"The moon is my sun. The night is my day. Shadows and silence... And you are my prey."
Anonymous
Paris, November 2006
The child was out of breath pedaling his bike among the swirls of dead leaves that danced around him in the autumn wind. The gray sky was overcast and the last few walkers were leaving the nearly deserted park. Yet on a bench, a woman dressed in an impeccable gray suit with a black leather handbag beside her remained, seemingly unconcerned about the sky. She was watching the child pedal past again and again. Seeing him so happy, she guessed that he had just received this bike as a birthday present. He was maybe nine or ten years old, at the most. He raced tirelessly along the paths, with a little flame glowing in his eyes. He was so cute, so delighted and elated.
She couldn’t keep her eyes off him, mentally counting the laps he was making around the park.
One, two, what a beautiful boy, three, four...
Her heart swelled with an impulse to take care of him, to have him all to herself. The sky grew even darker behind a black mass coming from the north, pushed by an icy wind. It wouldn’t be long now before it started to rain. The woman saw the child stop and turn to a dark-haired young woman who was waving at him to come. She was probably around thirty. She was thin and extremely beautiful, just like him. No doubt his mother. The youngster dismounted and walked over to her, pushing his bike. The little flame in his eyes had now gone out. No question, he would have given anything to stay, even in the rain. He and his mother hurried to the park exit under the still-darkening sky. We’ll see each other again soon, my boy. She regretfully watched them disappear, then stood up. Very soon... She took an old umbrella out of her large black leather handbag and opened it with a snap. Raindrops began to fall over the silence of the deserted park. The wind picked up, its gusts stirring the branches of the oaks and beeches. The lady in gray reached an exit and walked towards the Sèvres Bridge, where her silhouette faded behind the sheets of rain that were feeding the dull waters of the Seine.
After two days of bad weather, cooped up in the house, Rémi was jumping up and down at the front door. He was already unbearable, when it came to going to the park, but since his father had bought him this bike with gears.
“Rémi! Would you please stop?” shouted his mother, who was packing his snack. “Jumping around like that isn’t going to get us out the door any sooner!”
Outside, the sun shone on the front lawn, its rays kissing the windows and warming the parquet floor. It was going to be a glorious fall day and Barbara was happy to take her son for a ride. She checked his shoelaces and his outfit. He was a big boy now; he was nine years old and could do these things for himself.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked gently.
“Oh, yeah!”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He ran to his room and came back with his elbow and knee pads.
“Good job, Champ.”
He took off to attack the asphalt a few minutes later. When they reached the park, five blocks away, Barbara let him ride off through the paths filled with battalions of knee-high cyclists. She joined one of her mother friends on their usual bench.
A short time after, while Barbara was chatting, she noticed that her son had stopped and leaned his bike against a bench. He was talking to someone sitting there, but she couldn’t see the person, as the branches of a large cedar tree were partly concealing them. Barbara flushed with anxiety. What could have made Rémi get off his bike? She excused herself to the other mother and slid to the end of the bench for a better look at who her son was talking to. As far as she could tell from that distance—about two hundred yards—it was an elderly woman, dressed in an old-fashioned gray suit. A large black handbag lay beside her on the bench. She was very thin, but her movements showed vigor. Her white hair was twisted into bun in a black woolen snood. Barbara figured the woman must have thought her son was cute and had struck up a conversation to get to know him. No reason to worry.
“What a nice bike. You’re a lucky boy.”
Rémi looked at the lady attentively for a moment. He saw a tiny light spot in her dark eyes, the reflection of his own face, a tiny glow at the bottom of two murky lakes.
“Do you ride bikes, too?” he asked her, serious.
A smile creased the woman’s face.
“No. I haven’t been on a bike in a long time. But I can do something that’s even more fun than riding bikes.”
The child’s face lit up.
“No way! Nothing’s better than bikes!” he exclaimed, laughing.
“Can you keep a secret?” she whispered, leaning toward his ear.
“Yes! My cousin Sébastien told me at least...” He counted on his fingers, “One... two... three secrets. And I never told anybody!”
