The Madonna of Notre Dame Read online

  THE MADONNA OF NOTRE DAME

  www.newvesselpress.com

  First published in French in 2014 as La Madone de Notre-Dame

  Copyright © 2014 Éditions Viviane Hamy

  Translation Copyright © 2016 Katherine Gregor

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or website review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Cover design: Liana Finck

  Book design: Beth Steidle

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Ragougneau, Alexis

  [La Madone de Notre-Dame. English]

  The Madonna of Notre Dame/ Alexis Ragougneau; translation by Katherine Gregor.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-939931-39-9

  Library of Congress Control Number 2016908534

  I. France – Fiction

  This novel mainly takes place in Notre Dame de Paris, hence the locations described will sound familiar both to the cathedral regulars and to occasional visitors.

  However, the events and characters portrayed in this story are fictional.

  Contents

  MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY

  THURSDAY

  FRIDAY

  MONDAY

  “GÉRARD, THERE’S A BOMB ALERT. IN THE AMBULATORY. SERIOUS stuff this time. Big.”

  His shoulder wedged in the doorway, a huge bunch of keys hanging at the end of his arm, the guard watched the sacristan fuss around, open all the sacristy cupboards, and pull out rags, sponges, silverware polish, while muttering expletives of his own composition at regular intervals.

  “Gérard, are you listening? You should take a look, really. Fifteen years on the job, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s enough to blow up the whole cathedral.”

  Gérard interrupted his search and finally appeared to take an interest in the guard. The latter had just hung the keys on a single nail stuck in the sacristy paneling.

  “Later on, if you like, I’ll go see. Is that all right? Are you happy?”

  “What’s going on today, Gérard? Haven’t you got time for important things anymore?”

  “Look, you’re starting to really piss me off. Thirty years I’ve been working here and it’s the same thing every year: every August fifteenth they have to make a goddamn mess in the sacristy. And I can never find anything the next day. I have to spend two hours cleaning up. I don’t understand why it has to be so difficult. They arrive, they put on their vestments, they do their procession and their Mass next door, they come back, they take off their vestments, and see you next year ... Why do they have to go rummaging in the cupboards?”

  “Tell me, Gérard, what have you lost?”

  “My gloves. My box of gloves for the silverware. If I don’t have them I wreck my hands with their shitty products.”

  “You want me to help you look? I’ve got time—just finished opening up.”

  “Don’t worry, here, found them. I don’t know why it’s so hard to put things back where they belong, I mean, Jesus H. Christ ...”

  The guard fumbled in his pocket, inserted coins into the slit of the coffee machine, and pushed a button. He signaled goodbye to the sacristan and then, a steaming cup in his hand, started to walk back to the interior of the cathedral. Gérard caught up with him in the corridor.

  “So tell me about your bomb ... Worth seeing?”

  “The works, I promise: the ticktock, the time switch, and the sticks of dynamite.”

  “OK, I’ll go see later, before the nine o’clock Mass. Might still be there. Where’s your explosive device again?”

  “In the ambulatory, outside the chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. You’ll see—impossible to miss.”

  The nave was slowly beginning to fill with its daily stream of tourists. Between eight and nine in the morning, they were mostly from the Far East: Notre Dame was the opening number on a program that would subsequently lead them, within the same day, to the Louvre, Montmartre, the Eiffel Tower, the Opéra, and the stores on Boulevard Haussmann.

  Gérard pushed his cart loaded with cardboard boxes, stopping outside every side chapel. With a mechanical gesture, he would cut around the base of every box, then lift the lid, revealing a stack of candles with a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which he would then immediately place in the tailor-made stands. Above the candle dispenser was written, in luminous letters and several languages: your offering is entirely up to you. The suggested donation was five euros. Then, with an equally weary gesture, he would empty the neighboring metal racks where, the previous day, several hundred candles had burned down over the course of hours, giving way to a new row of votive candles, prayers, and words of hope addressed to the Virgin Mary. A little later, another member of the staff would come and empty the collection boxes full of coins and banknotes into secure canvas sacks. There were similar stands with candles all over the cathedral, placed in strategic locations, at the base of statues, at the foot of crucifixes, in chapels devoted to private prayer. The morning promised to be a long one, and the fifteen years that stood between him and retirement a long road paved with tens of thousands of cardboard boxes, each filled with candles with a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

  Gérard sighed and resumed his round. Like every day for years now, Madame Pipi, invariably seated on the same chair next to the Virgin of the Pillar, invariably wearing her straw hat studded with red plastic flowers, invariably gave him a panic-stricken look and opened her mouth to say something to him. Like every day for years now, Madame Pipi thought better of it and, by way of conversation, crossed herself. With a little luck, she’d leave Gérard the morning free to complete his round. Then, invariably, the crazy old woman would end up falling asleep, and let a trickle of urine escape from under her, which would then have to be wiped away with a floor cloth.

