Hugo set his tripod on the grass, raised it to a comfortable height, adjusted the mount. The wind began to bluster, and he pulled his hood down around his face. Pointing the lens at Mars, he tightened the focus-locking screw. Everything was ready. He stepped closer, leaned over the eyepiece. He did not have time to adjust the focus before he was distracted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning around, he shone his flashlight into the face of the intruder, who screwed up his eyes against the blinding glare. Hugo quickly switched off the torch and brought it to his chest.
‘Sorry, Isaac.’
The boy had come from the opposite direction. He carried no torch, needing nothing more than the light from the cloudless sky to find his way; the island’s paths required no illumination for those born here. He spotted the tripod set up on the grass.
‘Is that a telescope?’
‘Not exactly. It’s an astronomical telescope, or a refracting telescope … People often confuse the two.’
‘Can I have a look?’
His pale face loomed closer in the darkness, like an apparition that might haunt a dream. The fine features, the curly fringe falling over his forehead; a delicacy that was anything but fragile. He bent over the eyepiece while Hugo stood by in silence. Unsure what to do with his hands, which he noticed were trembling slightly, he put them behind his back.
‘I’ve trained the telescope on Mars. Actually, you can see Mars with the naked eye – it’s that orange dot flickering just below Aries. The reddish colour comes from iron oxide – rust, basically. All the rocks are covered with it. The colour changes as sandstorms sweep across the surface of the planet. You can spend a whole year looking at Mars and it will never look the same way twice … You can’t get a particularly detailed view with a telescope – you won’t be able to see the craters or the polar ice caps – but you can get a much closer look. When you realize that, right now, Mars is sixty million kilometres away, it’s almost … it’s almost heart-breaking.’
The breeze had fallen silent now. It could not be heard whispering through the gorse bushes, racing across the dunes, running through the grass; it seemed to have been suspended, attuned to the voice of this boy, summoned by this familiar vibration, the connection between the things of this world.
Hugo felt his cheeks flush, embarrassed that he had used those words, allowed his tongue to outrun his thoughts. The first time he had found himself in Isaac’s presence, he had been unable to say anything other than his name. That day, his father had been held up by a meeting, so Hugo had taken the bus to Saint-Pol-de-Léon, excited to be able to go home on his own. He had got off the bus at the old port of Roscoff, then walked over to the second harbour where the ferry was already waiting. No sooner had he boarded the ferry than he stopped, frozen: sitting alone on the furthest bench, staring through the porthole, was Isaac. Hugo had seen the boy a number of times since the beginning of the school year; usually on the island, walking along the white beach, or on the road where they both lived, but he also saw him every day at school, in the playground during breaktime or coming out of the canteen. And it was this face, without a hint of arrogance or malice, that Hugo missed when he left school at the end of each day.
When he’d spotted Hugo, Isaac had gestured for him to come and sit next to him, and Hugo had moved forward, unsure whether it was the boat lurching beneath him or his feet that were unsteady. He had settled himself on the wooden bench and whispered his first name, though he was unsure whether Isaac had heard him. From that moment, he was utterly unaware of the boat reversing, slowly pulling away from the quay; unaware of the crossing that usually left him feeling seasick: for the first time, his attention was entirely focused on something back here on earth.
Stepping away from the telescope, Isaac flashed him a smile.
‘You know, you ought to be teaching science at our school … I should probably go now, Papa will be worried.’
Hugo watched as the figure melted into the darkness. Then, slowly, he turned back to his telescope; but he could see only the face of the boy who had just left.
‘Should you need any further information about Option A (river boat licence), please don’t hesitate to contact our school in Roscoff, or you can call me on 07 47 …’
Alan stopped typing: he could hear the front door closing softly. He turned to look towards the lit corridor and listened intently. A minute passed. His son appeared, parka buttoned to the neck, carrying his shoes in one hand, hugging the wall and clearly hoping against hope not to hear his name.
‘Isaac.’
