It was a perfect example of collateral damage. Yvan Debruyne, the public prosecutor at the time, had gotten it into his head to bring down a number of local bigwigs he suspected of taking kickbacks from contractors, particularly from Francis Biancardini. Debruyne had had the contractor in his sights for a long time. Although most of the rumors about Francis were ridiculous—there were people who claimed he laundered money for the Calabrian Mafia—others seemed well founded. He had probably greased the palms of local politicians in order to be awarded public contracts. It was in trying to take down Francis that Debruyne had come across my parents’ names in a file. Francis had secured a number of contracts at the lycée without entirely respecting the bidding process. During the investigation, my mother had spent twenty-four hours in custody in the squalid Auvare police station. The following morning, there was a picture of my parents on the front page of the local paper, the sort of black-and-white shot that would not look out of place in a slideshow on serial murderers between Bonnie and Clyde and the Lonely Hearts Killers.

Shaken by this unexpected ordeal, my parents both resigned from their teaching positions.

I was no longer living on the Côte d’Azur at the time, but the case had an effect on me. Although my parents had their faults, they were honest people. As teachers, they had spent their careers doing what was in the best interests of their students, and they deserved better than an ignominious resignation that cast a shadow over everything they had achieved. A year and a half after the investigation began, all charges against them were dropped. But by then the damage had been done.

I glared at Zélie until she looked down at her keyboard.

“Can I take it?” I asked, nodding at Pianelli’s book.

“No.”

“I’ll bring it back Monday, promise.”

“No.” Zélie was obdurate. “It is the property of the library.”

I ignored her comment and slipped the book under my arm, and as I turned on my heel, I said, “I think you might be mistaken about that. Check your database. You’ll see that there’s no mention of the library owning a copy.”

I left the library and walked around the Agora. I took the path through the lavender beds that led to the main gate of the campus. The lavender had bloomed early this year, but the aroma seemed different, as though something had gone awry. The coppery, metallic scent drifting on the breeze had the pungent smell of blood.

6

Snowscape

1.

Sunday, December 20, 1992