  A little farther, he greeted two cleaning women who were finishing sweeping the north transept, hushed a group of Chinese tourists whose cackling echoed through the cathedral, which was otherwise still quiet at that time, then, pushing his cart, set off along the black and white tiled floor of the ambulatory. That’s when his colleague, the guard, came to mind. Immediately, he saw her. Or rather, in the half light, he just made her out.

  The bombshell was indeed there, at the very end of the ambulatory, perfectly still, alone, as though delicately placed on the bench outside the chapel of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. Gérard approached and started emptying the nearest candle rack. The few candles lit by the first visitors of the day spread more shadow than light, so that what he was able to distinguish was a form rather than a body, a profile rather than a face. She was wearing a short white dress made of such sheer fabric it followed closely every curve, every bend in her flesh. Her black hair, shimmering in places, cascaded over her neck and shoulders like a river of silk. Her hands, joined in prayer like those of a child, rested on her bare thighs. On her feet, held demurely together under the bench like those of a schoolgirl, she had a pair of high-heeled pumps so white and varnished that it was futile to resist a glance. They underlined her slender ankles and the contours of her calves.

  Gérard lost himself in the contemplation of this stunning figure, forgetting for a moment his boxes of candles, his cart, his hassles, and the monotony of his work as sacristan. However, he was soon interrupted by the crackle of a radio, the one he wore at his belt, emitting his name.

  “Guard to sacristan ... Gérard? ... Gérard, do you read me?”

  “Yes, I
can hear you. What do you want?”

  “Did you go look?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Is she still there?”

  “Yes. Good as gold.”

  “And?”

  “Definitely explosive ... You were right.”

  He put back his walkie-talkie with the guard’s laughter still resounding from it, then, somewhat reluctantly, finished cleaning out the candle rack. Behind him, a handful of worshippers were already entering the chancel, where the nine o’clock Mass was about to begin. He had to get the necessary liturgical accessories ready. Father Kern was officiating this morning, and Father Kern did not tolerate delays.

  A little later, he again had occasion to go through the ambulatory. An automatic dispenser of medals stamped with Ave Maria Gratia Plena had just become jammed and a tourist, a corpulent American woman, was tormenting the refund button. In the chancel, the Mass was following its course. Father Kern was delivering the day’s homily in his metallic, authoritative voice, plunging the cathedral into a respectful silence. As he opened the cover of the medal dispenser and the jammed coins fell one by one as though from a piggy bank, Gérard ventured a glance at the young woman dressed in white. She was there, she hadn’t budged, her hands still clasped together on her pale thighs, her two pumps still united. Outside, the sun was rising straight up in line with the chapel and, penetrating the stained glass in the east, was starting to bathe the young woman’s translucent face in a red and blue halo worthy of a Raphael Madonna. Motionless on her bench reserved for prayer, protected by a rope that isolated her from visitors and gave her the appearance of a holy relic, she stared at the statue of the Virgin of Seven Sorrows with an oddly vacant expression.

  Gérard closed the medal dispenser and took a couple of steps toward the young woman in white, but the American tourist was already ahead of him. She took a bill from her handbag and pushed it through the slit in the stand, then took four candles, which she lined up on the nearby rack before lighting them one by one. Their flickering light finally illuminated the girl’s face.

  The tourist crossed herself and approached the bench. In a heavily accented whisper, she asked the young woman in white if she could sit next to her in order to pray. Still motionless, the girl did not deign to reply, her eyes as though transfixed by the statue of Our Lady of the Seven Sorrows. After repeating her question and still not obtaining an answer, the American deposited her posterior on the bench, the wood groaning slightly beneath her weight. Then, as if in slow motion, as if in a nightmare from the dead of night, the white Madonna slowly nodded. Her chin came down on her chest then, gently, almost gracefully, her whole body toppled forward before collapsing on the checkered tiles.

  That’s when the fat American woman started to scream.

  “She must have fallen on her face once the rigor mortis started wearing off. Until then, your customer was sitting on her bench nice and stiff.” The medical examiner took off one of his latex gloves and scratched his head before continuing. “Shall I wait for the magistrate or get on with it right away?”

  In answer to the doctor, Landard pulled a pack of Gitanes out of his jacket pocket, brought one up to his lips then, looking around, momentarily decided against lighting it. “Give her time to cross the square. Poor little thing, she may not be used to walking.”

  “Do we know who’s on duty?”

  “Yes, we know. It’s the little Mistinguett.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The little blond with the glasses. The one with the rather nice legs.”

  “Kauffmann?”

  “That’s right, Kauffmann.”

  “Cute, cold as a blade and stiff as the Law. None of the smooth operators at the Palais de Justice can ever get her to go out for a drink.”

  “Think she’s a dyke?”

  “Don’t know. But she knows her case files inside out. And she’s hardly ever late.”

  Like an echo to the medical examiner’s assessment, the sound of quick, high-heeled footsteps reverberated in the ambulatory. The young woman walked through the small forensics team in white overalls, who were in fact waiting for the committing magistrate to arrive so that they could start work, then marched up to the tarps protecting the crime scene.

