“It’s all right, Nicu,” she said, smoothing down his damp matted hair with her shaking fingers.
“Drina … you don’t understand,” Nicu said.
“I’m a doctor,” said a man’s voice, “let me through.”
“Don’t understand what, Nicu?” she said.
“Not my mother … why didn’t she tell me?” His trembling hand reached up to unzip his bloodstained hoodie. She saw an envelope in his shirt pocket. “I found this. Read the … take it.”
Numb, she took the envelope from his pocket as she felt the doctor move her aside.
She watched as the grey-haired doctor pressed his hands together against Nicu’s chest to staunch the blood. “Tell the medics to prepare for a deep puncture from a knife wound to the left sternal border. Ribs involved, possible internal bleeding.” The doctor looked up. Shouted. “Now!”
The man nodded, still on his cell phone.
Aimée shook off the cloud of horror and scanned the crowd. “What happened?”
“The boy was standing right here at the curb—” said the young woman, bloody tissues in hand.
“Oui, there was a blue van,” interrupted the woman next to her. “The boy was pulled in. I saw. Next minute, he stumbled out here and fell.”
“Yes, I saw too … he shouted at them. Then the van pulled away in seconds. It cut across the walkway—drove like un fou.”
The doctor leaned back on his knees. “No pulse.”
Good God, she’d gotten Nicu killed. Guilt flooded her. Then alarm. Was she next?
If something happened to her, who’d take care of Chloé?
She stepped back. Voices in the crowd blended into one around her. “Oui, a van stopped, the door slid open …”
“Mon Dieu … The boy was staggering, he knocked my shopping bag …”
“Clutched his stomach … the van took off. I didn’t get a look.”
Aimée made her hands move, righted her scooter. Tried to put the key in the ignition. Her fingers, sticky with Nicu’s blood, kept slipping. Bile rose in her throat.
Get away. She had to get away right now.
Somehow she managed to walk her scooter to the street. The whine of a siren pierced her ears. Lights flashed; an ambulance pulled up on the corner. She flipped the ignition, revved the handlebar and weaved into the traffic.
Three streets later she pulled into a square. Blood—good God, her hands were covered in blood. And then she leaned over just in time as her stomach heaved, over and over until nothing more came out.
She forced herself to clean up at the fountain, wash the blood and bile away. But washing it away wouldn’t take Nicu’s blood off her hands.
When the shaking stopped, she sat on the grass and opened the envelope, stained with bloody fingerprints. Why hadn’t he put this in his bag?
In it she found two black-and-white photos. The first was of two young women, one holding a baby. Written on the back was Djanka, Drina, Nicu. The next was of a young couple squinting into the sun, the man’s arms around the woman, who was holding a baby. On the back was written Djanka, Nicholás and Pascal. With them was a creased, much-folded birth certificate. Nicholás Constantin, date of birth June 12, 1977. Under “father” it was blank, and in the mother’s column were the words, Djanka Constantin, aged 24.
If Drina wasn’t Nicu’s mother, who the hell had he just died for?
Monday Morning
ROLAND LESEUR HUNG the framed iridescent butterfly on the office wall in his ministry, beside his brother Pascal’s commendation from le président. A Phengaris arion, the latest addition to his collection, the violet blue of the insect’s wings reminded him of Fran?oise’s eyes. He let his gaze pass over the collection. These winged creatures, suspended as if caught in flight, made his heart quiver. Little else did these days.
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur le directeur.” Juliette, his ministerial assistant, entered through the tall door, accompanied by a whiff of something citrus. Afternoon light glinted off the Seine through the window, catching in Juliette’s short, nut-brown hair, which glowed like her smile. “Jacques from Libération,” she said. “He wants a quick word.”
Fresh faced, young enough to be his daughter, idealistic like he’d been. Like they’d all been once. Even Pascal.
“Put him on, Juliette.”
But Jacques—mid-forties, like Roland; balding and thick waisted, unlike Roland—stood in the doorway. “Roland, can you give me five minutes?”
Roland was inclined to refuse, but he shrugged as Jacques helped himself to a seat on Roland’s Louis Philippe office chair.
“Why not, Jacques?” He pulled out that smile he’d perfected over the course of years in the ministry, as a haut fonctionnaire. Jacques, a socialist, wrote for the left-leaning Libération—not Roland’s choice of newspaper—but he was a respected journalist. “Hold my calls for five minutes, Juliette,” Roland said. “Ever seen my collection, Jacques?”
“Bien s?r, Roland,” he said. “But I’m not here for that.”
Never one for small talk, Jacques.
Jacques’s gaze drifted over the framed butterflies, but lingered on Pascal’s 1978 commendation. Pascal, the youngest député in the history of the Assemblée Nationale.
“Please take this as coming from a friend,” Jacques said. “I’ve known you, what, twenty years?”
Roland nodded. “Twenty-one. We met at Pascal’s funeral.”
Jacques’s hand went to his forehead, shading his eyes for a moment. Then he looked up, his thick brow furrowed. Jacques was genuinely worried.
“Et alors, it’s serious. Why are you here? Get to it, Jacques.”
“Off the record, you understand.” Jacques leaned forward. The Louis Philippe chair creaked. “You’re a friend, I knew your family. This concerns Pascal.”
“My brother?” Roland said. “Talking from beyond the grave?”
“Roland, I wanted to warn you,” said Jacques. “You won’t like this, but the editor’s going ahead with an exposé.”