David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (46 page)

“I don’t give a damn,” I replied.

Nothing had ever seemed as ridiculous to me as their false precautions. When he asked me: “What? If Courilof were in a carriage with his wife and children, you’d throw the bomb?” I said yes, and I thought I actually could have done it. What difference would it make? But I could see he didn’t believe me.

“Well, comrade,” he finally said, “that won’t happen. He’ll be alone with his servants.”

They, apparently, didn’t count.

“Well, good-bye then!” he said.

He left.

It happened the next evening. Fanny came with me. We were carrying bombs covered in shawls and wrapped in parcel paper. We didn’t speak. We went and sat down in a brightly lit little square opposite the Marie Theatre. A long line of policemen and carriages waited in the street.

The square was empty. The sky was low and dark; a fine, light snow fluttered through the air, turning to rain as soon as it touched the ground. Tiny needles of icy rain that stung your face.

Fanny pointed to the parked carriages. “The court, the diplomatic corps, the German Embassy delegation, the ministers,” she whispered with a kind of exultation.

The night was deadly long, terrible. Around eleven o’clock, the wind changed and a thick snow began to fall. We moved to another spot; we were frozen. Twice we walked around the little square.

Suddenly we found ourselves face to face with someone who’d emerged from the shadows to look at us. Fanny pressed herself against me and I kissed her. Thinking we were lovers, the policeman was reassured and disappeared. I held Fanny in my arms; she looked up at me, and I remember that, for the first time, I saw a tear in those cruel eyes.

I let go of her. We continued to walk in silence. I was coughing. Blood kept rushing into my mouth. I spat it out, then coughed again; blood trickled on to my hands. I wanted to lie down right there in the snow and die.

The carriages began to move forward. You could hear the sound of doors opening and banging shut inside the theatre, and the shrill whistles of the policemen.

I crossed the street. I was holding a bomb in my hand as if it were a flower. It was grotesque. I don’t understand how no one noticed and arrested me. Fanny followed behind. We stopped close to the entrance, beneath the columns heavy with snow, between the rows of people.

The doors opened. Everyone came out. The Emperor, the Imperial Family, William II and his entourage had already left. I saw women in furs walk by, jewellery gleaming beneath their delicate mantillas dotted with snowflakes. There were generals whose spurs clattered against the frozen ground, and others as well, people I didn’t know, the doddery old fools of the diplomatic corps, and still others… Courilof. He turned towards me; his face was old and pale; or was it just the light from the street-lamps that made his features seem so furrowed? He looked weary and defeated, with big dark circles under his eyes. I turned towards Fanny.

“I can’t kill him,” I said.

I felt her grab the bomb from me. She took two steps forward and threw it.

I remember a jumble of faces, hands, eyes, that swam around in front of me, then disappeared in explosion with the noise and
light of hell itself. We weren’t hurt, but our faces were cut, our clothes burnt, our hands covered in blood. I took Fanny’s hand and we ran through the dark streets, ran like hunted animals. People were bumping into us, rushing in all directions. Several of them had ripped clothes and bloody hands, like us. An injured horse whinnied so horribly from pain that shivers ran down my spine. When we finally stopped, we were in the middle of a square, surrounded by an angry crowd. I knew we were finished. I felt relieved. It was there we were arrested.

Afterwards, Fanny and I found ourselves in a room next to the one where the dead bodies were piled up. We had guards, but amidst the confusion and horror, it hadn’t occurred to them to separate us.

Fanny suddenly burst into tears. I felt sorry for her. I’d already said that I was the one who’d thrown the bomb, as that was only fair: if she hadn’t grabbed it from my hands, I would have ended up throwing it. That… that was the easy part… And anyway, as I’ve already said, I was coughing up so much blood that I felt there was none left in my lungs; I was certain that if they just let me close my eyes and sit still, I would die; and I painfully, eagerly longed for that moment.

I went over to Fanny, put a cigarette in her hand and whispered: “You have nothing to worry about.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that, it’s not that… Dead! He’s dead! Dead!”

“Who’s dead?” I asked, confused.

“Courilof! He’s dead! Dead! And I’m the one who killed him!”

Nevertheless, her instinct for survival remained strong within her.

When the policeman came closer, attracted by her cries, he heard her say again: “He’s dead! And we’re the ones who killed him!”

And so she was condemned to life in prison and I to be hanged.

But you should never count on death any more than you count on life. I’m still here … The devil alone knows why. Later on, Fanny escaped and took part in a second assassination. She was
the one who killed P. in 1907 or 1908. She was caught, and this time, she hanged herself in her cell. As for me … Well, I’ve told my story. Life is absurd. Fortunately for me, at least, the show will soon be over.