5:27 P.M.
A long plastic orange ribbon separates the hundred or so onlookers—who rush forward from picnic huts, from the village of Piton Sainte-Rose, from the coastal road where they have parked their cars on the hard shoulder—and the corner of the grassy area enclosed by the elephant-foot trunks of four Barbel palms. The space is occupied by only three people.
Martial and Liane Bellion, and Aja Purvi.
The police captain has ordered the other cops to move away, including those who agreed to throw themselves from the Enclos Fouqué, two thousand meters above, and swoop down like eagles towards the little black dot moving out to sea that they could only distinguish through their binoculars.
There will be time, later, for acknowledgements, effusions, decorations and honors.
Liane is wrapped in a survival blanket, but is shivering all the same. Martial, who insisted on keeping his wet clothes on, hugs her tight.
“You will be transferred as quickly as possible to the Félix-Guyon hospital in Saint-Denis,” Aja says in a gentle voice. “The helicopter is landing now. It won’t be . . .”
Liane doesn’t seem to be listening.
“Where is Sopha? Have you found Sopha?”
Aja stands up, her neoprene wetsuit open over her bikini. She replies quickly, almost tripping over her words.
“We’ll find her, don’t worry. It’s all over. It’ll only be a matter of minutes now.”
Her answer is evasive. It sounds as if she’s guessing. Aja has done the best she could. Martial places a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder.
“You don’t know anything, Captain, do you? You don’t have any more information than we do.”
He is silent for a moment, as if searching for the right words to express the mixture of relief and anxiety he feels.
“You’ve already performed a miracle, descending from the sky like that. I’m not going to ask you to go back up there.”
Aja smiles. Liane’s long blonde hair drips onto the blanket. She listens to the roar of the waterfall behind them. Farther off, the sounds of activity under the tropical almond trees. Car doors slamming, barked orders, men laughing, children shouting. An unforgettable Easter Monday for everyone who is here.
“Do you have children, Captain?”
Aja is surprised by Liane’s question.
“Well . . . yes.”
“You can’t have seen much of them these last few days. How old are they?”
“Five and seven.”
Liane forces herself to smile. Martial puts his hand in front of his eyes.
“That’s good. They must be proud of you.”
Aja bites her lips. She is moved but also disturbed by this private moment. What the hell is Jipé doing with that helicopter?
5:31 P.M.
Suddenly there is a movement in the crowd. Four officers clear a meter-wide path through the ranks of gawpers. Cameras are pulled from pockets. Fingers are tensed in readiness. Aja expects to see Jipé appear, flanked by two stretcher-bearers.
Guess again.
Laroche!
The colonel has somehow found the time to change his outfit. He is now wearing a linen jacket, beige canvas trousers, and moccasins. He’s probably already done three radio interviews and two TV shows.
He steps aside.
All smiles.
An arrow appears behind him. A little blonde arrow with a large bowl-shaped bandage on her head. She shoots straight at Liane’s heart.
“Maman!”
Sopha runs, holding a bouquet of hibiscus in her hand. The mauve petals are crushed and tumble all over the blanket, between Liane’s chest and that of her daughter. A miraculous herbarium they will keep for the rest of their lives.
“We found her on the lava flow above Piton Sainte-Rose,” Laroche explains. “She’d banged her head against a tree. Nothing serious. We could have come sooner, but she insisted on picking a bouquet of flowers before she saw you.”
Liane bursts into nervous laughter.
Sopha manages to articulate a few words, in spite of her chest being held in a vice-like grip:
“It’s for the fairy with the parasol, Maman. She’s the one who saved us.”
Martial tousles the few short hairs on his daughter’s head not covered by the bandage.
“Good thinking, sweetheart. A promise is a promise.”
Cameras flash. Aja slips away, leaving the spotlight on Laroche. The pictures will be posted on Facebook and dozens of blogs within minutes; the story will join the ranks of other local miracles, hurricanes, lava flows, sea rescues, accompanied by ex-voto flowers for the island’s saintly protectors: the priests, the firemen, the police . . .
Very few for her . . .
Aja moves towards the waterfall. Suddenly it occurs to her that it has been years since she has come here, to this little corner of paradise, that Jade and Lola have never been, that her two little she-devils don’t really know the island; that she and Tom no longer find the time to have picnics, or go swimming, to park their car by the side of the road, any of that . . . Also that time is passing so quickly.
Most of all, she realizes she wants to see them, here, now, to hug them tightly, for an eternity, and then to leave them at her mother’s place in Fleurimont, in her ceramic palace, and to run away with Tom and make love for three days and nights.