The teenager froze, let out a sigh, and his shoulders sagged. Reluctantly, he retraced his steps and stood in the doorway. Sitting behind his computer, lit by the glow of the monitor, his father’s haggard face spoke of a lack of sleep that went far beyond simple insomnia. Over the past few days, he had not shaved, and his jawline was covered with stubble that had the same salt-and-pepper colour as his uncombed hair. His eyebrows were still dark brown, the only feature that had been spared by the grief of mourning.
‘There’s some pasta left in the fridge.’
‘I had dinner at Madenn’s.’
There came the whistle of a soft breeze through the half-open window, filling the office with the smell of salt spray. Alan stiffened in his chair. He hesitated before saying anything more, struggling to find the right words. He knew how brittle these conversations could be, knew that at any moment his son could turn his back, walk away from a conversation that neither of them knew how to begin, let alone complete. He looked at the boy standing in the doorway, his cheeks still red with the cold, the unruly curl falling over his forehead, and that softness that had marked him out since childhood. It was a softness that, from an early age, had perplexed grown-ups, who were unsure whether to refer to Isaac as he or she, and would shower him with the praise they reserved for boys who possessed something of the gentleness of girls. As the years passed, though, age did not alter the delicacy of his features, and by adolescence people began to look at him differently; flattery gave way to insults, and Isaac encountered violence. On numerous occasions he had come home from school with a split lip or a black eye, having been the unwitting cause of a fight that spoke to the insecurities of boys his age. Every time Alan saw his injured son come through the door, he had had to choke back his rage and tend the wound without a word: having already experienced grief, Isaac was now experiencing what it meant to be different.
‘Night, Papa.’
His son disappeared, and Alan listened as he went upstairs. The bedroom door closing, the thud of dropped shoes, the creak of floorboards under the bed. Then there was no more sound from the room. Mistakenly, Alan assumed his son was asleep. He had no idea of the nightly ritual that took place behind that closed door: lying on the bed holding a picture frame, Isaac gazed for a long time at the photograph it contained, struggling to ward off sleep; sometimes he would feel his eyelids droop, but he persisted, desperate to prolong his silent conversation with his mother, until the frame would slip from his hands and he would surrender to a dreamless sleep.
The tricycle lies at the foot of the magnolia tree, abandoned to the rain. The torrent has reduced the border filled with hyacinths to a series of muddy puddles. Her grandmother planted the flowers last autumn, but the magnolia tree has stood here since before she was born. From the window, Sister Anne stares out at the garden, which is being lashed by the downpour. She should have put the tricycle in the garage; her grandmother had explained to her that water rusts metal. She hears a noise behind her. Turning, she sees that the room is bathed in a murky half-light. The thunderstorm has prematurely turned day into night. She can barely make out the dolls lining the shelves; she has just put them away, because it is not playtime. The stuffed toy monkey on the bed listens to the clatter on the roof tiles with his one remaining ear. There are no toys scattered around. Her attention is drawn to a presence: afigure perched on the edge of the bed with its back to her. A little girl. Instinctively, Sister Anne moves away from the window. Slowly, warily, she walks around the bed, trying not to scare the motionless child.
The girl does not see the nun who comes to stand by her: she is staring fixedly at the closed door. She is waiting. Here and there, old wooden joists groan. A dampness cools the wallpaper. Suddenly, the house echoes with a creaking sound: footsteps on the wooden staircase. Someone is coming. A breath of wind chills Sister Anne to the marrow. She looks down at the girl: her face is a mask of terror as she stares at the door. The door. With a bound, Sister Anne is there, both hands fumbling in the darkness for a key, a bolt, a lock; anything that might prevent entry to the room. On the other side, the footsteps continue to climb the stairs – slowly, because this is part of the pleasure, the moment deferred, the ascent that precedes arrival. The footsteps are louder now, gloating at the thought that they can be heard, that they are in the room even before they cross the threshold. Inside, Sister Anne frantically rushes around, searching for a chest of drawers, a chair, anything that could be wedged against the door. Her eyes alight on the child: in the gloom, her ashen face is contorted, her mouth twisted into a scream, a strangled cry that never comes; it is the face of someone who has seen death. Only the girl’s small hands still move, clutching at the hem of her skirt and pulling it over her knees,trying to cover her bare legs, to shield what these footsteps have come for. There is a creak on the landing: he is outside. Instinctively, Sister Anne leans against the door with all her weight; the handle turns, senses the resistance, perseveres, but Sister Anne does not waver. Digging her heels into the carpet, she redoubles her efforts, but the door slowly begins to open: the strength on the other side is much greater than her own. Sheer rage urges her on. She struggles, refuses to give in, even as the door continues to open, even as she sees his shoes through the crack. She turns and gives the girl a forlorn glance; then, suddenly, she is thrown backwards and left sprawling on the carpet. She looks up at the gaping doorway: he is here again.
