take stock. To cut away the
dead branches . . .
Marc, don’t try to find me. Don’t call me. Don’t do anything. I need
space, and time.
I believe this: that one day, we will know who we are, and what we
are to each other.
Take care of yourself.
Emilie
Marc’s breathing accelerated again. He forced himself to quell the
swarm of questions massing in his head.
He needed to act. Do something.
He opened his rucksack and shoved the miniature aeroplane
inside, along with the letter and the wrapping paper. He took a
breath, then grabbed his mobile phone. Because he worked for
France Telecom, he had been able to get the latest, state-of-the-art
model – with automatic memorisation of phone numbers – both
for himself and for Lylie.
Without thinking, he scrolled through the list of names, stopped
on Lylie’s, and pressed the green circle. The screen cleared. The
phone seemed to ring forever.
He was used to calling Lylie and her not replying. The answering
machine always clicked in after the seventh ring. He counted in his
head as he waited. After the fourth ring, he knew she wasn’t going
to pick up.
‘Hello, this is Emilie. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back
when I can. Bye . . .’
Marc swallowed. The sound of Lylie’s voice brought tears to his
eyes.
‘Lylie, it’s Marc. Please call me, wherever you are. Please, please
call me back. I love you. More than ever. Come back to me.’
Marc hung up. He walked slowly up the Avenue de Stalingrad,
turning over Lylie’s words in his mind.
‘Far, far away . . .’
‘Take stock . . .’
‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did it all mean?
Marc was not stupid. Lylie’s eighteenth birthday was just a
pretext. This whole situation was connected to Grand-Duc’s notebook – the notebook that Lylie had spent all night reading. What
had she discovered? What had it made her think?
‘ Know who we are, and what we are to each other . . .’
No! Marc did not share Lylie’s doubts. Nothing in the world
could shake his conviction. It was absolute.
Marc reached Place du Général-Leclerc. Rows of buses crossed
into Rue Gabriel-Peri and Avenue du Colonel-Fabien.
What could he do? How could he find Lylie? Follow her footsteps? Read the whole of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and guess what
Lylie must have guessed?
Marc cursed. He stood motionless as the buses came and went in
front of him. The idea that he could just sit there and read the rest
of that one-hundred-page notebook in the hope that he might find
a clue seemed ridiculous. He picked up his mobile phone again and
scrolled down until he reached the letter W.
Work .
Marc moved away from the noisy square where he had been
standing.
‘Hello? Jennifer? . . . Great! This is Marc. Sorry about this, but
I’m in a massive rush. I need information, for personal reasons. The
telephone number of a guy in Paris. Are you writing this down?
He’s called Grand-Duc. Crédule Grand-Duc. Yeah, I know, not
exactly a common name. So you shouldn’t have any problem finding him . . .’
Jennifer, who worked with him at France Telecom, was the
same age as Marc and was studying Applied Languages. Marc was
pretty sure that, given a little nudge, she would have fallen for him.
While he waited for her response, the phone still glued to his ear,
he admired the bell tower of the Basilica of St Denis that stood out,
high above the buildings that lined the streets in between.
‘Yeah? You’ve got it? Fantastic!’
Marc scribbled down Grand-Duc’s phone number and address.
He said a quick thank you to Jennifer, then immediately started dialling the private detective’s number. It rang for a long time, before
another answering machine clicked on. Marc cursed inwardly.
Never mind – he had to lay his cards on the table. There was no
time to lose.
‘Grand-Duc? It’s Marc Vitral. Listen, I have to speak to you
as soon as possible. Or better still, see you in person. It’s about
Lylie. And your notebook
dead branches . . .
Marc, don’t try to find me. Don’t call me. Don’t do anything. I need
space, and time.
I believe this: that one day, we will know who we are, and what we
are to each other.
Take care of yourself.
Emilie
Marc’s breathing accelerated again. He forced himself to quell the
swarm of questions massing in his head.
He needed to act. Do something.
He opened his rucksack and shoved the miniature aeroplane
inside, along with the letter and the wrapping paper. He took a
breath, then grabbed his mobile phone. Because he worked for
France Telecom, he had been able to get the latest, state-of-the-art
model – with automatic memorisation of phone numbers – both
for himself and for Lylie.
Without thinking, he scrolled through the list of names, stopped
on Lylie’s, and pressed the green circle. The screen cleared. The
phone seemed to ring forever.
He was used to calling Lylie and her not replying. The answering
machine always clicked in after the seventh ring. He counted in his
head as he waited. After the fourth ring, he knew she wasn’t going
to pick up.
‘Hello, this is Emilie. Leave me a message, and I’ll call you back
when I can. Bye . . .’
Marc swallowed. The sound of Lylie’s voice brought tears to his
eyes.
‘Lylie, it’s Marc. Please call me, wherever you are. Please, please
call me back. I love you. More than ever. Come back to me.’
Marc hung up. He walked slowly up the Avenue de Stalingrad,
turning over Lylie’s words in his mind.
‘Far, far away . . .’
‘Take stock . . .’
‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did it all mean?
Marc was not stupid. Lylie’s eighteenth birthday was just a
pretext. This whole situation was connected to Grand-Duc’s notebook – the notebook that Lylie had spent all night reading. What
had she discovered? What had it made her think?
‘ Know who we are, and what we are to each other . . .’
No! Marc did not share Lylie’s doubts. Nothing in the world
could shake his conviction. It was absolute.
Marc reached Place du Général-Leclerc. Rows of buses crossed
into Rue Gabriel-Peri and Avenue du Colonel-Fabien.
What could he do? How could he find Lylie? Follow her footsteps? Read the whole of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and guess what
Lylie must have guessed?
Marc cursed. He stood motionless as the buses came and went in
front of him. The idea that he could just sit there and read the rest
of that one-hundred-page notebook in the hope that he might find
a clue seemed ridiculous. He picked up his mobile phone again and
scrolled down until he reached the letter W.
Work .
Marc moved away from the noisy square where he had been
standing.
‘Hello? Jennifer? . . . Great! This is Marc. Sorry about this, but
I’m in a massive rush. I need information, for personal reasons. The
telephone number of a guy in Paris. Are you writing this down?
He’s called Grand-Duc. Crédule Grand-Duc. Yeah, I know, not
exactly a common name. So you shouldn’t have any problem finding him . . .’
Jennifer, who worked with him at France Telecom, was the
same age as Marc and was studying Applied Languages. Marc was
pretty sure that, given a little nudge, she would have fallen for him.
While he waited for her response, the phone still glued to his ear,
he admired the bell tower of the Basilica of St Denis that stood out,
high above the buildings that lined the streets in between.
‘Yeah? You’ve got it? Fantastic!’
Marc scribbled down Grand-Duc’s phone number and address.
He said a quick thank you to Jennifer, then immediately started dialling the private detective’s number. It rang for a long time, before
another answering machine clicked on. Marc cursed inwardly.
Never mind – he had to lay his cards on the table. There was no
time to lose.
‘Grand-Duc? It’s Marc Vitral. Listen, I have to speak to you
as soon as possible. Or better still, see you in person. It’s about
Lylie. And your notebook
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