“What’s that?”
“A victim.” And Michelle turns her back on Colombine and Pierrot.
Géraldine and David watch Michelle walk away.
Anorexic, David thinks, his eyes fixed on the jutting collarbone exposed by the low neckline of one of those Breton striped sweaters French actresses wear.
So graceful, thinks Géraldine, like a Modigliani model who survived the war in a crumbling attic. She turns to David. “She told us enough to know where to look.”
He shakes his head. They’ll have to go through all the credits of all the shows produced by Paul Normand, a laborious task that will slow them down. “It would’ve been simpler with a deposition,” he says.
“For us, yes. Not for her.”
The door opens onto the biting February cold. The wind has risen, blowing flurries of snow everywhere. David wonders if he’ll dare to ask the question that’s gnawing at him before they get back to the car and are overtaken by the demands of the investigation.
“Do you understand that, Gérald?”
“Understand what? Be clear, David.”
“Choosing to stay silent, you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think there’s an obligation to report?”
“No.”
He starts the Dodge’s motor, turning the heat to maximum.
“There are worse things than not reporting,” adds Géraldine. “You can report and have the world turn its back on you.”
The windshield wipers struggle to clear the snow from the glass.
It’s true that when you think about the fact that a million men, women, and children were hacked to pieces with machetes over three months, and that no one came to help, it can really do a number on your desire to speak out.
While they wait for the vehicle to warm up, David checks his phone one last time, hoping to find a clue in the dense jungle of web pages dedicated to Paul Normand. A quick scan tells him the entertainment industry has just held a ceremony in homage to him, that he’s working on new and ambitious projects, that his daughter Stéphanie is his greatest pride, that he poses shamelessly with his grandchildren: like here, playing hockey, or here, next to a Christmas tree. The only off note: one of his ex-protégés, who’d left the fold, had been savaged in a vitriolic newspaper article. A failed comeback for the ex — child star turned has-been who’d never really been at all.
“It’s sickening how much has been written about him,” David says. “I mean, this guy produced quiz shows with B-list actors, cheap copies of successful variety shows, and some dumb soap operas, but to read the articles, you’d think he has a great body of work. I mean, really, he’s not Picasso!”
“You know, David, if Picasso were alive today, he’d be the star of a reality TV show about hotshot art collectors outbidding each other for his work.”
David shrugs. “Okay, smart-ass.”
Géraldine’s silvery laugh fills the cabin of the truck. For an instant, David tells himself he wouldn’t mind being treated like an idiot for the rest of his days if it meant he could hear that laugh. He shifts into first, just as Géraldine’s phone rings.
“Mukasonga,” she answers.
From the way she goes silent, concentrating with an intensity he’s never seen in anyone else, David knows it’s important.
“Amber Alert for a seven-year-old girl, Raphaëlle Boisclair... the granddaughter of Paul Normand.”
David stares straight ahead at the road, obscured by blowing snow.
Stéphanie & Vincent
The gate closes behind them, prisonlike. A monstrous house, bloated with money and ostentation. On the lawn that has clearly been landscaped by a designer, snow covers the trees, shrubs, and a fountain modeled after the Trevi Fountain. David whistles faintly, impressed. His wife probably wouldn’t like the house, but confusedly, he thinks it’s what is expected of a man: that he provide a nest — the grandest of nests, the coziest, the safest — to the mother of his children.
“I guess that’s why I’m not in a relationship anymore,” says Géraldine, gesturing at the manor. “If I had to live here, I’d die.”
“You think we should tell them about Paul Normand?”
“Yes. But we won’t.”
David nods. He doesn’t question Géraldine’s decision, and he knows she’d do the same for him. They’re smart enough to know not to get in the way of intuition by prematurely questioning it.
And then, a shockingly good-looking couple appears in the doorway. He looks like the product of a focus group for women who are bored in their marriages, while she, athletic and glowing, could be taken for a Norwegian ski champion. Géraldine feels a sudden pang — Stéphanie Normand looks too much like Anne-Sophie. Both she and her husband are red-eyed, their bodies stiff with anguish, a vague expression of disbelief on their faces. Their nest, majestic as it may be, hasn’t protected their daughter.
In the vast white kitchen, Stéphanie and Vincent do their best to answer questions. They were in Quebec City for Stéphanie’s class reunion at the private boarding school where she’d spent her adolescence. Marisa has worked for them since Raphaëlle was born; they’d never seen her drink before. They’ve had no contact from the kidnappers, not a word, not even a warning to not contact the police. And so they’d filed a report. Terrified at the thought that their little girl could be in danger — worried that the news outlets will get wind of the story — incapable of imagining that Raphaëlle might be suffering, they take turns speaking: her first, then him, to have the last word. Each time, Vincent tacks a phrase onto his wife’s statement, as if to assert his authority. Something isn’t right with them, David thinks. He’s not happy.
“Was there something we should have done, besides calling you?” asks Stéphanie.
“No, no, you did the right thing,” David says.
“It was my first instinct to contact you,” adds Vincent. “Steph didn’t want to, she was afraid of the media attention, that it would make things worse.”
The way Stéphanie’s face tenses is subtle, but it escapes neither David nor Géraldine.
“She’s seven years old,” Stéphanie keeps repeating, her voice hoarse with worry. “Seven! I can’t even imagine someone would want to harm her.”
Plenty of people are lining up to harm children, Géraldine thinks. Your father harmed them constantly. And you, his daughter, what do you know of his crimes?
A look from David brings her out of her trance. He knows what his partner is thinking, he knows all too well, but unlike her, he still believes in the presumption of innocence.
“Do you know anyone who might hold a grudge against you?”
They shake their heads in unison. Vincent shrugs. “Everyone loves my wife. Even people who don’t like her at first end up loving her.”
“And you,” asks Géraldine, “does everyone love you?”
“Me? I’m not important enough for anyone to hate.”
No, Vincent is not happy.
“And your father, Mademoiselle Normand, could someone have reason to come after your daughter because of him?”
It’s David who asks the question. Géraldine admires his composure and his grace. No trace of accusation in his question, only a concern that inspires trust. He’s good, David. Before them, Stéphanie is silent, placing her hand in her husband’s. To buy time. She knows, thinks Géraldine. She knows who her father is.