The Cairo Diary (24 page)

“You're very philosophical this morning.”

“Ah, well, you've caught me on my way to church.”

Marion's face lit up.

“So you spend time with our beloved brotherhood!”

Tall and charismatic as ever, Joe clasped his hands behind his back. “Wrong, my dear.”

He spun around to shoot a glance at the parish church behind him. “I was having my morning walk before going to pray to our good Lord, here. I leave the abbey Masses to the tourists and people who like religious grandeur.”

Marion gave him a rueful smile, to show that he had figured her out.

“But perhaps you would do me the pleasure of coming to my table this evening for dinner?” he ventured. “I think that my advanced age permits me to issue that kind of open invitation without appearing vulgar.”

Marion gave him the most charming of smiles. “What can I bring?”

“Oh, you won't find anything on this pebble, so just come with your good humor; it will intoxicate you better than any expensive wine. Eight o'clock at my door. Have a good day, Marion.”

Marion saw him enter the church of Saint-Pierre by the side door, then she walked down toward the entrance to the village. For the first time since her arrival, she was surprised to find several tourists walking along the medieval roads. But of course, it was the weekend. Marion walked out onto the causeway and started a long walk to the foot of the sanctuary. Taking advantage of the low tide, she walked past the fortifications, around the Gabriel Tower, which brought back memories of the riddle, and ended up at the chapel of Saint-Aubert on the northwestern side of the Mount. The trees laid bare by the November cold creaked in the wind, huddled close together on the slope that ran under the Merveille.

From here, the bell tower displayed an intimidating power. Its carved apertures looked down over the bay with more certainty than a moral lighthouse, dictating everybody's behavior in the name of religious precepts, and, from its great height, reminding them of the punishment in store for disobedience.

Its shadow crushed Marion.

She sat down to gaze at the sea of damp sand and the distant polders, on her left. She stayed there for a moment, before walking back.

Walking past the square at the entrance to the village, Marion felt a flash of happiness as a little girl ran into her and clumsily excused herself. The little one was no older than ten, and her red spectacles were now sitting crookedly on her nose. Marion squatted down to her level to set them straight, pretending to squint, and the little girl gratified her by laughing out loud. The parents were just behind, keeping a watch on their child. Marion acknowledged them as she walked past.

Her chest suddenly lifted; all at once the air had a bitter taste. The taste of her personal situation. Her solitude. Her single state. Her age. Contact with children soothed her heart. But it also rebounded back on her, with all the appropriate cruelty.

Marion generally avoided these kinds of thoughts. They didn't get her anywhere. Well, nowhere pleasant.

Half a dozen tourists were sitting down to eat at Mère Poulard's and this demonstration of fresh life inspired Marion. She went in, to associate herself with these faces. She ordered the famous omelette and enjoyed the conversations that surrounded her—however banal they might be—even more.

She drank four cups of tea in all and treated herself to two portions of
tarte aux pommes,
stretching out this moment of relaxation into the middle of the afternoon. When she reemerged onto rue Grande, she bumped into Sister Gabriela, the young nun with the musical voice. They chatted for a few minutes before Marion offered to help her with her task, which consisted of putting up flyers reminding people that there was going to be an orchestral concert in the abbey on Monday evening. Marion received the news with surprise and pleasure; at least it would occupy one of her evenings.

She got back to her little house late in the day, and took a hot bath while listening to the music that boomed out of the stereo on the ground floor.

She then faced the dilemma of choosing what to wear for dinner. She didn't have much to choose from, as she had left most of her wardrobe back in Paris. She didn't want to be too dressy, so as not to make Joe uneasy, but she didn't want to be too casual either, in case she offended him. Eventually she decided on a pair of black, front-pleated trousers, and a thin roll-neck sweater, for which she had paid a fortune on a wild spending spree, beneath a very classic woollen waistcoat. The mirror reflected back the image of a woman who was still beautiful, with soft skin, well-tended features, and a desirable figure.

Not for much longer if you keep stuffing yourself like this.…

A woman who took care of herself.

The image of a woman who was nearly forty years old.