Her cold, gnarled hand brushed the child’s cheek. Her smile had become icy cold and her lips were now stretched into an ominous grin. Rémi thought she was nice and was curious about what she was going to tell him. It seemed impossible that anything could be more fun than riding bikes. It had to be magic, or something even cooler.
“In that case, since you can hold your tongue,” she told him softly, “I’ll tell you my secret.”
Rémi stared at her wide-eyed, holding his breath.
“I make the best cakes in the whole neighborhood, and for miles around. Nobody makes apple crumble, chocolate eclairs, lemon cookies, pies, cream-filled donuts, and napoleons like I do.”
Rémi’s mouth half-opened and watered at the thought of the delights her wonderful words promised. Suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about arguing that riding bikes was best anymore. He was speechless.
The woman opened her bag. She took out a tiny white cardboard box and handed it to him.
“Here, Rémi, I made this treat just for you.”
He grabbed the box and opened it immediately. It held a small ball covered with a dark glaze. He picked it up with his fingers and gobbled it down. It was soft and melty. He swallowed it with a delighted smile.
Good boy...
“Did you like it?”
Rémi nodded. He had never eaten anything so delicious.
“It’s really good. Thank you,” he concluded, after swallowing the bite.
“I knew you’d like it.”
Rémi thought for a moment.
“You made it for me?”
“Yes. But...” She placed her gnarled index finger on the child’s lips, “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
He shook his head, exaggerating to show his full cooperation in this confidential culinary adventure. A solid friendship was developing with this benefactor. He was absorbed in thought again for a moment.
“How did you know my name?”
The nice lady with the mysterious cake leaned over to him and took his hands in hers.
“I come to the park a lot. I heard your mom call you.”
“Oh,” he replied, not really knowing what else to say.
Something about the woman’s eyes intrigued him. She made him wonder about a lot of things.
“I also know you’re not like the other children, Rémi.”
Struck with shyness, he smiled down at his shoes.
He dared to ask, “What do you mean?”
He rubbed his tummy. Suddenly, it hurt a little. It was a strange pain he had never felt before.
“Because you were born to do great things,” she replied softly.
He now felt a kind of swarming in his belly, as if all the ants in an anthill had gone on alert.
“Come sit next to me.”
She helped him up onto the bench beside her.
“My stomach hurts,” he whined.
“Oh, it’ll go away, sweetie. Don’t worry. Just count to ten and it’ll be all gone.”
Rémi did as said he was told and started counting in his head. Little by little, the ants stopped crawling around and their swarming stopped. But he felt funny; his head felt like it was wrapped in cotton, and sounds coming from outside were muffled and far away. This curious sensation seemed to disappear, but then he had a different feeling a moment later. Like he was floating inside himself. It wasn’t particularly unpleasant, but way too unusual to be ignored. He was a little scared, but he liked this mystery and was consumed by curiosity. And he especially liked the secret he had shared with this lady. The taste of that dark pastry ball was amazing. The treat had melted in his mouth with a sweetness that had swept him away with pleasure.
“Feeling better, Rémi?”
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he answered in a small voice.
“See? I told you that you weren’t like other children.”
“Really?” he asked shyly.
The woman nodded.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for a child like you to come along, Rémi. A very long time.”
He smiled and lifted his head, with a touch of pride. He still had that weird floating sensation, but he was feeling much better. In fact, he was feeling great. Funny, but great. Behind the large cedar tree further down the path, he saw his mother waving at him. He waved back.
The old lady plunged her large dark eyes into his. It felt like she was searching for something deep inside him, like a buried treasure.
“You’re ready now, Rémi,” she said, cradling his face in her hands like a precious artifact.
He didn’t say anything. He was feeling stranger and stranger. Now there was a dark veil that had stretched all around him in the park.
“Come on, let’s go for a little walk,” she whispered in his ear.
She took his hand and stood up. He followed her without a second thought. It was very odd: like the daylight had been driven out by a clear night, with a full moon replacing the sun. Yet his eyes were wide open. Apart from this one surprising detail, he felt comfortable with this lady, even though her hand was very cold and very thin.
“Do you feel the night surrounding you, Rémi?”
He nodded. They crossed the grass behind the large cedar tree and went into a shady grove. The other children’s laughter and commotion faded into a distorted echo.
