Life seemed so grimly ironic that she was tempted to abandon the whole thing. Let events follow their course. Stop fighting it. What was the point? It was all going to end badly. Again, it was the thought of her children that forced her to pull herself together. She was filled with the determination of a mother protecting her children. How could she give up now? The thought of Inès’s and Nassim’s lives falling apart because of the tragedy that was racing head-on toward them—their mother, who had killed their father then hanged herself, or been taken away by police, she didn’t know which was worse—gave her a bit of energy, like a spell that can’t be broken. She had to carry on. She had no choice. As long as she was able to breathe, she had to do everything to protect her children.
At last she got the body to the other side of the hedge and began to glimpse the end of the nightmare. It was only a few more meters to the compost bin. The row of bushes that Tiphaine had planted to protect the yard from the smell that rose from the compost hid her from the house. No one would be able to see her. She dragged the corpse over to it and then, using the last of her energy, began to empty the compost bin, first by fistfuls, then handfuls, then armfuls, paying no heed to the stink or the dirt. She moved frenetically, as if the physical contact with the rotting vegetables mixed with earth was a way of evacuating her soul of the shame contaminating her. As though by smearing herself with garbage she would not become garbage. It was a pathetic attempt at appeasement. She felt dirty. Debased. A piece of garbage in the middle of all this shit.
She finished the grim job in a daze. Once the bin was empty, she unrolled the tarpaulin to free Gérard’s body, then tipped it in, not before putting his phone back inside his jacket pocket. Then she repeated the operation in the opposite direction, blanketing the corpse in compost.
Buried under the scrap heap.
Buried in muck.
R.I.P.
“Maman, have you heard from Papa?”
Inès came out into the yard, having apparently run out of things to talk about with Emma (or Léa). Nora jumped, abruptly delivered from her horrific memories.
“No,” she said.
“Have you called him?”
“Not yet.”
Realizing how odd it was that she still hadn’t tried to get ahold of Gérard, who was supposed to be looking after the children and had shown no sign of life since the previous day, she hurriedly tried to explain herself.
“To be honest, I don’t want to call him. He should be the one calling me. I’m mad at him. I hope he has a very good explanation for his behavior.”
“But, Maman, this is weird. Maybe something’s happened to him.”
“What are you talking about? He was busy at work, didn’t notice the time, and when he realized how late it was, he rushed home. But then he saw my message and decided he’d rather get a good night’s sleep before he had to face me.”
Inès looked skeptically at her mother.
“Okay,” said Nora. “I’ll finish mowing the grass and then I’ll call him.”
“Do it now,” her daughter begged.
“When I’ve finished mowing the grass,” replied her mother.
Inès pursed her lips and glared at her. Then she turned on her heel. “I’ll call him myself,” she muttered as she went inside.
Nora frowned as she watched her daughter disappear into the house, then hurried to finish the mowing.
A few minutes later, Inès came back outside. “It’s still going straight to voice mail. Something’s not right.”
“Call Mélanie and ask if she’s heard from him.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why would Mélanie have heard from him and not us? We don’t need to call Mélanie, we need to call the cops. Papa’s disappeared, and we have no idea where he is.” Inès looked both furious and bewildered at her mother’s lack of concern about what had happened to her father. Nora had to admit she had a point. And their recent separation in no way justified her blatant lack of interest.
“Last night, before Mélanie called me to complain that your father hadn’t arrived, Milo rang at the door,” said Nora, as if suddenly recalling something that might be important. “Apparently, your father paid a visit to the neighbors yesterday afternoon.”
“Papa went to see the Geniots?” Inès looked astonished. “Why?”
“I have no idea,” Nora lied.
“And you’re telling me that just now? We have to go see them, find out what time he left!”
Go to see the Geniots? Find herself face-to-face with Tiphaine? Out of the question! And yet, if she hadn’t told Inès this valuable information, her daughter would begin to ask serious questions about her mother’s refusal to act.
“All right, I’ll call him,” she said in a grave tone of voice.
