9:13 P.M.
You can hardly see the flesh-colored plaster on Sopha’s forehead. By tomorrow, there won’t be any trace of the bump or the scratch. Martial is sitting next to Sopha, on the bed. He has pushed aside the embroidered cushions and the cuddly toys. He has kissed Sopha’s wound better. He has undressed her. Put her to bed. Martial is acting like a father again. It feels almost unreal, as if he is doing these things to a lifeless doll as part of some training programme.
A doll that’s in shock.
He switched off the television. Sopha did not say anything more, her last words still ringing in his head.
Did it hurt Maman, when you killed her?
Now Martial grips the book about Ti-Jean in his hand, feeling like an idiot. Is reading her a story the right way to communicate with his daughter? Almost since her birth, Liane has read stories to Sopha every night.
A never-ending ritual. An ordeal.
Martial had always hated their bedtime intimacy, as he was excluded from it. He felt like a spy if he listened in, and an outsider if he walked away. He gets to his feet and puts the Ti-Jean book back on the shellfish-covered shelf. He sits down on the bed again carefully.
“I’m going to tell you a story, Sopha. Better than that one. I’m going to tell you a secret.”
No response. Sopha curls up under the pastel duvet.
Martial insists, his voice calm and reassuring.
“Do you know why you have that strange name, Josapha?”
Still no response, but Sopha’s breathing has accelerated slightly.
“I’m sure Maman never told you about this.”
A head emerges from under the duvet, the curiosity overwhelming; Martial smiles.
“You see, Sopha, Papa and Maman wanted a baby. Their desire for a baby was very strong. To make a baby, a Papa and a Maman have to hug, they have to hug each other very tightly, as tightly as they want the baby. Do you understand?”
Sopha’s eyes are wide open. Inside the frames hung on the walls of the bedroom, the little boy of her age is stroking the immense shell of a turtle, a “Ferme Corail” cap on his blond head; in another photograph, his grandmother is setting him on a sledge in the Parc du Maïdo. Dream holidays. Happy, peaceful.
Martial’s voice trembles slightly.
“That day, Maman and Papa had decided to go on holiday. Not far away, and not for long. Just to the nearest seaside town from where we lived. Deauville, in Normandy. We went back there last year, do you remember? The beach with all the different-colored parasols, where you thought the water was too cold?”
Sopha pulls a face at the memory. Her lips open but no sound emerges.
“But the day I’m talking about was long before you were born. That day, Papa had booked a hotel room with Maman. We could see the sea out of the window. It was a surprise for Maman’s birthday. We went in the Picasso. Your car seat was not in the back yet. To go to Normandy, you have to take the motorway: it’s not far, but the roads are often very busy. Papa and Maman left late in the evening—it was almost night—in order to avoid the crowds. Maman was eager to get to the hotel. We were both eager to hug each other, to hug each other very tightly, so that the baby would come quickly . . .”
Sopha climbs out from under the duvet. Her arm is touching her father’s shoulder now.
“On the motorway, after the tolls, there is a rest area, the only one before the sea. Papa and Maman were so eager for the baby that they couldn’t wait to get to the hotel. So they stopped there, in a car park by the side of the motorway . . . You know what the name of that place is, Sopha?”
Her lips move slowly, as if they are numb.
“N-no . . .” Sopha whispers at last.
“It’s called the Aire de Josapha, sweetheart. I don’t know why it has such a pretty name. There’s nothing else there: no village, no houses, just a tarmacked car park and a few trees. But that’s where Maman and Papa made you come down from heaven, darling. When we got back in the car, your Maman held my hand very tight and said in a soft voice: ‘Don’t you think Josapha is a nice name?’”
Sopha’s little hand slides into her father’s. It is clammy. Hot. Martial leans forward, his voice barely audible now.