“Do you like the night that’s falling around you, sweetie?”
He hesitated, then nodded again. His mouth felt pasty and he was thirsty. He was still thinking about that delicious dark pastry ball. If he was nice to the lady, maybe he would get another one, even two! They went deeper into the woods until they reached a small clearing. Large black birds were gathered in the center of the clearing, forming a heap of feathers that were flapping sharply. Crows. They fluttered their gleaming wings as they busied themselves around something that Rémi couldn’t make out clearly, not because of the dark veil, but because there were so many birds that they covered the object they were flocking around. It didn’t smell good. The woman in gray murmured a few words he didn’t understand. When he thought about it, that odor floating through the air was familiar. He had smelled it the day he found a dead sparrow at the far end of the yard at home. But the stink was stronger here. The old lady took him by the hand, and as they approached, the large crows flew away croaking, one by one. Rémi could then see the thing that the crows were hiding.
It was a dead cat, lying on its back. Its paws were spread apart, as if the poor thing had wanted to hug the sky before giving up its last breath. Its black coat was stained with glistening vermilion. Its belly hung open from its gullet to its lower abdomen. Its insides glowed in the strange night that filled in around Rémi. The animal’s head was turned toward him, and he could see its dead eyes that seemed to be watching him. Two dull emeralds veiled behind a whitish film. The lady walked up and crouched down beside him. She squeezed his shoulders and said to him in a serious tone, kind of like his teacher,
“See, Rémi, this is what death looks like.”
Rémi nodded obediently. He was still staring into the cat’s eyes. There was something hypnotic about the animal’s gaze.
“Death is a beautiful thing, Rémi. It’s sacred. You’re not scared, are you?”
Rémi shook his head. He was observing the cat’s half-open mouth, its pointed teeth that still shone ivory, and the little pink tongue that lolled out of its mouth. He felt drawn to it.
“You can pet it if you want to.”
Rémi took a step toward the open carcass, took another step, and gently lowered his hand towards the cat’s head. Suddenly, there was a powerful rustling of wings. A shadow fell over the cat’s body. It was an enormous crow. It was standing watch, turning and tilting its head sideways to examine the unwelcome child who had interrupted their feast. The bird uttered a sinister croak. Rémi remained motionless, torn between wanting to stroke the crow and the cat. The bird decided for him. In a black flash, it swooped down on him. The old woman didn’t even have a chance to react. The child covered his face with his hands to protect himself as much as he could. The scavenger gave him several ferocious pecks before it flew away, cawing furiously.
Rémi didn’t cry, because he was a brave little boy, as his mother was always telling him. But one of his hands had a serious gash. Blood ran down his fingers and forearm. The crimson liquid dripped heavily, feeding the earth near the cat whose empty eyes were coldly observing the drama.
The woman in gray pulled Rémi to her.
“Oh, poor thing! Let me see!”
She took the child’s hand and suddenly began to lick the wound greedily, so eagerly that she was trembling. Rémi was stunned. She continued sucking and licking the deepest cut for a few more seconds, then she turned her dark, glowing gaze to Rémi.
“Have you ever tasted blood, Rémi?”
The boy didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t really scared, but his tummy was hurting again.
“Taste the blood, Rémi.”
It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order. Her eyes rolling voraciously, the lady in gray watched the child’s every move. Rémi obeyed; he brought one of his gashes to his mouth, squeezed it, and sucked up the blood, which was still oozing profusely.
“What do you think, do you like it?” she asked him.
Rémi felt strangely calm. The swarming in his stomach turned into a profuse surge of warmth. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to taste the cat’s blood. Its open belly was bursting with juicy offal, and still heavy with that brown liqueur that made him feel so good. Then, despite the threat of the crows, which might return any minute to take back what was theirs, he plunged a shy little hand into the open chest and pulled out a bloody chunk. The woman in gray was watching him tenderly, a little like his mother would. Rémi examined the dripping giblet, then looked at the cat, and swallowed it in one bite.
He was about to stick his hand back into the animal’s exposed innards when the lady in gray grabbed it.
“No, Rémi. You mustn’t eat too much of this flesh. It’s not good for you.”
“Why not?” he whined.