Single.

She bit her lower lip.

The white streaks within her blond hair did not look out of place. On the contrary, they conferred on it that original, almost exotic aspect that went well with her musical laughter and teasing looks.

Marion picked up a barrette and drew back her hair into a low bun on the nape of her neck. Just a hint of makeup and she would feel ready.

As if she was going on a date.

With a man who was at least eighty.…

She considered herself pathetic.

But any pretext is okay if it makes you feel just a little bit beautiful, from time to time.…

And at eight o'clock precisely she knocked at Joe's door.

The old man had put on a beige suit for the occasion, and a shirt with a starched collar, around which he had knotted a maroon scarf. He had not, however, shaved.

She handed him a bottle of red wine.

“I had this in one of my cupboards—a present from the brotherhood for my nights of desperation,” she joked. “It might help if my good humor lets us down.…”

He took it from her and showed her inside.

“I hope you're hungry,” he warned. “After all these years, I'm still incapable of getting quantities right. I've made enough for an army!”

Marion discovered that he had brought out the good china and an embroidered tablecloth in honor of the occasion.

“It's because it's Saturday evening,” he explained, following her gaze. “Do please sit down.”

A game of chess covered part of the coffee table in the lounge; the pieces were still arranged as though a game were in progress.

“Do you play?” asked Joe.

“I'd love to, but I'm afraid of being bad at it.”

“Well you should try! I have a shortage of opponents here.”

“Who was your opponent today?”

Joe rubbed his hands. “Grégoire, Béatrice's son. A very good player.”

“Him? I wouldn't have imagined him playing chess.…”

“And yet he does. He's a good kid. He's withering away on the Mount, I'm afraid. He needs life, and a male presence; I don't think I'm wrong about that.”

Marion searched the old man's face. His gaze was still fixed on the gaming board. He looked almost sad.

“You like him a lot, don't you?”

Joe nodded. “Grégoire often comes to play against me, and we talk, about everything and nothing. He's just a kid who could do with a father, that's all. It's difficult for him, living with his mother so far from everything. Béatrice made this choice for herself, because of a personal desire; but Grégoire hasn't come out of it so well, what with so much solitude.”

Joe straightened up and his jovial mood resurfaced. “Right, then, let's eat—if you'd like to.”

He served them coquilles Saint-Jacques, which they devoured, joking about the fact that nobody could have secrets when you lived in such a small village. Everyone knew everything about everyone else.

“That's precisely the trap,” retorted Marion. “You can come here to bury a dark past in daily routine, behind a mask you can quickly create. And precisely because everyone thinks they know everything about everyone else, the secrets remain buried deep.”

Joe's face lit up with a broad grin. “I can see you're beginning to figure out the spirit of the Mount,” he said proudly.

“It's the spirit of small communities. And of islands. I've already discussed it with Béatrice.”

He lifted a finger to emphasize that he understood where her deductions were coming from.

They got to know each other a little better over the sea bass with mashed potatoes and leeks, each going a little further into the other's private world. Joe confided to Marion that he had always been a bachelor before trying to get her to speak in turn. The bottle of wine emptied as the meal progressed, and Marion felt the alcohol getting a grip on her. A certain feeling of euphoria invaded her little by little. She felt good in the company of the old man, was enjoying the delicious dinner, and she willingly allowed herself to become intoxicated.

She ended up depicting herself as a woman who was a little too pushy, too demanding, perpetually unsatisfied. Barely had she become involved in a serious relationship and she was already identifying her partner's faults. She ended up seeing nothing but those faults and swiftly getting rid of him. At work, she wasn't sociable enough, not sufficiently fond of her colleagues. At the end of the day, she was living in a kind of autocracy, with two or three girlfriends whom she went out with occasionally, when they managed to get rid of their husbands and find babysitters for their children.

She almost mentioned Jeremy Matheson, drawing a parallel between them, but just avoided the blunder.