  “Doctor ... Captain Landard ... Claire Kauffmann, deputy committing magistrate. What have we got?”

  The doctor put his glove back on. “Very clean, almost too clean. We can start right away if you like.”

  The corpse was lying under the aggressive spotlights set up by the technical team. With a curt gesture, Claire Kauffmann flattened the back of her skirt over her thighs and squatted by the body. Her eyes immediately lingered on the dead woman’s neck. “Strangulation?”

  The medical examiner also kneeled. “Yes, the marks are quite clear. She also has a slightly raised upper lip and bruises on her forearms, look. The firefighter who first examined her noticed them immediately. He was the one who called the police at about ten this morning.”

  The magistrate turned to Landard, who was standing back. “Wasn’t it somebody from here who called you?”

  “They thought she’d fainted, and when someone faints, they call the fire department.”

  “Any idea who she is?”

  “There’s no purse, no papers, no cell phone. Absolutely nothing.”

  “Strange outfit to wear in a church. A bit see-through. See-through and short.”

  “If all the girls dressed like this for Mass, French churches would be brimming. Brimming with parishioners, I mean.”

  “Parishioners like you, captain?”

  Landard stuffed his fists in the pockets of his jacket. The magistrate hadn’t even taken the trouble to look at him. She turned away from him in a definitive gesture and went up to the medical examiner.

  “Time of death, doctor?”

  “I’ll just take her temperature and let you know right away, madame.”

  Leaving the medical examiner to his thermometer, Claire Kauffmann and Captain Landard went back to the ambulatory, where Lieutenant Gombrowicz was waiting for them. Unable to bear it any longer, Landard took out a disposable lighter, shook it, and lit the cigarette that was still hanging from his lips. He inhaled deeply, blew smoke from his nostrils, and gave Gombrowicz a quizzical look. The latter pulled a notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and deciphered the first pages, which were a jungle of words, question marks, childlike sketches, and crossed out information.

  “So here’s the story: this morning, shortly before ten, the girl who was sitting on a bench reserved for praying suddenly fell flat on the stone floor. The cathedral called the fire department, who arrived within five minutes and recorded the death.”

  Claire Kauffmann interrupted Gombrowicz. “In this particular case, who is the cathedral?”

  “In this particular case, them over there.”

  The young lieutenant turned toward a little group waiting at the other end of the ambulatory, by the entrance to the sacristy: two priests, one of whom was still wearing his mass robes, were standing on either side of a man in a light blue, short-sleeved shirt. Gombrowicz beckoned to the latter to come forward.

  “He’s the sacristan who picked up the deceased.”

  Gérard had to state his name and job title, then answer a volley of questions from the magistrate.

  “You’re the one who found the victim this morning?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When she fell on the floor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And was it you who called the fire department?”

  “No, that was Father Kern over there.”

  “Is Father Kern the tall, bald one, or the short, dark one?”

  “The short, dark one. He was the one saying Mass when the girl in white fell off the bench. An American tourist started screaming, so Father Kern came out of the chancel to see what was going on.”

  “And had you already noticed the young woman in white?”

  “She’d
been there a little while.”

  “Had she attracted your attention?”

  Gérard stuffed his hands in his pockets and hung his head. “I mean she was dressed a bit ... how can I put it?”

  “In a provocative way? Is that it?”

  “You could say that, yes. At the same time, there are quite a lot of miniskirts here in the summer. We gave up chasing after them ages ago. If we had to refuse to let all the girls in short dresses into the church, we’d be at it all day.”

  “I see.”

  “Some of them show up in bikini tops. Those we tell to go away and put some clothes on. Everything’s got a limit, even when it’s very hot.”

  “Of course. We wouldn’t want one of Captain Landard’s parishioners to catch a nasty heat-stroke right in the middle of the cathedral, now, would we?”

  The sacristan gave Landard a puzzled look. The magistrate continued. “Did you see the young woman in white come in? Or go and sit on the bench?”

  “No.”

  “As far as you know, did anyone from the cathedral staff see her come in or sit down? Perhaps there was someone with her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gombrowicz took over. “The duty guard also said he noticed her. He didn’t see her come in or sit down, either, alone or with anyone else.”

  “And do you think she’d been sitting there long?”

  The sacristan looked embarrassed. “I guess she’d been there a little while.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Since early morning. A little after we opened up, I’d say.”

  “And what time does the cathedral open?”

  “At eight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The cathedral opens at eight all year round. Why?”

  “You’re telling me this poor girl sat on this bench with her eyes wide open, in the middle of tourists and staff, and nobody noticed she was dead?”

  “It’s quite possible.”

  “It’s quite possible? What do you mean, it’s quite possible?”

  “You know, mademoiselle, on average we have over fifty thousand visitors here every day. We can’t put a guard on every tourist.”