R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

At long last.

Eleanor took in every little detail: the blue high-collared dress with the tiny bows – the cross around her neck – the thick dark fringe – the slightly upturned nose – the large eyes -

Eleanor experienced a sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. She gasped. She was overcome with dizziness – the circus wheel sensation again – and for a moment feared she might pass out. No, she mustn’t – not when she was so close to her goal! She leant forward and pressed her forehead against the glass wall.

Then, recovering, she once more raised the binoculars to her eyes. Corinne Coreille – from that distance at least – looked exactly as she had in the myriads of photographs she had seen of her on those old vinyls she had found in Griff’s room – as she had looked at the Palais de Congres concert she and Griff had watched together seven years before. Not a day older. Exactly the same – younger, if that were possible. A fifty-five-year-old woman, looking like a young girl – like a blushing bride – like a virginal bride. It was scandalous – uncanny – wrong – obscene! How dared she remain the same, untouched by time, while – while all that was left of Griff was a handful of grey ashes?

‘Whore… bitch… witch,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘Witch… Yes. That’s what you get when you cross a whore and a bitch. Shameless… evil… sold her soul… sleeping with Satan…’

Eleanor pulled her scarf around her shoulders tightly. It was a Hermes scarf. She had spent some time in London looking for a Hermes scarf. No other scarf would have done. Hermes, after all, was the divinity that conducted the souls of the dead to Hades. Hades… That was where Corinne was going.

‘If only I had a sniper,’ Eleanor said.

Encompassed as the three women were within the french windows, Eleanor had the strange feeling that once more she was watching a television screen – an old-fashioned variety programme, with Corinne Coreille appearing between two eccentric elderly comediennes, one owlish, fat and jolly, not unlike the late Queen Juliana of the Netherlands, the other hideous, severe, displaying the camp stateliness of a drag queen… At one point Maitre Maginot and Corinne made exactly the same gesture – as though the whole thing had been choreographed and rehearsed! Eleanor nearly expected Corinne to break into song – something outrageous and indescribably silly – something ambiguous and suggestive – ‘J’ai Deux Amours’? ‘Ladies of Lisbon’? And of course the two elder women would join in – this would be followed by the three of them linking arms and doing the cancan -

(Ou finit le theatre? Ou commence la vie?)

Eleanor started giggling – her hands clutched at her stomach – she couldn’t help herself.

The Birds

We didn’t meet them until some time later. (Antonia wrote in her diary.)

Maitre Maginot came down first. She was clad in a magenta gown that swept the floor and a silk turban with a brooch pinned to one side of it – only part of the brooch was visible, a bird of some kind, made of silver, from what I could see, the rest being hidden within folds of the turban. She also wore pendant ruby earrings and a ruby necklace and a curious red string bracelet on her left wrist. Her hands are veined, her nails long and varnished red, and she wore several large-stoned rings. She looks tall but, as I discovered, that is due to the high-heeled shoes she has on. Her appearance was striking and extremely theatrical. She might have been the high priestess of some esoteric cult.

There is something seriously wrong with her face, the result, as Jonson had told us, of a stroke. Her eyes give the impression of having been sewn into slits and consequently have a Chinese-looking slant, which gives her face the cast of an Oriental warrior. They lack mobility and she seems to find it difficult to blink. Her complexion is the colour of raw veal and she tries to improve it, rather unsuccessfully, by applying some very white powder. Her brows have been plucked and pencilled over. Her age is difficult to gauge. Mid-sixties, at a guess – maybe older. The cruel set of her mouth and jutting lip lend a ferocity and a distinctiveness to her expression. Her voice is unpleasant. She speaks with the venomous rasp of a predatory creature.

I felt a leaden oppression descend on me the moment I laid eyes on her. I seem to possess the kind of morbid sensitivity to emotional atmosphere which, according to Hugh, is common to lovers and housewives. Introductions having been made, Maitre Maginot hardly spoke to me, didn’t so much as glance at me, in fact. Hugh looked rather distinguished in his maroon smoking jacket and she fixed her eyes on him quizzically for a couple of moments.

It was the petrifying gaze of a Medusa, he said later. Unless she wanted a toy-boy for some unspeakable sexual practices and he fitted the bill. He expected her tastes to be shockingly kinky, he said, warming to the fantasy. Clearly, she was the dominatrix type.

Provost handed round pale sherry of exceptional quality. Maitre Maginot sat next to Jonson on the sofa and addressed herself to him, exclusively. She berated him for having failed to make sure the field would be clear for their arrival. She spoke in a loud enough voice for me to hear. She and Corinne were not having the privacy they had expected. Corinne was jumpy and tense. Corinne found it impossible to relax in the company of strangers. Maitre Maginot looked from me to Hugh, rather pointedly. (Did she really believe Jonson could have shooed us off the premises?)

She went on breathing toxic dragon-fumes at him. Had he checked the house from top to bottom? Every single room? The cellars and the attics? The pantry? The outbuildings? She seemed to doubt whether the search had been thorough. He had conducted a search the day before, but not today? Would he repeat that? Not today? She threw up her hands in dismay. But that was exceedingly remiss of him! What had he been doing with himself? Was that why she had employed his services? To lounge about? To kick his heels? She was so enraged that her turban shook. Suddenly – and rather bizarrely – she reminded me of the glove puppet Corinne had had as a child. The bossy governess – Miss Mountjoy.

A fresh search must be conducted tonight, she said, raising an admonishing forefinger. We shall do it together. We’ll check every part of the house and the outbuildings. We shall go over it with a – what was that ridiculous English phrase? – fine-tooth comb? Yes – after dinner. I saw Jonson nod agreement.

Lady Grylls – resplendent in a light green silk dress with trailing sleeves – was clearly determined not to be intimidated or made angry by Maitre Maginot. As the latter held forth, Lady Grylls assumed a mock-solemn expression by drawing the corners of her mouth downwards while rolling her eyes. She kept nodding with exaggerated portentousness. Once or twice, when she was sure Maginot was not looking, she gave us a wink.

It was getting late. Provost had come in twice to say that dinner was ready. Maitre Maginot turned to Lady Grylls – ‘Is that man reliable? Have you checked his credentials? Has he been with you long?’ To all three questions Lady Grylls answered placidly in the affirmative. ‘I think we should go ahead and eat now,’ Maitre Maginot said eventually. Corinne was probably on her knees, praying to the Holy Virgin. Corinne had been in a strange, fatalistic mood the last couple of days. Corinne’s nerves had been torn to shreds. Maitre Maginot blamed that crazy American woman’s letters with their wild assertions. And of course the death threats. Nonsense of course, nothing but empty threats, but so terribly unsettling for poor Corinne. (If she thinks they are empty threats, why does she make such great fuss over the security checks? A contradiction, surely?)