Franck Thilliez - Syndrome E

Her voice caught. Sharko’s fingers clutched the old wood. Around them hung the odor of crumbling walls and worn flooring.

“Meaning?”

“Discipline, bullying, punishments, treatments… The poor girls who rebelled went from one room to the next; the severity increased, and each time the doors of freedom closed a bit more. The Nuns’ Room, the Trades Room, the Gray Room… Girls from one room were not allowed to communicate with the girls from other rooms, under pain of severe punishments. It was as if they were being compartmentalized, as if they were being removed from reality in order to bring them closer to madness. Madness, my children… Madness—do you know what it smells like? It smells like putrefaction and death.”

The sister was having trouble breathing. A long, long inhalation.

“The last room, where they assigned me when I arrived at Mont Providence, was the Martyrs’ Room, a horrible place where they kept more than sixty of the most acute cases, of all ages. Hysterics, schizophrenics, the severely retarded. That’s where they kept the stocks of medication, surgical instruments, and also the Vaseline…”

“Vaseline?”

“To grease the patients’ temples before electroshock.”

Her fingers with their yellow nails squeezed together. Lucie could easily imagine the horror of spending your days in such a place. The screams, the claustrophobia, the suffering, the mental and physical tortures. Inmates and supervisors were in the same hell.

“We were in charge of the patients, with the healthy girls as our aides. Cleaning their cells, feeding them, helping the nurses on rounds. Brawls and injuries were daily occurrences. There were all sorts of lunatics in there, from the harmless ones to the most dangerous. Of all ages, mixed in together. Sometimes the orphans who resisted or misbehaved spent a week in solitary confinement, tied to a mattress and treated with Largactil, the doctors’ favorite drug.”

She raised her arm. With every movement, the black fabric of her garment crinkled like crepe paper. A kind of madness seemed to have taken hold of her too. She had not emerged from Mont Providence unscathed.

“The girls who ended up in that room—the most headstrong ones, the most rebellious, and surely the most intelligent—had no hope of getting out. The nurses treated them exactly the same as the mental patients, without any distinction. And even though we took care of them every day, what we said carried no weight. We had to be submissive and obey orders—do you understand?”

“What orders?”

“Orders from the mother superior, from the Church.”

“Had Alice and Lydia landed in the Martyrs’ Room?”

“Yes—like all the girls who came from La Charité. Such an influx in the Martyrs’ Room was unheard of. We couldn’t understand it.”

“Why not?”

“Normally, the newcomers were put in the other rooms. Only a few of them ended up in Martyrs’, sometimes after years, because they were constantly acting unruly or defiant. Or because they finally went mad themselves.”

“What happened to those orphans, Alice and the others?”

The nun’s fingers clutched her cross.

“Very quickly, they were taken in hand by the doctor in charge of the Martyrs’ Room. We called him the ‘Superintendent.’ He was barely thirty years old, thin blond mustache, and eyes that could freeze your blood. He was the one who regularly brought certain children into other rooms to which no one had access. But the girls used to tell me about it. They would put them in groups and make them wait there, on their feet, for hours on end. There were televisions and loudspeakers that broadcast sudden claps or loud noises to startle them. Then there was a man who would film them, always with the doctor present… Alice liked the filmmaker—she used to call him Jacques. They got along well, and sometimes she got to go outside with him. He took her to the swings in the park next to the convent; he played with her, showed her animals, and made movies of her. I think he became her little glimmer of hope.”

Sharko’s jaws tensed. He could easily imagine what a glimmer of hope might become in the hands of someone like Lacombe.

“In those rooms, the girls must have done more than just wait, watch films, and get startled?” he asked. “Were there other experiments… more violent ones?”

“No. But you mustn’t think their passivity was harmless. The orphans returned from there anxious and hostile. Which only increased the punishments they were subjected to in the Martyrs’ Room. A vicious circle. There is no escape from madness; it’s everywhere. Without and within.”

“Did they talk to you about the experiment with the rabbits?”

“There were in fact rabbits in the room sometimes, gathered in a corner, from what they told me. But… that’s all… I never really understood what it was about.”

“How did it all end?”

The sister shook her head, a grimace on her lips.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had devoted my entire life to the service of God and His creatures, and I found myself in a hell on earth, letting myself be enveloped by insanity. I claimed some sort of health problem and ran away from Mont Providence. I abandoned them. Those little girls that I had raised here myself—I abandoned them.”

She made a sign of the cross and compulsively kissed her crucifix. The silence that followed was awful. Lucie suddenly felt very cold.

“I returned to my old orders, the Gray Sisters. Mother Sainte Marguerite had the infinite goodness to hide and protect me. They looked for me, as you can imagine, and I don’t know what would have happened if they’d found me. But the fact is that my ancient bones have endured through the century, and my memory has never forgotten the horrors that took place there, in the depths of the asylum. Who could ever forget so much darkness?”

Lucie looked the nun deep in her cloudy eyes. No one could forget such darkness. No one.

The truth was about to pour out, here, right now, from her old lips. Her pulse pounding, Lucie nonetheless retained her cop’s reflexes.

“This superintendent. We need to know who he was.”

“Of course. His name was James Peterson. Or at least, that’s the name we overheard. Because he always signed Dr. Peter Jameson. James Peterson, Peter Jameson… I still don’t know which was his real identity. But one thing for certain, he lived in Montreal.”

Sharko and Lucie exchanged a brief glance. They had their final link in the chain. The nun stood up, shuffled toward her library, and knelt, tears in her eyes.

“I pray to God every day for those poor children that I left back there. They were my little girls. I had watched them grow, inside these walls, before we all found ourselves in that place of depravity.”

Lucie felt a kind of compassion for the poor woman, who was dying alone and in pain.

“There was nothing you could have done for them. You were a prisoner of the system and your beliefs. God has nothing to do with this.”

With trembling hands, Sister Marie du Calvaire lifted her Bible and began reading in a murmur. Lucie and Sharko knew there was no further reason to remain in the room.

They left without a sound.

The two cops went on foot from the convent to Montreal’s central train station, which wasn’t far. They walked without speaking, plunged into their darkest thoughts. They could see those closed-off rooms in the hospital, echoing with the moans of the insane, the frightened little girls intermingled with the most dangerous cases. They could hear the crackle of electroshock treatments in padded chambers. How had something like this been allowed to go on? Isn’t a democracy supposed to protect its citizens from such barbarity? On the verge of nausea, Lucie felt a need to break the silence. She pressed against Sharko, slipped her arm around his waist.