Black Water Lilies by Michel Bussi

Author:Michel Bussi
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: ORION
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

41

I watch Stéphanie at the window of Monet’s pink house. She looks like the mistress of a colonial home, overseeing a swarm of servants.

Laurenç has come back down.

They are completely mad. I’m sure you agree with me this time, that you’re thinking the same. The idiots, making a spectacle of themselves like that! On the balcony of Monet’s house, overlooking the garden, facing the Chemin du Roy, in full view of everyone. They’re asking for it!

I listen to the sound of the Tiger Triumph setting off. Stéphanie hears it too, but she doesn’t have the courage to turn her head. She remains thoughtful, watching the children playing in the garden. It’s true that she’s ravishing, the little schoolteacher. It’s also true that she knows how to use it, with her geisha dress clinging to her wasp waist and her dewy eyes. Trust me, she has all it takes to turn the head of any boy who comes too close to her, whether he’s a policeman or a doctor, married or not. Pretty as a picture.

Enjoy it, my pretty. It won’t last.

Some boys are running about in the middle of the flowers. The teacher tells them off gently. Her mind is elsewhere.

You’re lost, aren’t you, my dear?

This is the moment when your whole life is going to change, you’ve understood that, and through the most unlikely of saviours. A policeman. Charming. Funny. Cultured. Prepared to do anything – even free you from your chains. From your husband.

This is the moment. So what’s holding you back?

Nothing?

Ah, if it were only up to you … If only death wasn’t prowling around you; as if you attracted it, my darling. As if, in the end, you were only reaping what you had sowed.

Children’s laughter pierces my evil thoughts. Boys running after girls.

Typical.

Make the most of it, little ones. Enjoy it. Trample the lawns and the flowers. Pluck the roses. Throw stones and sticks into the pond. Tear holes in the waterlilies. Desecrate the temple of romanticism. But don’t have any delusions. It’s only a garden, after all. Just because a bunch of credulous fools come from the other end of the world to pray here, it’s still nothing but a pool of stagnant water.

I know, I’m wicked. Forgive me. Those two idiots have annoyed me this morning, Stéphanie Dupain and her policeman. You have to understand me too. I want to play the mute witness, the invisible black mouse, but it isn’t always so easy to remain detached. You don’t understand me anymore? You’re still wondering what part I play in this whole story? Let me reassure you, I don’t have any sophisticated aerials to pick up the conversation of those two fools through the walls of the Monet house, all the details of their loving display. Oh, no. It’s much simpler than that. Dramatically simple.

I turn towards the right bank of the Chemin du Roy, towards the water garden. Along the road, a few planks have been removed from the fence, probably by

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