“You are the only girl in the world with that name, Sopha. It is something to treasure. And only Papa and Maman—and you, now—know the secret of that name. Do you realize that every day, millions of cars and trucks go past that sign—‘Aire de Josapha’—and none of the drivers has any idea that it’s also the name of the prettiest little girl in the world?”
A tear rolls down Sopha’s cheek.
She still doesn’t dare speak, but she stares at her father and he understands. Sopha is lost.
So why did you kill Maman? her wet eyes ask him. Why, if you loved her so much?
Martial sees another picture of happiness on the wall. Grandma visiting the Maison de la Vanille with her grandson. Sopha’s hand is limp in his and her bare arm trembles slightly. It is covered with goose bumps. Martial exhales, looks away, and then speaks.
“You have to trust me, Sopha. You have to believe me.”
He coughs, clearing his throat.
“I . . . I didn’t kill Maman. I didn’t kill anyone, sweetheart. No one at all!”
Sopha’s hand feels like a sliver of soap melting between his fingers. Martial stares at the wall, the photographs, incapable of any other form of intimacy, of holding his daughter in his arms, hugging her tight to his chest, or stroking her hair.
He doesn’t even look at Sopha. Three short phrases dance obsessively before his eyes.
Anse dé Cascade
Be ther tomoro
Bring the gurl
He speaks. He is aware that comforting Sopha is only the first step. After that, he must convince her. He needs her.
“You’re going to have to be very brave, Sopha. Do you remember the message on the car window yesterday, in the hotel car park? That message told me to meet someone at the other end of the island, under the great volcano, in a place called Anse des Cascades.”
Martial presses five tiny wet fingers against his palm; a sponge to soak up the tears.
“We have to get there, Sopha. Tomorrow. It will be difficult. Very difficult. There are police everywhere, searching for us, but we have to get there . . .”
Sopha sniffs. Between three hiccups she manages to ask her question:
“To find Maman? Alive?”
A very long pause, almost an eternity.
“I would love that, Sopha, I would really love that.”
9:34 P.M.
Martial opens the bathroom window, the one that overlooks the small interior courtyard that is invisible from the street. He only pushes it an inch or two, just enough to allow the smoke to escape up into the starry night sky.
Martial holds the improvised cigarette between his fingers. He hasn’t smoked zamal for years. He bought the grass from the Chinese guy on Rue de l’Abattoir, the same one who got him the BlackBerry.
Buying zamal . . .
It made him laugh. He had felt like a retired baker going out to buy his daily bread. He almost ended up giving the Chinese guy some advice about his business.
He takes another drag. The stars pass behind a cloud for a second, then shine out again, even brighter than before, their numbers multiplied in a kaleidoscope through the broken window.
In the courtyard, a few nightbirds are singing. Martial has forgotten what they are called. Nowadays the only birds he can name are the little grey sparrows of the Parisian suburbs.
He has forgotten almost everything.
When he went to Rue de l’Abattoir, three days ago, he drove past the old bus station. A dozen whores were standing under the street lights, in front of the vast graffitied wall. Without thinking, Martial slowed down.
He looked for Aloé, among the line of mixed-race prostitutes. She wasn’t there. His eyes slid over girls who were barely legal, Creoles with platinum blonde hair, fat girls squeezed into mini-dresses, but none of them looked like her. Either that, or he didn’t recognize her. He hasn’t heard from her for more than five years. He knows she has changed her name. Maybe her hair color too. She might even have kids.
Another drag.
What would Aloé’s life have been like if she’d never crossed his path? If she hadn’t become so attached to Alex?
Three days ago, he had talked about this to Liane. They had argued, as they always do whenever he mentions this part of his life. Or at least the part that Martial has revealed to her.
A row . . .
All of it seems so pointless to him now.
That was before the point of no return.
Martial crushes the butt of his joint against the window.
He has become so used to lying. To Aloé, in another life. To Liane, this week. To the police, three days ago. And now, to his daughter.
Hiding. Lying. Escaping. Killing.
Does he have any other choice?