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“Let’s go, I’m ready. We mustn’t make your witnesses wait. I feel that this Sunday is going to be a fine day.”

  The Superintendent took care to slip the bottle of whisky into his coat pocket and he followed the Mayor.

  The witnesses were waiting at the town hall, sitting on the bench opposite the Secretary’s office, empty on this Sabbath day. The Policeman recognized the stout man gazing at the floor as the fisherman the Mayor had been talking to the previous evening. His head was enormous and his wig was indeed made of a synthetic fur, like that used to cover the bodies of teddy bears.

  By his side stood a young girl of about ten years old. She was as erect as he was bent. She was staring at the desk in front of her. She had large green eyes, slightly too large, slightly too wide open, within a slim, pale face, such as you find in certain portraits by Lucas Cranach. She had placed her delicate and abnormally long hands in her lap. She was dressed in a full red cotton skirt and a blue checked blouse. On her feet she wore canvas ballet shoes. Her red hair was tied back from her domed forehead in a ponytail. The Superintendent thought she must be extremely serious, a seriousness that could indicate either remarkable intelligence or profound stupidity.

  The Mayor pointed to the door of his office. They sat down. But the Superintendent preferred to perch on the corner of the desk, one buttock on the wooden surface, the other hanging free. The young girl sat down on the edge of a chair opposite him.

  “I’m listening,” said the Superintendent.

  The girl looked at the fisherman, but he kept his gaze resolutely fixed on the carpet that covered the lava floor. She then glanced at the Mayor, who was of no more help to her. She turned toward the Superintendent.

  “Do you want to say something to me, my dear? What’s your name?”

  “Mila.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Eleven years old.”

  “I’m listening to you, Mila.”

  “It was the Teacher.”

  “What about the Teacher?”

  “He did things.”

  “Things?”

  “He touched me.”

  “He touched you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did he touch you?”

  The child pointed to the inside of her thighs.

  “In that place?” asked the Superintendent. “Is that where the Teacher touched you?”

  Mila nodded, fixing her large green eyes on those of the Superintendent, who gazed at her with mounting interest.

  “He touched you with his hands?”

  “Yes. And his fingers, too.”

  “His fingers?”

  “Yes. He stuck his fingers inside.”

  The Superintendent turned toward the Mayor, who was nervously tearing up a piece of blotting paper. A small heap of pink litter was piling up on his desk pad. He looked up at the Superintendent, who was studying him thoughtfully. The Mayor, embarrassed, could not hold his gaze for long and began to shred his blotting paper once more. The voice of the young girl was heard again.

  “He put his thing in as well.”

  “His thing?”

  “The thing that men have. He put it in there as well.”

  “The Teacher?”

  “The Teacher.”

  At that moment the father was racked with a violent bout of coughing which shook his chest and jolted his large head. The croaking went on for so long that it was as if he was about to spit out his lungs or suffocate.

  “You swear that everything you’re telling me is true?” asked the Superintendent, taking the child’s face in his hand and forcing her to look at him. “Do you swear? It’s very serious, what you’re telling me.”

  “I swear,” the young girl replied without hesitation. “It’s the truth. I swear.”

  Then the Superintendent turned his back on her and looked once more at the Mayor, who was tearing up another sheet of blotting paper but keeping his head down. As for the Superintendent’s face, it lit up with a big smile, such as one sees on certain paintings of saints or mystics. At that moment he was the image of unbounded happiness. He even forgot about the bottle of whisky in his pocket, which had suddenly become a needless accessory. Even though he was not expecting it, even though he had not come here for this purpose in the slightest, life was providing him with an exhilaration that alcohol had failed to provide for a long time now.

  XVII

  WHEN THE DOCTOR OPENED HIS DOOR, HE WAS DRESSED in his perennial linen suit, but he had rolled his trouser legs halfway up his ankles, revealing his large red feet streaked with meandering and swollen veins. Everyone who was at the door was looking at the Doctor’s feet, which had left damp patches on the paving stones. And he stared at his visitors, a curious crew if truth be told, consisting of the Mayor, the Superintendent, Furry, a somewhat simple fisherman who had concealed his baldness for many years beneath a filthy patchwork of tatters and fluff, and his daughter Mila, whom he had brought up on his own, his wife having left him for a man from the mainland when the child was barely a few months old.

  “We need you,” said the Mayor.

  Somewhat surprised, the Doctor ushered them into his house with his right hand, in which he held a book. They all went inside. The Mayor led the way into the waiting room.

  “Before anything else, the Superintendent and I need to speak to you. Furry can wait here with Mila.”

  The fisherman and his daughter sat down in the waiting room. The young girl grabbed a comic from among the magazines and newspapers that cluttered a low table, and her father took up his customary pose, shoulders tipped forward, and his enormous head dragged down toward the floor by its considerable weight, as if it were about to be crushed there.

  The Doctor’s office testified to a sophistication that the Superintendent did not expect to find in this land of primitive people. Lots of books lined the walls, old and rare editions, judging by the elegance of their bindings, which filled bookcases whose design and patina, carved as they were from a wood with reddish tints, perhaps walnut, had been polished to a smooth sheen.

