The Reunion Read online

  I could find nothing online—or at least, nothing that was publicly accessible. Financing for the project was shrouded in mystery. If I wanted to get anywhere, I had no choice but to get Stéphane Pianelli involved. I sent him a text message summarizing what I’d found out, and to add weight to the story, I sent him the samples of Alexis Clément’s handwriting and those of the mystery man who had written the letters to Vinca.

  He called back within a nanosecond. I was a little apprehensive when I answered. Pianelli was a talented sparring partner. He had a quick mind, but given my situation, I would have to feed him information while making sure that nothing I said could later be used against me, Maxime, or Fanny.

  3.

  “Shit, this is fucking insane!” Pianelli said with a slight Marseillaise twang. “How could we have missed it?”

  He was forced to shout to be heard over the roar of the crowds in the stands watching the race in Monaco.

  “All the witness statements and the rumors backed up the hypothesis,” I said. “Your friend Angevin was right—we were all brainwashed from the start.”

  I told him about my visit to Dalanegra, the cropped photograph, and the other man in the shot.

  “Hang on. Are you saying there was another guy called Alexis?”

  “You got it.”

  There was a long silence during which Pianelli was, I knew, thinking hard. I could almost hear the cogs of his brain turning on the other end of the line. In less than a minute, he came to the same conclusion I had.

  “There was another Alexis at Saint-Ex,” he said. “A Greek guy. We used to tease him and call him Rastapopoulous, remember?”

  “Alexis Antonopoulos.”

  “That’s him!”

  “I thought about that, but I’m pretty sure he’s not the guy we’re looking for.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was an idiot. I can’t imagine Vinca hooking up with him.”

  “That’s a bit simplistic, don’t you think? The guy was rich, good-looking…and if teenage girls only dated smart guys, I think you and I would have heard. Do you remember the shit we had to put up with?”

  I changed the subject.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got the lowdown on who’s financing the construction at the school?”

  The background noise had faded, as though Pianelli had found refuge in a soundproof room.

  “In recent years, Saint-Ex has adopted the American model, tuition that costs an arm and a leg, donations by rich parents who want to see their names on a building, and a handful of scholarships awarded to poor, deserving disadvantaged kids to salve their consciences.”

  “But this project must run into the millions. How the hell could the school come up with that kind of cash?”

  “I’m guessing they borrowed some of it. Interest rates are pretty low at the moment.”

  “There’s no way they could get a loan to cover the full cost, Stéphane. Maybe you could look into it?”

  “I don’t see how it’s connected to Vinca’s disappearance.”

  “Just do it, please. There’s something I want to know.”

  “Unless you tell me what you’re looking for, I’d just be wasting my time.”

  “I’m trying to find out whether an individual or a single company has made a significant donation toward the construction of the new buildings, the pool, and the gardens.”

  “Okay, I’ll get one of my interns on it.”

  “No, not an intern! This is serious, and it could be tricky. Ask a seasoned pro.”

  “Trust me, the guy I’ve got in mind is like a bloodhound. And he’s not exactly fond of the class of people trying to take over Saint-Ex.”

  “A bit like you, then.”

  Pianelli gave a little laugh, then said, “Whose name are you expecting to come up?”

  “I have no idea, Stéphane. And while we’re at it, there’s something else I wanted to ask you. What do you think about the murder of Francis Biancardini?”

  4.

  “Broadly, I think it’s a good thing. It means one less evil fucker on this planet.”

  The joke did not make me laugh. “Seriously, though.”

  “I thought this was about Vinca. What the hell are you playing at?”

  “I’ll give you all the information I have, I promise. Do you believe the theory that it was a home invasion that went wrong?”

  “Not since his collection of watches has washed up on the beach, no.”

  Pianelli was well informed. Chief Debruyne had probably been in touch.

  “So what was it, then?”

  “I think it was a revenge killing. Biancardini was the living embodiment of the cancer eating away at the Côte d’Azur—racketeering, political corruption, possible connections to the Mafia.”

  I leaped to the defense of Francis.

  “You’re way off there. The whole thing about Biancardini’s links to the Calabrian Mafia is bullshit. Even when Debruyne senior was public prosecutor, he couldn’t make it stick.”

  “As it happens, I knew Yvan Debruyne pretty well, and he let me look through some of the files.”

  “That’s what I love about the justice system, prosecutors leaking information to journalists—”

  “That’s a different matter,” he interrupted, “but what I can tell you is that Francis was in it up to his neck. You know what the guys in the Calabrian Mafia called him? Whirlpool! Because he was the one who supervised the money laundering.”

  “If Debruyne had had any evidence, Francis would have been charged.”

  “If only it were that simple.” He sighed. “But I’ve seen the sketchy bank statements, the cash being transferred to the States, where the Calabrians have been trying to set themselves up for years.”

  I shunted the conversation onto a different track.

