11:34 A.M.
The basalt cave overlooks the Indian Ocean. The swell breaks ceaselessly against the black rock, as if the ocean were determined to win back the few meters of land stolen by the volcano with each eruption. Sometimes, more powerful waves rise up the rock face and a few drops of foam reach the interior of the volcanic cavern. As soon as they touch the rock, they sizzle into a cloud of steam.
The eternal struggle between water and fire.
The sauna of the Danaids.
Liane is going to die here.
Liane’s hands are tied behind her back and her feet are bound by metal wire. She woke up like this, in this cave overlooking the ocean. If she crawled, she might be able to reach the entrance of the cave and kneel, but all she would see is the sea, stretching out towards the horizon. It would be suicide to jump into the water: the waves would smash her against the rocks in an instant.
At least that would put an end to her ordeal.
And yet, she has to hold on.
For Sopha.
She has not stopped thinking, ever since she woke up here. It seems likely that she is somewhere between Sainte-Rose and Saint-Philippe, on the east of the island, in one of the cracks formed by lava from the volcano that ran down to the ocean after crossing the coastal road, one of those crevasses accessible only by sea. The last eruption was in December 2010. No geographer bothers making relief maps for such an ephemeral landscape.
Liane can scream and shout all she wants; no one will hear her. The continual roar of the waves drowns out all other sounds. Not that this has stopped her trying, for hours on end. But she no longer has the strength to continue. Her throat is on fire. The sulphur dioxide fumes eat into her larynx with every breath she takes.
What temperature is it in here? A hundred and twenty degrees? More? Her naked skin is permanently covered in sweat and she moves as little as possible. She forces herself to remain clear-headed. To ask herself the right questions.
Though there is only one question, really.
Where is Sopha?
Is Martial with her? Alone with her?
Sopha is in danger. Liane has been over the chain of events ten, twenty times in her head. Everything is clear now. Her own life doesn’t matter, not any more. Her death is just a pretext, her body bait, a piece of flesh rotting deep inside a trap.
Sopha is the real target.
Liane doesn’t care about dying, but she is enraged at the thought of dying here, powerless. She must hold on, while there is any hope at all.
Where is Sopha?
The only reason she is still alive, after all these hours, is because she needs to find out the answer. She had lain down on the hot rocks and, with her feet, had pushed the most crumbly stones towards the ocean, one by one, gradually digging a little furrow that she slowly enlarged into a tiny basin. Then she began, next to it, to dig ten other little depressions in the rock.
She waited.
When one of the bigger waves crashed into the rocks below, splattering the cave with sea spray that instantly turned to hot steam, a few drops remained trapped in the small crevasses, forming little pools of lukewarm water, no more than a few millimeters in depth. Liane had put her face there—mouth, nostrils, eyes—to capture the dampness on the surface before it evaporated. She did this once, ten times, so that her skin didn’t crack like a clay pot that had been left too long in the kiln.
In vain. She quickly realized that this wouldn’t be enough and, in any case, she knew she shouldn’t drink the salt water. Also, even when it was trapped, the water disappeared too fast through the thousands of tiny fissures in the rock. It was like trying to put out an inferno with a syringe full of water. The few fleeting puddles she caught would only allow her to survive a few hours longer.
Liane sat up to think. She had to find another solution before she went completely crazy.
Where is Sopha?
Liane had torn at her clothes with her teeth, her hands tied behind her back: trying to remove her short skirt, her white cotton camisole, her bra. She spent endless minutes contorting her body, her silk knickers ripped to shreds by the rock. Finally, she was more or less naked, except for a few fragments of cloth that were stuck to her skin, melted into a single layer of magma, like small bits of paper sticking to a forgotten sweet.
Then, Liane had dragged herself to the mouth of the cave and dropped the torn rags into the bowls she had dug in the rock, feeling the sea air against her bare skin. The cloth gradually became wet, holding the moisture a few moments longer before the water escaped into the bowels of the rock. Liane immediately applied the damp fabric to her eyelids, between her breasts, against her belly, until the scraps of cloth dried up.
And then she started again, repeating the same mechanical gestures over and over.
During her contortions, she had managed to break off a piece of rock, a bit like a stalagmite. She quickly abandoned the idea of using it to sever her wire handcuffs, but she did try rubbing it against the rock in order to sharpen it. Liane calculated that the shard, which was less than four inches long, could be held in her palm without it being seen.
A weapon.
If she was ever untied, then maybe she would be able to use it. She had forced herself to believe that it might happen, to prevent herself from going mad.
Where is Sopha?
Now Liane realizes that she has made all the wrong choices; that all her efforts are merely speeding up her death. This pathetic weapon . . . what a ridiculous idea! Her wrists are bleeding profusely from all the movement. She shouldn’t have removed her clothes either, as every time her naked skin scrapes against the rock it feels like torture.
Burning.
The fiery coals biting into her feet. The sweat running down her limbs, digging hot furrows into her skin. She feels consumed, irradiated from within.
Was it worse before she stripped off? She can’t remember.
And yet she must hold on.
Come up with an answer.
She must find Sopha.
Alive.