  It was the Mayor who summed up the situation. The Superintendent did not interrupt and allowed him to speak. The Doctor listened, fiddling with his mustache, which he had not dyed that morning because it was Sunday, and which was glowing in all its gray-haired splendor. Beneath his desk, he was wriggling his toes as though he were trying to play a tune on a piano. His large, smiling face was listening to the Mayor, whose awkwardness at repeating the young girl’s comments had not escaped him. When the latter stopped speaking, the Doctor took a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his brow.

  “And you are expecting me to examine her?”

  “You have understood correctly, Doctor,” the Superintendent said. “It is vital that the assertions this child has made are corroborated by clinical observations. If, as she claims, repeated rapes have actually taken place, this should be visible.”

  “Of course.”

  “You don’t appear to be surprised by what brings us here. Might you have had your suspicions?”

  “Not in the least, But I am no longer very young, and, without having explored everything fully, sufficiently familiar with human nature to know what it is capable of. I am going to ask you to leave the room. Tell the young girl to come in, please.”

  The Doctor stood up and walked toward a door, which he opened. The Superintendent found himself in the consulting room, with a patient’s examination table, some instruments, metal and glass cupboards, a height-measuring rod, a scale, and a washbasin over which the Doctor was already busy soaping his hands vigorously. Then he ran the tap, carefully rinsed his hands, and dried them with a clean paper towel which he then threw into a tall metal bin. When he returned to his office, Mila and her father were standing side by side, waiting.

  “Not you, Furry, I need to see your daughter on her own.”

  The fisherman seemed relieved. He went back to the waiting room and closed the door behind him. The child did not appear to be distressed by
the Doctor. She knew him, of course, as did everyone else on the island from having always dealt with him, and from bumping into him in the streets, too, but the Doctor was astonished by her calm, given the circumstances, and the absence of any visible emotion. Choosing his words carefully, he explained to her what he was going to do and why he needed to do this. She asked no questions. He told her to lie down on the examination table, to pull up her skirt, and to take off her underwear. He put the leg stirrups in place and adjusted their length to the minimum. Without his having to explain to her how they worked, Mila put her feet into them, as if she was used to doing it, and this bothered him. Thighs spread wide, she turned her face to the ceiling and closed her eyes. He proceeded with the examination.

  XVIII

  THE ISLAND HAD NO POLICE STATION, STILL LESS ANY cells. Yet they had to find a place in which to lock up the Teacher. After considering the matter, the Mayor told the Superintendent that beneath the town hall there was a large cellar, virtually empty, that was used as the boiler room. It was sealed by a solid door. A hole equipped with bars, situated just above ground level, let in a feeble light. The Superintendent went to see it. It was perfect. The Mayor had Swordy bring along a mattress, a can of water, a basin, and a chamber pot. The gas boiler worked slowly and with a buzzing sound, but it was enough to dry out the natural damp of the place. Swordy did what he was told without asking questions. What he liked above all else was not knowing.

  The two men led the Teacher in. He put up no resistance, which surprised the Mayor, who expected him to refuse to follow them, to argue, and to protest his innocence when he found out the crime of which he was accused, which the Superintendent had told him about. On the contrary, he seemed stunned and as if deadened, on the point of bursting into tears like a child caught misbehaving. He took it all calmly. He did not even kiss his wife or his little twin daughters, who had appeared at the doorway after having no doubt heard the reason for his arrest, and who were hugging one another as the three men went on their way.

  The Superintendent decided not to arrange the confrontation with the young victim that same day. He knew the benefits that can accrue from a night of silence and solitude in a man who has just been snatched from his peaceful life and put up against the wall. He double-locked the door of the cellar and slipped the key into his coat pocket. He appeared to suddenly discover the presence of a bottle of whisky there, from which he took a large gulp. He offered the bottle to the Mayor, who refused. The two of them went upstairs to the councilor’s office.

  “I owe you my apologies and gratitude, Mr. Mayor,” said the Superintendent, whose bald patch seemed even shinier than it had when he woke up. “In coming here, I did not think I would have such a treat to get my teeth into. You must admit I’ve been lucky!”

  “What do you mean?” the Mayor said with restraint.

  “I arrive, and a crime takes place.”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “Not really. My understanding has always been that it is the law that creates the offense, and not the offense that creates the law. It’s rather like the chicken and the egg, but more complicated. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so.”

  “If I had never landed on your island, this child might perhaps have continued to put up with what she has endured, in silence, without complaining.”

  “But you came for something else. The photographs that you showed me.”

  “Let’s leave that aside for the time being; your teacher is much more interesting.”

  The Superintendent drained his bottle and tossed it in the direction of the Mayor’s wastepaper basket. It shattered on the ground.

  “Missed! You can’t always win. See you tomorrow, Mr. Mayor. Sleep well.”

  And he left the office without even bothering to pick up the broken glass and put it in a trash can.