  “Maxime says you’ve been hassling him ever since he announced that he was going into politics. Why have you been dragging up all the old files about his father? You know as well as I do that Maxime is clean, and he can’t be held responsible for his father’s actions.”

  “Where do you think the money for Maxime to set up his eco-construction company and his start-up incubator came from? Where did he get the money to finance his campaign? With the dirty money that Francis made back in the eighties. The rot set in right from the start, my friend.”

  “So, because of who his father was, Maxime has no right to do anything?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t understand.”

  “What I’ve always hated about guys like you, Stéphane, is your intransigence, the moralistic, Grand Inquisitor pose. The Committee of Public Safety as run by Robespierre.”

  “What I’ve always hated about guys like you, Thomas, is your ability to dismiss anything you find unsettling, your gift of never blaming yourself for anything.”

  Pianelli’s tone was increasingly disparaging. I could have told him to go fuck himself, but I needed his help. I beat a tactical retreat.

  “We can talk about that some other time.”

  “I can’t understand why you’d want to defend Francis.”

  “Because I knew him better than you did. In the meantime, if you want to know more about his death, I can give you a tip.”

  “You’re really good at changing the subject.”

  “Do you know a reporter at the Nouvel Observateur named Angélique Guibal?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Apparently, she had access to the police file. From what I’ve read, Francis dragged himself through a pool of blood and tried to write the name of his killer on the window.”

  “Oh yeah, I read that article—bullshit Paris journalism.”

  “That’s right—I’m so glad that, in the era of fake news, we’ve still got Nice-Matin to uphold the honor of the profession.”

  “You can laugh, but there’s some truth in that.”

  “Couldn’t you call up Angélique Guibal and pump her for information?”

  “You really thin
k journalists go around sharing stories with each other? I suppose you’re friends with every writer in Paris?”

  “If you’re so much better than all the Parisian journalists, then prove it, Stéphane. Get your hands on that police file.”

  He paused for a second and then allowed my trap to spring shut.

  “Of course we’re better than the Parisians,” he fumed. “Fine, I’ll get your fucking police file for you.”

  5.

  I got up to get a coffee from the vending machine on the far side of the room. Next to the machine was a door that allowed people to go out and stretch their legs in the courtyard. I wandered out and walked as far as the school’s “historic” red-brick Gothic buildings.

  By special dispensation, the drama club had always been allowed to use one wing of the most prestigious building. As I came to the side door, chattering students were coming down the steps. It was six o’clock; the sun was beginning to set and classes had just finished. I took the stairs that led to the little lecture hall that smelled of cedar and sandalwood. The room was empty. The walls were hung with framed photographs, the same ones that had been there for twenty-five years (Madeleine Renaud, Jean-Louis Barrault, Maria Casarès…), and posters of previous productions (A Midsummer Night’s Dream, L’Échange, Six Characters in Search of an Author…). The Saint-Exupéry drama club had always been elitist and I had never really felt comfortable here. According to its regulations, the club accepted only twenty students. I had never wanted to join, not even when my mother was running it with Zélie. To her credit, my mother had done her best to open the club up to more students and take a less rigid approach to the repertoire, but old habits die hard and no one really wanted this bastion of old-world elitism to become an open-mic event.

  Suddenly, a door at the back of the auditorium opened and Zélie appeared on the stage.

  “What are you doing hanging around here, Thomas?”

  I leaped up onto the stage next to her.

  “Your hospitality is truly heartwarming.”

  She stared at me without blinking. “This isn’t your home anymore. Those days are over.”

  “I never really felt at home anywhere, so…”

  “Stop or you’ll have me in tears.”

  Since I had only the vaguest idea of how to reel her in, I cast my first line at random.

  “You’re still on the board of governors, aren’t you?”

  “What has that got to do with you?” she said, packing her things into a leather satchel.

  “Only that, if you are, you’ll know who is financing all this construction work. I assume that the governors were briefed and put it to a vote.”

  She looked at me with renewed interest.

  “The first stage of the work is being financed by a loan,” she said. “That much was voted on at a meeting of the governors.”

  “And the rest?”

  She shrugged as she closed her satchel.

  “The rest will be voted on in due course, though I have to say, I have no idea how the management is planning to come up with the money.”

  One point to me. On the spur of the moment, I asked an unrelated question. “Do you remember Jean-Christophe Graff?”

  “Of course,” she said. “An excellent teacher. A fragile creature, but a decent man.”

  Not everything Zélie said was bullshit. “Do you know why he took his own life?”

  She put me firmly in my place. “Do you really think that there is a single, logical reason to explain why people commit suicide?”

  “Before he died, Jean-Christophe wrote to me. He told me that he had been in love with a woman, but that it wasn’t reciprocated.”

  “To love and not be loved in return is the fate of many.”

  “Be serious, please.”

  “Sadly, I’m being completely serious.”

  “Did you know about it?”

  “Jean-Christophe talked to me about it, yes.”

