I Hear Them Cry (6 page)

No matter how many times I said, “You don’t have to worry about Mommy,” the only response I got from Anna was, “What’s going to happen to my brother?” He had been Anna’s lifeline.

That was the truth that only a few of us knew.

But how to prove it? Although I was only a pseudo-Catholic, at that moment I couldn’t help but seriously pray to God.

I began pacing, holding my head in my hands. The thought of Simone leaving the hospital with a look of innocence on her face sent shivers down my spine. I couldn’t allow Pierre to be sent to prison. I just couldn’t.

Anger welled up from the depths of my heart, bubbling violently. I needed to calm down and think, but I was lost.

Sensing my turbulent state of mind, Anna was anxiously watching me. The motor of my thinking apparatus was abuzz with activity, busily spinning and making connections between threads of argument and trains of thought. But I was thinking in circles and getting nowhere. I couldn’t find any answers. Then, for an instant, I tried to convince myself I hadn’t heard what I did. But Anna’s eyes were screaming a voiceless scream that was desperately trying to sound out:

Help. Help. Somebody help.

I couldn’t turn a deaf ear. Then an idea flashed into my mind. It was the one and only way I could save Anna. But to put it into action, I needed to be brave. I would have to put my life on the line.

ANNA: THREE

“Anna, who do you want to be with?” I asked.

“My brother.”

“What about Mommy?”

“Get him out of the slammer!”

“I know one way we can save Pierre,” I said. “But there’s a chance that Mommy will never be able to leave the hospital.”

“I don’t care about Mommy!”

“You’ll have to be strong,” I said. “Are you strong, Anna?”

“If I am, can Pierre come out then?”

Anna’s glassy blue eyes were desperate, shooting a piercing gaze at me. There was no time to lose. It was now or never. I had to act right away. I led her to the bedroom and removed her T-shirt, crumpling the large white Chihuahua printed on the blue cotton. Going down on one knee, I gently pulled down her frilly blue skirt.

I hesitated for a moment at her pink panties, but then dragged them down. Her skin was soft, pale, and pure. For a fleeting moment I saw the body of a defenseless little girl floating into view under the light of the lamp. When I patted her gently, I felt as if her skin would get sucked into the palm of my hand. I wanted to embrace her so badly—to comfort her—but I shook off
the urge and made her lie on the bed, facedown. With trembling hands, I slowly undid the belt looped around my jeans.

“Be strong, Anna. I’m sorry, my dear.”

The leather belt cut through the air, whistling past my ear. The next moment, a red trace of the lashing blazed across Anna’s pristine white skin.

She made a noise but immediately buried her face into the pillow and endured the pain. I lashed her again. Red welts formed, testifying to her pain.

(God… forgive me.)

I was desperate. With every swing of my belt, I begged for mercy as my vision blurred with tears.

While getting to know and working with Jean, I had seen what victims of child abuse looked like. Their innumerable scars—so grotesque you couldn’t look at them without wincing and averting your eyes—were photographed, and the perpetrators, often the parents, were apprehended. To prevent Pierre from going to trial, some concrete proof was necessary. The testimony of a child was inadmissible. And there was no way for me to prove the mother was bringing in pedophiles night after night. I had to make the abuse stark-nakedly clear; I had to send Simone to the slammer.

I couldn’t see Anna’s back anymore. It was all a blur.

I couldn’t look directly at the lash marks. My eyes were filled with tears.

“Okay, Anna. I’m done,” I finally said.

Anna slowly lifted her face and took a good look at me. There were no tears in her eyes.

“Is that it? Can Pierre come out now?”

The child was so brave. She had endured so much pain for the sake of saving her older brother, the one who had saved her. For him, perhaps she wouldn’t think twice about giving her life.

“Anna,” I said, “who gave you this wound?”

“Mommy.” Her eyes sparkled with pride, a pride she took in the sure knowledge that she was saving Pierre. Anna’s cruel circumstances had nipped her childhood in the bud.

I rubbed some ointment on the welts and covered her with a bath towel soaked in ice water to relieve the inflammation.

ANNA: FOUR

The next day, Anna was covered in purple bruises.

“Does it hurt, Anna?”

Looking at her back, my own pain seemed too much to bear and I felt a hazy sense of dread sneak up on me, telling me that I had done something terrible without a doubt. The dark clouds of regret formed slowly and steadily over my heart.

“I’m fine, Mayu. Don’t worry.”

I was convinced she had a better idea of my role in life than I did. In Anna’s eyes, Jean was always Simone’s counselor and friend. But I was just some stranger from Japan who had popped up out of the blue with no alliance with Simone, so she felt safe asking me for help. Her gamble had paid off. Anna was, in effect, a wild dog, instinctively sniffing out scents for survival. It was Anna who was fighting the battle. There was no turning back for me now. The only thing left to do was move forward. I braced myself, took a deep breath, and made a phone call.

“Jean,” I said breathlessly.