  The findings made by the Doctor during his examination of the child, and which he had immediately made known to the Mayor and the Superintendent, were beyond doubt. The young girl was no longer a virgin. Her condition indicated that her hymen had been broken for some time and that she must have endured frequent penetration. She had tolerated the examination with complete calm. The Doctor said he was absolutely astonished by this. She had kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling and, when he told her that he had finished, she had removed her feet from the stirrups, put on her underwear, and pulled down her skirt. She had sat down on the examination table while the Doctor washed his hands.

  “And so it was the Teacher who did that to you?” he had asked as he turned his back to her.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “You swear to me?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “When did this begin?”

  “A year ago.”

  “And why didn’t you say anything?”

  “He threatened me.”

  “With what?”

  “To give me bad marks.”

  “And had you never had bad marks?”

  “No. Never. Only very good ones.”

  The Superintendent asked the Doctor to write an account of the examination and the conclusions he drew from it. This took him more time than he thought, not that he had any doubts about the examination that he had carried out: the young girl had lost her virginity and it had not taken place the previous day. He was certain of that. No lesion or tearing was visible. Furthermore, the plasticity of her vagina substantiated the fact that she had had intercourse several times, probably regularly. Of that he was also certain. What bothered the Doctor was that the girl had recounted the facts with great calm and did not appear to be in the least traumatized, not even upset. If she had come to have her knee disinfected following a fall in an alleyway, she would not have acted any differently. How could a young girl endure such assaults and not be affected by them? He reckoned that her smooth, unperturbed face was probably a façade, and that beneath it a great deal of commotion had stacked up over her share of the ruins.

  How did the Teacher spend his first night in the darkness of the cellar? What could he be thinking about? What was uppermost in his mind? Astonishment? Anger? Disgust? Fury? Fear? Despair?

  In the morning the Mayor, who had retained a duplicate of the keys to the door, came and brought him a cup of coffee and a brioche. He found him sitting on the mattress, staring at the wall opposite him. The Mayor put down the coffee and the brioche at his feet. The Teacher turned toward him.

  “You know very well that I’m innocent!”

  “I only know what the young girl says.”

  “She’s lying!”

  “That’s what you say.”

  “You’re disgusting! It’s you who told her to lie.”

  “You’re in a very tricky situation.”

  “Come on now, this won’t last! It’s not possible!”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I just need to be face-to-face with her, for her to tell the truth. She’s a good girl. An excellent pupil.”

  “We shall see.”

  “This is all a put-up job! It won’t prevent me from giving my report to the Superintendent! You’re a shit!”

  The Mayor left the cellar and double-locked the door. He heard what sounded like a rising groan from the other side, or perhaps it was sobbing.

  XIX

  WHEN SOMEONE WANTS TO PUT DOWN HIS DOG, HE accuses it of being mad. The old methods have been tried and tested and function at any time. One only has to adapt them to current tastes. Whether the Teacher was innocent of what he was accused of was not the main problem. The main problem was that he was being accused. In a way, and whatever the outcome of the matter, the harm had been done. It would remain and nothing could wash it away.

  Had the accusation remained secret, it would have had little impact, but when on Monday morning, after leaving their homes, the children returned a few minutes later saying that the school was closed and that the Teacher was not there, the adults began to wonder what had happened. Some mothers went and knocked on his door.
No one answered. And then the news spread, from whom or from where nobody knew, that the Teacher had raped Furry’s little girl.

  Then they ran over to Furry’s house, a number of them this time, panic-stricken mothers clasping their children to their sides. When Mila came out of the front door, looking, some said, like a young nun or a saint, upright and calm, noble and remote, she confirmed the rumor in a voice devoid of any anger. Yes, the Teacher had forced himself on her with his thing. The girl added nothing else. She went back inside. People were dumbfounded. Then there were shouts. A growing crowd of mothers, and men, too, who had been alerted by the din and were being told the news.

  All this ambulant fury was directed once more at the Teacher’s house. They yelled. They shouted out insults. They insisted on seeing him come outside, for they did not yet know that he was in the cellar of the town hall. They threw stones at his windows. They shattered the panes. They slashed the wooden door with kicks and knives. They scribbled insults on the walls. They grew slightly breathless, since no one appeared at the windows. They came to the conclusion that the house must be empty.

  The women went away with their children. The men ran off to inform the other men. In less than an hour the entire island was distilling the news as though it were a rare and heady spirit. Intoxicated by it, no one took any notice of the foul stench that had grown steadily worse. It seemed to be flowing down the sides of the Brau like invisible and volatile lava. It invaded the smallest alleyway, it had found its way into the gaps in the walls and the roofs and invited itself inside the houses, inspected them room by room and made itself at home like a shameless hotel guest who is getting ready to spend a long and well-fed stay with his embarrassed hosts.

  On her walk back from the beach, the Old Woman passed by the Teacher’s house shortly after the horde of mothers had left. America, whom she had met along the way, had told her everything about Furry’s little girl. She read the words of hatred, even dipped her fingers in the paint that had not yet dried and was still dripping. With the tip of her foot, she pushed aside some glass shards. Her cold eyes smiled and she spat on the ground.