“Because it’s an animal. It could make you sick.”
She took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his mouth and hands.
“Look at you. What a little piggy.”
Rémi started jumping up and down, screaming,
“But I want it, I want it, I want it, I—”
She slapped her hand over the child’s mouth.
“Quiet, you little glutton!”
She pressed her hand over his mouth until he calmed down, then gave him a big smile that revealed her yellowed teeth.
“You’re in luck; I have something that I think you’re going to like.”
She rummaged in her purse.
Rémi stopped squirming. She pulled a small bottle out of an inside zippered pocket. Rémi looked at it curiously and longingly. The glass was tinted blue or green, depending on how it reflected the light. It was cut like liqueur flasks of an earlier century, so it looked valuable.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Can’t you guess?”
She slowly unscrewed the silver metal cap with her long fingers. A blissful smile appeared on the child’s face. His eyes were filled with a darkness that delighted her.
“Is it blood?”
“It sure is. Nice, fresh, human blood. Not from some old dead cat.”
Rémi reached out for the flask and took it carefully. He raised it to his mouth and tasted the warm, syrupy liquid. What a treat! He knew that he would remember this moment forever. When he had emptied the bottle, she removed it from his hands and put it back in her bag. She stood up and took him by the hand.
“Remember, always keep our secret, Rémi. Because if anyone ever found out, they might hurt you very badly.” She leaned toward him, grabbed his shoulders, and shook him. “Do you understand, Rémi?!?” she shouted with a crazed look in her eyes.
The child nodded . His stomach hurt at the mere thought of being without his nectar. The old woman looked at him with compassion. She stroked his cheek again. He tilted his face to one side. He liked the feel of her cold fingers on his skin. In his head, the pleasant floating lulled him, but he was still thirsty for what he had drunk from that flask. The urge was growing stronger by the minute.
“I know what you’re thinking, my boy. Don’t worry. Pretty soon you’ll learn how to get some for yourself. Let’s go. Your mother, your delicious mother, might be worried.”
As they crossed the lawn toward the paths, Rémi squeezed her long, cold fingers in his hand. None of this seemed real. Yet he felt a certain pleasure in letting this dream play out, a pleasure with the taste of forbidden fruit. He knew that children didn’t usually feed on blood. It gave him a feeling of power, like the power adults had. The other children’s laughter along the paths was distant and dull. Looking at his bike leaning against the bench, he wondered how he could have loved riding it so much.
When he turned around, the woman in gray was gone. He looked around for her on the grass at the edge of the grove, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then he saw his mother waving at him frantically. She looked worried. He hopped on his bike and pedaled over to her.
“Rémi, where in the world have you been?”
“I went...” He tried to think of an explanation. “I went to pee in the woods over there.”
He hid the cut on his hand as much as he could. His mother scrutinized him from head to foot. She frowned.
“You look tired. A little pale, maybe.”
“No, I’m Okay.”
“Did you know that lady you were talking to over there? Had you seen her here before?”
He shook his head.
“But she was really nice, Maman.”
“Really? What did you talk about?”
“Ummm...We talked about bike riding. She told me that she used ride a bike, a long time ago.”
“Rémi, I don’t want you talking to strangers like that lady anymore. Understand?”
He nodded, resigned.
“Okay, Maman.”
“Okay, you little monster. Go ahead and play, but don’t forget, I’ll be watching you.”
When they left the park late that afternoon, Rémi saw something in the branches of the large cedar at the edge of the path. It was a crow. A big, beautiful, black crow, like one of the ones that had collected over the cat’s carcass. The bird was staring at him with its round, gleaming eye. He thought about that cat in the grove, its empty stare, and then the lady in gray. He wondered if he would ever see her again. For some reason, the delicious taste of that pastry came back into his mouth, immediately replaced by the bitter, ferrous flavor of the stuff he had tasted for the first time. That secret thing he was trying to forget, but it kept coming back again and again, stronger and stronger. He let go of his mother’s hand—she hadn’t noticed the crow—and waved his arms to make it fly away. Which it did, without making a sound. Like a shadow, it glided into the sky and climbed upward. Rémi kept his eyes on it until it disappeared behind the tops of the trees that were swaying in the wind.