Sister Anne woke with a jolt, sucking in deep lungfuls of air like a diver coming to the surface. She scrabbled back on the bed, huddling against the wall, tugging her nightdress over her bare legs all the way down to her ankles. She peered into the darkness. The familiar silhouette of a wardrobe. The legs of a desk. The crucifix above the door. There was no one there. The room was empty. Her heart was hammering; Sister Anne could hear it. She hugged her knees to her chest and curled into a ball. Her hair fell over her shoulders, brushing against her bare arms. She dared not get up yet.
Back at the convent, when she had the dream, she would grab a cardigan and step out of her cell, walk quietly through the corridors with only the glow of the stars to guide her, go out into the garden and wander the winding paths, trying to shake off the last of her fears, praying over and over to ward off this evil that had tracked her down. No one had ever seen her: the past came back to haunt her only when there were no witnesses.
Her feet slid out of the bed now and touched the cold floor. She took a shawl from the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders, the soft wool warming her skin. Soundlessly, she stepped over to the window and carefully opened the shutters; the smell of the sea took her by surprise, heightening her senses. Down below, streetlamps lit the deserted alley. Some cars were parked haphazardly in the nearby car park. The street was lined with privet hedges that separated it from the promenade running the length of the city walls; beyond them, she could sense the invisible sea. Darkness flooded every space. On the horizon, a beam of light skimmed the surface of the water, then instantly disappeared. A lighthouse. She peered into the darkness and eventually made out a second light, then another and another: a string of lights that traced the wide meanders of the shoreline.
It came to me in a dream last night – you’ll witnessan apparition of the Blessed Virgin in Brittany. She heard Sister Rose’s voice whisper in her ear, reminding her why she had come all this way, to this outpost by the sea, this town with no railway station; she who had never set foot outside the cloisters, who had never been tempted to go on mission, had been content to remain within the walls of the convent on the Rue du Bac, in the Mother House she had chosen to be her home since the tender age of thirteen. I saw it as clearly as I see you standing here. These words came back like a verse from a psalm, like a promise that responded to the vow she had pledged when she was still a little girl called Alice.
It had been Sister Rose who first noticed her in the immaculate chapel; an unobtrusive presence kneeling at the foot of the altar, her face upturned, gazing at the statue of Mary. One day, Sister Rose had approached the child, held out her hand to this motherless young girl who had been betrayed by her father and had come here to find in the bosom of the Virgin Mary something denied her by her parents – not simply a sense of presence, but more importantly, chastity. It was Sister Rose who had shown her the incorrupt body of Saint Catherine Labouré, which lay in the glass casket next to the altar, dressed in her habit, smiling beneath her white linen cornette, a rosary of ebony wound around hands clasped in prayer. She had recounted the story of how, one night, on these same altar steps, Sister Catherine Labouré had come face to face with the Blessed Virgin in one of those miracles that prove that every prayer, if it comes from the heart, is always heard.
In the years that followed, Sister Rose had watched as the timorous teenager took her first steps as a postulant, received the veil of the novitiate, chose her religious name – Sister Anne, in honour of the mother of the Blessed Virgin – and, three years later, made her religious profession, thereby becoming a Daughter of Charity, an earnest follower of Louise de Marillac and Catherine Labouré. She had watched as the girl blossomed beneath her veil, as her gestures became more assured and she acquired the special grace that elicited affection, as though already Sister Anne were among the blessed few to whom the Virgin had appeared.
Once more, the beam of the lighthouse pierced the darkness. Leaning against the window frame, Sister Anne watched as the light skimmed the surface of the water then disappeared again. The coastline shimmered, casting points of light into the night so that, in this boundless space, she felt as though she were contemplating a constellation.
