A World I Never Made Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  ~1~ - PARIS, JANUARY 2, 2004

  ~2~ - PARIS, JANUARY 2, 2004

  ~3~ - PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004

  ~4~ - MOROCCO, JANUARY 3, 2003

  ~5~ - PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004

  ~6~ - PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004

  ~7~ - MOROCCO, FEBRUARY 5, 2003

  ~8~ - PARIS, JANUARY 3, 2004

  ~9~ - PARIS / COURBEVOIE, JANUARY 4, 2004

  ~10~ - MOROCCO, MARCH 3, 2003

  ~11~ - PARIS / RAMBOUILLET, JANUARY 4, 2004

  ~12~ - MOROCCO, APRIL 4, 2003

  ~13~ - LISIEUX, JANUARY 5, 2004

  ~14~ - PARIS, JANUARY 5, 2004

  ~15~ - NORMANDY, JANUARY 5, 2004

  ~16~ - NORMANDY, JANUARY 6, 2004

  ~17~ - MOROCCO, APRIL-MAY, 2003

  ~18~ - PARIS / RIYAHD, JANUARY 6, 2004

  ~19~ - PARIS, JANUARY 6, 2004

  ~20~ - PARIS, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~21~ - MOROCCO, MAY 14-15, 2003

  ~22~ - MOROCCO, MAY 15, 2003

  ~23~ - PARIS, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~24~ - NUREMBURG, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~25~ - MOROCCO, MAY 15-16, 2003

  ~26~ - MOROCCO, MAY 16, 2003

  ~27~ - WALDSASSEN, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~28~ - WALDSASSEN, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~29~ - MOROCCO, MAY 16, 2003

  ~30~ - PARIS, DECEMBER 16, 2003

  ~31~ - THE RIVER OHRE, JANUARY 7, 2004

  ~32~ - CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 8, 2004

  ~33~ - CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 8-9, 2004

  ~34~ - CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 8-9, 2004

  ~35~ - CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 9, 2004

  ~36~ - CZECH REPUBLIC, JANUARY 9, 2004

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright Page

  For her unfailing intercession on behalf of all those who seek it, this book is dedicated to

  Thérèse Martin, a child of France who died in 1897 at the age of 24 and who, in 1925, became St. Thérèse of Lisieux.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to my wife Karen, to my daughters Erica, Adrienne, and Jamie, and to my friends Greg and Joy Ziemak for their unwavering support and their thoughtful and insightful comments. I am also profoundly grateful to my friend and editor, Lou Aronica. This would not have happened without him. Last, a special thank you to my brother Pat for his deep and steadfast loyalty to me and to family.

  And how am I to face the odds

  Of man’s bedevilment and God’s?

  I, a stranger and afraid

  In a world I never made.

  A.E. Housman, Last Poems

  ~1~

  PARIS, JANUARY 2, 2004

  Dad,

  I don’t owe you or anybody an explanation, but I think you’ll appreciate the irony of a suicide note coming from a person who has abborred tradition all of her life. I met a young girl on the street the other day who looked into my eyes and told me that Jesus was waiting for me in heaven. She was fourteen or so, selling flowers on the Street of Flowers, and had the look of a young Madonna. The red roses I bougbt from her were the last thing I saw before pulling the trigger.

  If, as you read this, I am actually with Jesus in heaven, I will be one shocked woman. I doubt it, though. Megan Nolan is no more. Go and have yourself anotber daugbter. It’s not too late, and the odds are very good that she will turn out better than I did. If I were famous, I would be joining the long line of suicides known to history. But as it is, in a matter of days, if not hours, my life and death will be as anonymous and as forgotten as a stray breeze.

  Megan

  P.S. You know how I feel about being buried. Please, no service and a quick cremation. Don’t let me down.

  Pat Nolan read the note for the first time sitting in the cramped office of Assistant Chief Inspector Geneviève LeGrand at the Seventh Arrondissement Police Prefecture on Rue Fabert. When he was finished, he looked over at Madame LeGrand, sitting across from him at her cluttered desk.

  “One less hegemonic, imperialist American pig to worry about,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  Pat shook his head, and then watched as the bored look on the middle-aged inspector’s face—she was perhaps fifty or fifty-five-was replaced, in quick succession, by a widening of the eyes in surprise, their narrowing in concentration, and finally a slight smile.

