitte, of whom Gemoni is supposed to be, if we believe the rumors, a sort of . . . reincarnation. Let’s grant that he has been found and identified, following only Gemoni’s directions, and even though no one knows where he is buried. On that hypothesis, it would be difficult to doubt this reincarnation, and we would find ourselves confronted by an extraordinary situation, to say the least. If that were the case, we would have to conclude that Manuel Gemoni in fact killed Tobias Darbier, alias Klaus Krinkel, in legitimate self-defense, so to speak. How could that be translated into juridical terms?”
Judioni gave a great laugh that was as false as it was out of proportion:
“A fantastic idea, I agree. But if ifs and ands were pots and pans, Monsieur Callas, there’d be no trade for tinkers. No, let’s be serious. I’m not going to evade your question, don’t worry, but I have to inform you regarding certain facts that are apparently not yet in your possession.”
Jacob Callas’s eyes began to shine. A scoop? The Holy Grail for a hack forever doomed to deal with trivia.
“Whatever we French discover, or rather imagine, I’m here to tell you that the accused, Manuel Gemoni, will be retried in the Dominican Republic. It is on that condition alone that the Dominican authorities authorized the departure of an individual whom they consider to be the murderer of one of their fellow citizens. Unless he is given the maximum sentence of thirty years in prison or the case is dismissed on sufficient grounds, as soon as his trial here is over, he will be sent back to the site of his crime. And over there, I doubt that the police will entertain the kind of woolly hypotheses that Superintendent Mallock, for whom I have the greatest esteem, is so good at forming.”
Callas was delighted. A scoop plus a personal attack, what a dream! Above all, keep it going:
“It is also said that the superintendent’s behavior has been strange. He is supposed to have taken hallucinogens and participated in other hypnosis sessions. What do you think of that, as a judge?”
“One must never anathematize anyone. I am concerned with the facts and nothing else. Countless remarkable political figures have been besmirched by malicious rumors. Let us be very careful. But be assured that there will be no weakness on my part. If a mistake has been made, at whatever level of the police hierarchy, I shall be merciless. We cannot tolerate the slightest deviant conduct that would endanger justice in our nation. Superintendent Amédée Mallock, to whom, I repeat, our country owes so much, will probably someday have to explain certain excesses that are, rightly or wrongly, attributed to him. And I have no doubt that he will do so, and, I hope, as soon as possible. In the meantime, he continues to enjoy my complete confidence.”
“So why don’t you replace him?”
“I am only a simple judge, Monsieur Callas.”
“Well then, what advice would you give him?” the journalist persisted, praying for the comment that would create a polemic.
“Perhaps to show more humility. He is a public servant, and as such he has to be irreproachable. He should get into line and not open himself up, as he usually seems to do, to so many rumors because of behavior that is more than controversial. A friend told me in detail about the hypnosis sessions, and it’s quite appalling.”
When Mallock finally decided to turn off the TV, he had lost any calm he might have gained. He was used to being attacked by jerks. But that didn’t mean he liked it, or found it amusing.
In his view, there were more serious things than having to endure a few snubs on television: it was what they implied more generally. Even all tarted up, the true and the just interested no one. Idiots, hypocrites, windbags, lobbies, and the corrupt gathered together in the great liars’ fair. There they exchanged rumors and gossip, personal promotion and propaganda, without having to fear anyone.
“What good does it do to curse imposters?” Amédée whispered to Mallock to try to calm him down.
There was at least one positive point in the interview with the judge. He now knew where the newspapers were getting their information. It was Maître Pierre Parquet who had confided in his friend Judge Judioni.
“Damn it!” he cried out loud as he picked up his telephone.
After all, he’d warned Jack. It’s dangerous to annoy a hibernating bear.