During dessert, Joe drew her a less-than-glowing portrait of the members of the brotherhood whom he knew. Brother Gilles was his favorite target; he regarded the man with the bird of prey's profile as a more formidable hawk than those who currently inhabited the White House. A manipulative man, he was even more pernicious since his dreams of acquiring a more prestigious title had been shattered when his superiors realized that there was more ambition in him than faith. The only pleasure he had left was in exercising his low-level power over the members of the community and glorying in it.

Brother Serge wasn't much better. Joe reckoned he was worthy of being a Mafia godfather; with more than one eye on his flock, he had the reputation of being very authoritarian and a little too strict, but Joe and he had always kept their distance from each other, as Joe had had a real affection for the brotherhood's former superior, who had left almost ten years earlier.

Next, Joe described Brother Christophe—Marion's “Brother Anemia”—as a big, rather dim owl, and he made Marion laugh when he admitted that he would not be surprised to happen upon Brother Christophe covered in cabalistic tattoos and sanctifying the name of the Devil.… His manner was just too nice to be sincere.

Sister Luce was the female counterpart of her acolyte, Brother Gilles, treacherous and malign. “An arid heart” was the expression he used to describe her, and Marion wondered for a moment if that hid a secret of their common past. She imagined a story of platonic love between Joe and Sister Luce, under the jealous eye of Brother Gilles, which would explain this distance between the two men today.

Joe admitted he knew nothing about Brother Damien, who had arrived too recently in the brotherhood, except that he “had the ingenuousness of a simpleton painted all over his face.” He spoke about Sister Anne, who was the closest member of the brotherhood to Marion, as a kind, intelligent woman, a woman you could trust. As for the others, Brother Gaël and Sisters Gabriela and Agathe, in his eyes they were no more than “young religious people who were still full of hope and promise.”

Reassured by all these confidences, Marion explained to her host her mania for attaching dreadful nicknames to everyone and Joe could barely contain himself when he heard about “Brother Wrong Way” and his consorts. He was reassured to learn that he did not have a nickname.

Marion was staggering a little when she got back home, around eleven, after promising to return soon so they could fall about laughing again.

She went to bed in a good mood, with shining eyes.

The desire to read a little before going to sleep insinuated itself through the wine fumes. She went downstairs to fetch the diary from the pocket of her trench coat and quickly returned to the warmth of her bed.

Soon, only her night-light was still lit. She had only just opened the book when a flash of lightning lit up the cemetery beneath her window.

The first drops of rain began to fall, slow and hesitant.

Marion snuggled down in her bed and picked up the story where she had left off.

28

Every man knew what he had to do.

If everyone was well coordinated, the plan could work.

Azim went over everything one more time, to check that he had not missed a single detail.

The volunteers would be at their posts in less than an hour. The day he had spent wandering around el-Gamaliya had not been in vain. The old hashish smoker had agreed straightaway, despite his fear. The trader had yielded as soon as Azim reminded him that it was about saving children. The two men had immediately set to work to find other volunteers. Around half the men needed were found among the relatives of the victims. The other half were assembled before the end of the day, for Maghrib.
*
Azim's idea was basically very simple, and relied as much on their ability to cover the whole district as on luck.

The
ghul
had been spotted four times, within a small area, and always in the Gamaliya district. Azim hoped that with men stationed on the roofs in strategic positions, if the
ghul
happened to pass through the district, it could not fail to be noticed. This meant covering several acres of narrow streets and jumbled buildings. With the aid of the old man and the clothes seller, his witnesses, Azim had drummed up and motivated around thirty lookouts. One by one, they were posted on the balconies of buildings with strict orders not to move for any reason. The arrival of an imam among them silenced the practical jokers and reassured Azim that they would respect their undertaking, more through religious fear than a sense of duty. The spiritual leader had joined the men when it got back to him what was being prepared. It was whispered that a
ghul
was on the prowl, and that it was going to be spotted that very night. “And what if one of the faithful finds himself confronted by it, what will they do?” exclaimed the imam before demanding that he be taken to the volunteers. Only prayers to Allah could drive away the monster, he had declared before a sea of respectful faces. If such a creature was indeed roaming their streets, it was up to him to make it flee.