3:27 P.M.
Martial and Sopha push through the huge stalks of sugar cane, being careful to remain hidden from view by these plants that grow up to ten feet high. They are climbing the lower slopes of the Piton Moka.
“Move out of the way, Papa, I can’t see anything.”
The green and yellow fields slope down in bands towards the ocean, bordered by narrow grey lava flows. Probably the most monotonous-looking landscape on the island. Only the bell tower of Notre-Dame-des-Laves rises above the sugar cane, like a miniature replica of Chartres Cathedral emerging from the middle of the Beauce plain.
A natural labyrinth; Martial has studied the map of it in detail. The Piton Moka is an old eroded crater with a peak of less than five hundred meters. It pales in comparison to the gigantic Dolomieu, in the shadow of which it lies, but it does offer a panoramic view of the entire south-east coast of the island.
Sopha, standing on tiptoes, stares wide-eyed.
“Why is the blue lady down there holding an umbrella?”
Martial’s gaze lingers on the spot pointed out by his daughter, almost directly beneath the dirty, pink bell tower of Notre-Dame-des-Laves. The statue of Mary wearing a crown, praying with her hands together, stands at the entrance to the village of Sainte-Rose and is unremarkable, with the exception of one incongruous detail: above the head of the Virgin is a large umbrella, painted the same azure-blue as her tunic, which is fastened with a gold clasp.
“She’s the lady who protects us from the volcano erupting, sweetheart. She’s famous here. You see all those flowers at her feet? Those are to thank her.”
“Is it because of her that the police didn’t catch us?”
“Maybe.”
“Then I’ll bring her some flowers too. I’ll come with Maman.”
Martial can feel his heart racing. He steers his daughter behind him so that she remains hidden by the vegetation. At this altitude, the fog has completely disappeared. He takes the 1/25,000 map from his pocket, just to check their location. There is less than a kilometer to go. They just have to descend through the Ravine des Bambous to reach the ocean.
“We’ve made it, sweetheart! Look down there, do you see the big black rocks stretching into the sea. That’s Anse des Cascades.”
“And that’s where we’ll find Ma—’
Martial’s hand covers Sopha’s mouth before she can finish her sentence. A horrible wet handkerchief tears at her lips and pushes into her mouth.
3:41 P.M.
“You’re hurting me, Papa.”
The thing with the hankie was because I wanted to talk about Maman. Every time I mention her, Papa finds some way of not answering me.
Finally, Papa pulls the cloth from my mouth and shows it to me.
I take a step back. Frightened.
The handkerchief is all red!
I put my finger to my face. I don’t understand—it doesn’t hurt.
Papa continues to smile, as if it’s no big deal. It takes me a few seconds to understand. It’s true, I’d almost forgotten: a little bit higher up, we found fruit in the trees. Guavas, they’re called. I loved them and I stuffed my face, almost as much as I do when I go blackberry picking with Maman in the Fôret de Montmorency.
Papa explained to me that here, guava trees take the place of other trees so quickly that people tear them down whenever they find them.
That’s just silly.
“Am I clean now, Papa?”
“Nearly. You looked like you were wearing lipstick. Do you want me to carry you, sweetheart?”
“I’m not tired.”
And it’s true. I’m not tired . . . I’m exhausted! But I don’t want Papa to know that. I haven’t walked all the way down the mountain from the moon just to fall asleep now. In a few more minutes, we’ll see Maman again!
Down there, in Anse des Cascades.
Unless Papa has been lying to me from the beginning.
“You have been an incredibly brave girl,” he tells me. “But before we reach the sea, we have to cross one more road, and they mustn’t recognize us. The police are searching everywhere for us. And now they know you’re disguised as a boy.”
“What difference would it make if you carried me?”
“Papa has thought of everything.”
Papa leans down and takes a dirty, ugly blanket from the bag. I recognize it: he took it from the garage belonging to the blue-haired lady, who is now in the bottomless hole with her car.
“I’m going to wrap it around you, sweetheart, and I’m going to carry you in my arms. It might look as if I’m carrying some wood, or cane stalks for burning, or screwpine leaves for weaving, the way people do here.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. Papa holds out his arms to me.
“Come on, darling.”
For a long time I hesitate, but then I do as he says. I hold out my arms to Papa.
As soon as my feet leave the ground, I feel tiredness falling on me like a blanket, covering my whole body, even warmer and darker than the real one wrapped around me.
3:43 P.M.
Martial sets off. Walking down the Ravine des Bambous takes him less than ten minutes. Sopha, shattered, yawns in his arms. As they get closer to the coast road, he covers her head with the blanket.
The last hurdle.
The road seems deserted. Martial was expecting this; it is the quietest part of the island, about ten kilometers of coastal land without a single inhabitant. Over the past decade, streams of lava have flowed down to the ocean in this area every other year, burning everything in their path. What kind of madman would build a house here?
Martial, hidden at the edge of the cane field, waits patiently, cautiously scanning his surroundings. He must remain vigilant, even if the cops have no clue as to the direction he and Sopha took after leaving the Plaine des Sables. Sopha is sleeping sweetly in his arms, and his arms are trembling, though not from his daughter’s weight.
They are trembling with apprehension.
He thinks again about those words traced in haste on the window of the grey Clio.
Anse dé Cascade
Tomoro
4 P.M.
Be ther
Bring the gurl
So close to reaching his objective, it suddenly crosses his mind that he might have been better off letting the cops arrest him. Confessing everything. In trying to save Liane, hasn’t he put Sopha in even greater danger? Martial strokes the blanket softly, gently singing a Creole song into her ear.
It’s been ten years since he last sung it.
In the Hauts, lost in the mountains
No fog, no lil’ birds, few lil’ streams
Just call Marla, to get there, you must be brave.
Sopha is rocked to sleep in his arms. Her breathing grows steadier, calmer, more trusting.
Call Sopha, to get there, you must be brave
He checks his watch. He’ll be on time.
3:57 P.M.
Martial waits for two cars and a rental van to pass, then crosses the road. No sign of any police.
L’Anse des Cascades suddenly appears in all its glory. An aquatic wonderland set among palms, tropical almond trees and screwpines that look as if they have been planted there by a meticulous gardener. The landscape is backed by an enormous ridge of volcanic rock from which thunders an endless waterfall. The water is whisked away by a stream that winds between a bridge and rocks, then joins the sea, disappearing into a beach of huge coal-black pebbles. In stark contrast to this romantic oasis, waves crash down onto the rocky coastline with such ferocity that it is hard to imagine how the dozen fishermen’s boats lined up along the fragile pier could ever risk venturing out onto the ocean.
Martial advances cautiously. Picnickers have taken over the huts, tables and wooden benches beneath the shade of the forest. Their cars are parked on the neatly mowed lawn that serves as a car park.
Only one vehicle has broken the rules. It is parked in the most inaccessible spot, beyond the pier, behind the pebble riprap.
A black 4x4. A Chevrolet Captiva.
A man stands in front of the 4x4. Short, bulky, dark-skinned, wearing a khaki cap with a tiger’s head embroidered on it.
Martial does not understand. His fingers tense around the beige blanket.
He walks another ten meters.
The Malbar stares at him, smiling, as if he has been waiting for him. Suddenly Martial freezes. His heart is pounding inside his paralysed body.
Now he recognizes the person in front of him.