  For some unknown reason, Graff, my mentor, the most tactful and generous person I had ever known, had been fond of Zélie Bookmans.

  “Do you know who the woman was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”

  “That’s the second time someone has said that to me today.”

  “And I fear it won’t be the last.”

  “So who was this woman?”

  “If Jean-Christophe chose not to tell you, I hardly think it is my place to do so.” She sighed.

  She was right, and it saddened me. But I knew why he hadn’t told me.

  “He was being discreet.”

  “Well, then, respect his discretion.”

  “I’ll give you three names and you can tell me if they’re all wrong, okay?”

  “Let’s not play games. Don’t sully the memory of the dead.”

  But I knew Zélie would not be able to resist my game; for a few short minutes, it would give her power over me.

  True to form, as she slipped on her jacket, she changed her mind about answering me. “If you were to suggest a name, who would be first on your list?”

  The first name was obvious. “It wasn’t my mother, was it?”

  “No! Where do you get such ideas?” She started down the steps from the stage.

  “Was it you?”

  She laughed nervously. “I would have been flattered, but no.”

  As she reached the door, she turned. “Close the door on your way out.” A malicious smile played on her lips. I had one last chance.

  “Was it Vinca?”

  “Game, set, and match to me. Bye-bye, Thomas!” she said and stalked out of the lecture hall.

  6.

  I stood on the stage before an invisible audience. The door next to the blackboard was still ajar. I vaguely remembered that it led to a room we called the sacristy. I pushed open the door and saw that little had changed. It was a large, low-ceilinged space that served a variety of functions—rehearsal area, prop room, records office.

  At the far end of the room was a set of metal shelves groaning with boxes and files. Each box was labeled with a school year. I went back to the year 1992–1993. Inside, there were flyers and posters and a large Moleskine notebook detailing ticket sales for the various shows and listing sets, props, and costumes.

  Everything was methodically laid out, not in my mother’s small, neat handwriting, but in the sweeping, cursive strokes of Zélie Bookmans. I took the notebook over to the only window. At first glance, nothing jumped out at me, but on closer inspection I noticed something. In an inventory on March 27, 1993, Zélie noted this:

  One red wig missing.

  This detail did not prove anything—props were regularly mislaid, and it was not unknown for a costume to disappear. Even so, I felt that this was another step toward the truth. But toward a dark and bitter truth I did not want to uncover.

  I left the lecture hall and headed back to the library. I packed my things and went over to the lending desk.

  Her head thrown back, her eyes smoldering, Pauline Delatour gave a slightly affected laugh as she flirted with two of the senior students, tall, muscular, blond guys who, judging from their clothes, their comments, and their copious sweating, had just come from playing a heated tennis match.

  “Thank you,” I said, handing her the copies of Courrier Sud.

  “Glad I could help, Thomas.”

  “Can I hang on to the yearbook for a while?”

  “Sure, I’ll square things with Zélie. But don’t forget to send it back.”

  “One last thing. There was an issue missing, October 1992.”

  “I noticed that. It wasn’t on the shelf, and I checked to see whether it had fallen down the back, but I couldn’t find it.”

  The tennis players were giving me the evil eye. They were eager for me to leave so they could have Pauline’s coquettish attentions all to themselves.

  “Don’t worry,” I said.

  I was already turning to leav
e when she grabbed my sleeve.

  “Wait a minute. The school digitized the archives of Courrier Sud in 2012.”

  “So could you find the missing issue?”

  “I can do better than that,” she said as she dragged me toward her office. The two jocks, frustrated at being ignored, walked off. “I can print it out for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  It took less than a minute to print. Then she carefully stapled the pages together and proffered the document to me. But as I reached out to take it, she snatched it away.

  “Surely it’s worth a dinner invitation, at least?”

  “I’m guessing you don’t need me to get an invitation to dinner.”

  “Why don’t I give you my cell phone number?”

  “No, honestly, just give me the pages you’ve been kind enough to print out.”

  Still smiling, she scribbled her number on the top page.

  “What do you expect me to do with that, Pauline?”

  “I like you; you like me. It’s a start, isn’t it?” she said as though it were obvious.

  “That’s not how things work.”

  “That’s exactly how things have worked for centuries.”

  I simply held out my hand, and eventually, she handed over the pages.

  I waited until I was back in my car before leafing through them. The article that caught my attention was a review of the play adapted from Perfume. Written by one of the students, it described the piece as “profoundly moving, with two intensely powerful performances by the leading actresses.” But I was more interested in the photographs. In the largest of the pictures, Vinca and Fanny were standing face-to-face. They looked almost like twins. I thought of Hitchcock’s Vertigo and of Madeleine Elster and Judy Barton, two faces of the same woman.

  Vinca was herself onstage, but Fanny was completely transformed. I thought about the conversation I had had with her earlier that afternoon. A detail suddenly came back to me, and I knew that she had not told me everything.