Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

Juliette smiled indulgently at Manfred’s fantasy. ‘You haven’t met my father,’ she said. ‘In any case, would I not then just be following your dream instead of my father’s?’

On the final day of Juliette’s holiday, the lovers met in the clearing as usual. Manfred felt melancholy. The thought of not seeing his beloved for days or weeks was too much to bear. He could not, knowing now that there was an alternative, return to his old life of torpor.

Juliette had brought two bottles of rough cider from the cellar of the cottage.

‘If my father finds out, he’ll kill me,’ she laughed.

Manfred was disturbed that she could be so light-hearted on this black day, but he determined not to spoil their last hours together by reverting to his gloomy ways. They popped the stone stopper of the first bottle and passed it back and forth. They talked animatedly of how they would write to each other every day, sending their letters poste restante under outrageous pseudonyms. At weekends Manfred would travel to Troyes and sleep rough in the railway station just for the chance to snatch a few minutes with his beloved. They would smuggle notes to each other with dramatic entreaties: Do not fail me! I am forever yours! My love, I am pining for you!

Yet Manfred was preoccupied. Thus far their relationship had been consummated by no more than goodbye kisses and holding hands. As they sat side by side now on the blanket, Juliette held Manfred’s fingers gently between her hands. But with the prospect of days or weeks without seeing one another, Manfred felt that they must mark the time they had spent together in some way. They must give their bodies to each other as a statement that they now belonged together and that their lives would from that moment be intertwined. As Manfred had contemplated this the previous evening, he had not thought of it as a sexual act (the practicalities of such a thing terrified him), but rather, although he considered himself an atheist, as something spiritual. He could think of no other way to describe it.

As they sat, blithely wittering about their future together, Manfred’s stomach was churning. He had no idea how to initiate such a thing. Thus, he had decided that he would trust to fate — if it happened, it was because it was meant to happen. If it didn’t, so be it. He also placed his faith in the fact that ever since he had met Juliette, their thoughts and feelings had wholly coincided. Was it not almost certain therefore that she had lain alone on her bed the previous night having entirely the same thoughts as he had? Was it, moreover, not inevitable that she had shared the same thoughts? Perhaps she had brought the cider along with the intention of easing their passage into adulthood.

They finished the first bottle. Manfred felt it go to his head. He broke off a chunk of bread and chewed on it to alleviate the mild nausea he felt. Juliette, seemingly oblivious to the effects, flipped open the stopper of the second bottle and handed it to Manfred. A little sun filtered down to the forest floor. The soft blonde hairs on Juliette’s arm shone as she passed the bottle to him. She let out a small hiccup and covered her mouth with her free hand, giggling a little. This display of tipsiness reassured Manfred.

The time came for Juliette to leave. Manfred was gripped by fear. It was now or never. He grasped Juliette’s wrist gently and said her name. She moved her face towards his as if she had been waiting for this invitation. Their mouths met, clumsily at first. Juliette manoeuvred her body so that her face was perpendicular to his. She pushed the tip of her tongue between Manfred’s lips. Her hand clasped his neck. Manfred’s mind soared off into the trees. He had no idea that such intensity was possible. Soon they were lying next to each other. Manfred’s left hand rested on Juliette’s hip. Did he dare to slide it down and feel the curve of her buttock under her dress? He did so, his fingertips alive to the grain of the cotton.

Emboldened, Manfred drew his lips down to her neck. Juliette held his head tightly there, her breath quickening. Manfred ran his tongue to the junction of her neck and shoulder. With her free hand, Juliette unbuttoned the top buttons of her dress, took Manfred’s hand in hers and pressed it onto her breast. Manfred cupped the soft flesh in his palm. Her nipple was firm between his fingers.

Manfred had not counted on such a rapid progress. He had only the sketchiest idea of what was expected of him. The thought of disappointing Juliette appalled him, but they were on the brink of something momentous. There was no choice but to go through with it. Juliette moaned softly as he caressed her breast. Her eyes were closed. Manfred manoeuvred himself on top of her and continued to kiss her on the neck. Then as quickly as it had begun, Juliette gripped his wrist and said, ‘Let’s not. Not now.’

Manfred simultaneously felt a wave of relief and a feeling that it was too late to stop, as if he was the driver of a locomotive spotting a car on a level crossing only a few metres ahead.

‘Yes, of course,’ he heard himself saying, but as he said it he ground his groin against her. He recalled how his mother had described her feeling of being overpowered by her father as he kissed against a tree in this same forest all these years before. He had his hands on Juliette’s neck. He could not now prevent himself from coming and as he did so he raised himself to see Juliette’s face. Her eyes were bulging. Her body convulsed beneath him, heightening his passion. Then they both went limp. Manfred felt suddenly ashamed. He rolled off and lay next to Juliette waiting for his breathing to settle, staring at the branches of the trees shimmering above them.

He took Juliette’s hand in his.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I couldn’t stop myself.’

She didn’t reply. Manfred raised himself onto his elbow. Juliette’s head lay slackly to one side. Her mouth and eyes were open. She was not breathing.

Manfred stared at her blankly for a few long moments. Then he nudged her arm. She didn’t react. He placed his hand on her heart. It was not beating. Manfred leapt to his feet, his hand over his mouth. He felt himself gasping for breath then he threw up, turning his head away from the rug. He retched until there was nothing more in his stomach. He sat there on his knees for a long time, or what seemed like a long time. Perhaps it was no more than a minute. What he remembered most was the horrible look of disbelief and betrayal frozen on Juliette’s face.

Manfred got up from his knees. He surveyed the surrounding trees. Nobody had seen them and there had been nothing to hear. If Juliette had only cried out, he would have stopped. He had not been aware of what he was doing. Manfred realised that what he was about to do was dreadful, but he braced himself to go through with it. He cleared the two bottles off the rug and put them in his knapsack. Then he picked up the apple cores they had left on the ground, the end of a baguette, the wax paper wrapper of the pâté and the knife they had used to spread it. Next he grasped the corner of the rug and tugged it hard. Juliette’s body rolled slowly off it into an ungainly heap. Her face was pressed against the ground and her dress was rumpled around her waist. Manfred pulled it down over her buttocks. Tears were streaming down his face, but he surveyed the clearing for any other debris. He scuffed the thin pool of his vomit into the earth and slowly backed out, unable to take his eyes off the wreckage of Juliette’s body. Then he turned and ran through the trees.

THE WOMAN WAS STANDING by the bank of metal mailboxes in the foyer, leafing through her post. Manfred was leaving for work as he always did at 8.15. She was wearing a grey business suit and the blouse he had found in the laundry room. Manfred felt pleased by this, as if it was a gift he had given her and she was wearing it to please him. Manfred normally collected his mail in the evening when he returned from work, but he stopped and unlocked his box. There was never anything of interest in there and there was no wastepaper basket in the lobby to discard junk mail, which meant either stuffing it into his briefcase and disposing of it at work or carrying it in his hand to the litter bin in the street. The woman looked up from her mail and said good morning. She did not seem displeased to see him. She smiled. There were laughter lines around her eyes.