Bells rang out. The panicked seagulls perched along the railings took to the wing as the belfry roared into life. A break in the clouds turned the granite to a pale ochre, the sun warming the damp caravelsfn1 carved into the stone. The church bells announced mass, spreading the word as far as the old harbour of Roscoff.
‘Not all of you at once!’
A crowd had gathered on the forecourt: the faithful surged forward, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the person who had aroused such curiosity. The young priest pushing his way through the throng raised his hands to temper their fervour. Father Erwann, a local boy, had only recently begun his ministry at Notre-Dame-de-Croas-Batz. At first, wary of his beardless, candid face, his tender years – he was barely thirty – the parishioners had argued that his narrow shoulders would not bear the burden of the cassock for very long. But on the very first Sunday, the new priest had won over his congregation with a sermon filled with nuance and wit; his innate sense of compassion and unaffected kindness had definitively put paid to the aspersions on his youth. Father Erwann was one of those priests with a sense of vocation that belied his age.
‘Go gently, this is her first day!’
Finding herself the centre of attention, Sister Anne shook hands with everyone, greeting them with a smile, patting their shoulders as though she had lived here all her life and knew every parishioner already. She leaned forward, her luminous green eyes meeting those of each parishioner in turn, and this was all that mattered, this wordless exchange, as if she was able to intuit the unique qualities of each individual. As she made her way through the crowd, the patch of sunlight seemed to follow this graceful yet affable middle-aged nun, and everyone she encountered had the poignant sense that they had finally been seen.
‘Sister Anne, I don’t believe you’ve met Michel Bourdieu.’
Hearing the priest’s words, Sister Anne turned and saw a silhouette coming towards her, a formidable figure who completely eclipsed the sun’s dazzling rays as he pushed his way through the crowd; around his neck, the gold crucifix glittered in the light.
‘Sister.’
A calloused hand grasped hers, crushing her slender fingers in a manner intended to test her strength and, through it, her character. Realizing this, Sister Anne withstood the iron grip without demur, making it clear that in her time she had shaken many hands, desperate hands, hands intent on testing her resolve, and she had not once capitulated. This hand would be no exception.
‘Collecting donations, recruiting volunteers, organizing catechism classes … I sometimes wonder where Michel finds the time to sleep!’
Oblivious to the power play, the young priest stepped closer to Michel Bourdieu as he lavished praise on his good works, his virtues not only as a person of faith but also a family man. Sister Anne studied the object of this praise: the clenched, determined jawline; the eyes obscured by an anguish whose nature she could not yet guess. Still holding his gaze, she did not disguise the irony in her smile.
‘It would seem that Michel Bourdieu has all the virtues of a Daughter of Charity.’
Her comment surprised the man, and she felt the coarse hand release hers. He returned her smile; his features relaxed and his expression softened, even revealing a glimpse of warmth. Michel Bourdieu’s approach to those he could not intimidate was to charm them.
‘Sister Anne, allow me to present my wife.’
A little way off, a woman stood waiting in the sunshine; a slight figure who seemed so fragile one could not help but wonder how she managed to carry the young girl in her arms. With a warm and tender gesture, she took the nun’s hand, just as twenty years earlier, on another occasion, she had taken Michel Bourdieu’s hand – on another forecourt, that of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires in Paris, when the two students were beginning their first day of voluntary work. The normal rules of seduction weren’t needed for some. That first brief touch had been enough for both of them to know that they would marry here, in the very church where they had first met.
‘This shy little girl is Julia. She’s the reason we moved here – Paris wasn’t good for her asthma. Right now, she’s very tired. She had another asthma attack last night.’
The little girl had her face pressed into her mother’s perfumed neck. From time to time, she turned and surreptitiously glanced at the nun, who reminded her of the holy statues she had seen in church. The child’s eyes were ringed with dark circles; she seemed resigned to the threat of her body, to nights spent struggling for breath, and for sleep; to an existence marked by struggle.
‘Our eldest son, Mathias, is in the army. Right now, he’s in Mali. We’re very proud of him.’