“Hey, Mayu, what a terrible day it was yesterday. But you were a great help. Thanks for taking care of Anna.”

“It’s Anna, Jean. I have terrible news. I found scars on her. Signs of abuse.”

Jean gasped. “Pierre wasn’t saying anything. So that’s what happened, then.”

I’ve passed the first round
, I told myself, feeling the tension in my whole body melt away.

“Who would do such a thing?” I asked timidly.

“Simone.”

Success!

“Really?” I went on, as the strain in my shoulders fell off.

“Everyone knew that Simone had been luring men. You can imagine what Pierre must have gone through growing up in that house of hers. But even after he moved out, he never stopped worrying about Anna and had always wanted to be the one to take care of her.” Jean’s tone helped soothe me. “Mayu, could you call 119—Allô Enfance en Danger immediately? You know, the child protection crisis hotline? I’ll go ahead and contact the police.”

“I’m on it.”

There was no turning back now. I wondered whether I was going to be able to see this ruse through to the end, before anyone found out, especially Jean.

I am Joan of Arc
, I told myself to summon courage.

(I could never forgive that terrible woman!)

My hatred for Simone was fueling my drive; it had become my sustenance. The ground beneath me would shake from the magnitude of my actions.

Before dropping Anna off at child protection services, I placed my forefinger over my lips to signal to her to keep our little secret. She gestured back in kind and walked calmly into the counselors’ care.

Anna knew that her brother stabbed Simone for her sake, that the act was committed in her name. She knew what she had to do to save him and was resolute. Her courage and drive were demonstrated by her calm endurance through the pain of all
those belt lashings. It was time for me to have faith in Anna and allow myself to believe she would keep silent.

Once the matter of Simone’s abuse came to light, the mass media—all at once—turned Pierre’s “attempted matricide” story into a moving morality tale. While Simone vehemently denied the allegation, the psychiatrist’s testimony ended up incriminating her.

I followed the trial closely. I was obsessed with the sentences Pierre and Simone would receive, and as I read I hoped they would get off easily.

(If Simone’s ruling proves to be far more severe than anything I imagined, I wonder if I should confess the truth.)

(No! Her crime was awful enough to warrant severe punishment; she’ll only be getting what she has coming to her.)

And so this rationalizing inner monologue played on, ad nauseam. And in the end, without any clear answer found, I justified my act on the grounds of my loathing for Simone. I had pulled myself together, even though I was terrified.

Gradually, my appetite began to wane, along with my ability to concentrate at the café, and at night, tormented by uncertainty and fear, I lost sleep. In the depths of my heart I was in constant fear of the fate that would befall me. When would I be held accountable? And in what way?

ANNA: FIVE

Shigeki didn’t give a hoot about French news. Current affairs here were none of his business. Besides, he seemed to be stressed out from work and, having completed his assignment, the day of his return to Japan was fast approaching. So one day he took me out to the city.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“That’s a surprise,” he said, flooring the gas pedal on the Renault. Although I had a lot on my mind, in front of Shigeki I tried to be my regular self. Harboring such a dark secret, I found myself falling for Shigeki all the more, as if he were my one and only safety zone, a place where I could escape to and seek refuge. Most of the time that safety zone turned out to be my apartment. Work followed Shigeki, so he really didn’t have that much time to take it easy, and our dates that took place under sunny skies didn’t usually turn out the way we wanted them to. The sex went by without much talking, but it was filled with insatiable lust; it helped me forget the fear lurking in the depths of my mind.

Shigeki parked in front of a classy jeweler. For him, lavishing a woman with expensive gifts came as easily as brushing his teeth in the morning. I always insisted that I didn’t want any of that because I wanted to establish a clear distinction between
the women of his past and me. To put it simply, it was the only card I could play to draw his attention.

“Okay, okay. I get it. You don’t want anything, right?” he would say.

“Yes, except you,” I would counter. “As long as you’re around, I’ll be fine. I like seeing you happy, that’s all.”

And then he would desire me and whisper,

Mayu, Mayu, Mayu.

But that day Shigeki ignored my resistance and simply marched into the shop. I didn’t get out of the car. A few minutes later he came back out and scowled, positively scandalized, “Come on, let’s go.”

I remained silent. For me, accepting a gift from him was tantamount to losing my uniqueness in his eyes; I would just become incorporated into the galaxy of women he had known. So I stayed firm in my resolve and refused to step out of the car. Dazed, he went back in, his palms up. A few minutes later he came out again and said, “You’re incredible, you know, a woman who won’t enter a jewelry shop. What do you know? Never in my life have I met someone so bullheaded as you.”

He was enjoying himself when he said that, cracking up some. But that moment turned out to be the beginning of my days in hell.

After returning to the apartment, he put his arms around me and whispered, “Come home with me, back to Japan. You and me together—what do you say?”

I froze, looking at him the same way Anna had when she had looked back from the door to size me up. We were both stray dogs—worn down from the scars of a shattered heart—wanting to believe in somebody for the first time.