  “You are perhaps weary from your traveling, Monsieur Nolan,” she said, looking at him with what seemed to be a bit more interest than when he first entered her office and accepted her invitation to sit.

  Pat was, in fact, jet-lagged. He had arrived in Paris from New York the morning before, slept as if drugged all day, and then, when he went out looking for a late dinner, got caught up in a walkabout involving thousands of beautifully dressed Parisians celebrating the New Year. His inner clock reversed, he had managed to fall asleep at seven AM for an hour before having to get up for his nine olock meeting with Inspector LeGrand.

  “I must be:”

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you:”

  “I am sorry for your loss:”

  Pat nodded his head, keeping his acknowledgment of this declaration as perfunctory as its delivery.

  “I will not keep you long:”

  “You have a job to do:”

  “Yes, I do. The note is in your daughter’s hand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know she was ill, Monsieur Nolan?”

  “No.”

  “She had last stage ovarian cancer. She would have been dead in another few weeks. You did not know this?”

  The police building, which looked to Nolan like a church, was a three-story affair located about a block from the Seine. Assistant Chief Inspector LeGrand’s corner office was on the third floor. Through the window behind her, Pat could see one of the bridges that crossed the river. It also looked like a church, or rather the type of bridge that a church would have if it needed one. Next to the bridge on the near bank stood a large tree. Settled on its numerous leafless branches were, he estimated, two hundred crows or black birds of some sort. Some watched a barge pass slowly under the bridge, others seemed to be staring directly at him. Megan had decided as a teenager that the crow—arrogant, malicious, intelligent, cunning—was her totem. He wondered, collecting his thoughts, remembering his only child, if she was sitting in that tree. If she was, was she looking at the barge or at him?

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Autopsies are required in France for all cases that are possible homicides. You understand it had to be done quickly in case the entry wound was inconsistent with suicide. We would want to start searching for the killer as soon as possible:”

  “I understand:”

  “There appears to be no doubt that she was a suicide. Our investigation is almost complete. I have only to ask you one or two questions:”

  “Go ahead:”

  “Do you know why she came to France?”

  “She was a writer. She could work anywhere. She loved Paris:”

  “Did you know she was living in Morocco?”

  “No.” Though he had spoken to Megan on Christmas day, prior to that he had not seen or spoken to her since the Christmas before. They were in Rome at the time. and she had told him then that she was thinking of heading to Sicily and possibly North Africa.“I take it she was:”

  “She had a Moroccan diplomatic visa:”

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “It is issued by their minister of Foreign Affairs. It allows a person to stay indefinitely in Morocco. It appears that she was there for some four months. Did she know people there?”

  �
�Not that I know of.”

  “She must have known someone very important to have secured such a visa. They are rarely issued to anyone outside the highest diplomatic circles:”

  “Have you made inquiries in Rabat?”

  Pat watched Inspector LeGrand’s eyes narrow again. He could almost hear her thoughts: A semi-intelligent question coming from this American cowboy? Did he actually know that Rabat was Morocco’s capital? Under different circumstances, it might have bothered him that he was perceived as a caricature by the haughty and bored Frenchwoman sitting across from him. As it was, he just wanted to get to the end of the interview as quickly as possible, to get the identification of Megan’s body over with, and to figure out privately how it was he was supposed to grieve.

  “Yes,” she replied. “The Moroccan official who vouched for her diplomatic status is out of the country. Did she ever mention any Moroccan friends or acquaintances?”

  “No, never:”

  “When did you speak to her last?”

  “On Christmas Day.”

  “Where was she?”

  “She said she was in Paris:”

  “Where in Paris?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “And she didn’t tell you she was ill?”

  “No.”

  “Do you find that unusual?”

  Through the window behind LeGrand, Pat could see the crows beginning to stir. One of them had taken flight and then circled back and attacked another one on one of the top branches. They left the tree and continued their fight, if that”s what it was, in the air, while the rest raised their wings and lifted their beaks, no doubt to express their contempt—or glee—at the spectacle above them.

  “No,” Pat answered.“I don’t.”

  “Were you estranged from your daughter, Monsieur Nolan?”

  “Yes and no:” Pat had been avoiding asking himself this question for twelve years. His answer surprised him in that it wasn”t a definite yes.

  “I see. Well ... She arrived in Spain from Morocco on May 16. She checked into her hotel in Paris on December 24. She must have traveled by rail or bus because her name does not appear on any airline manifests from Spain or anywhere else. We do not know where she was from May 17 to December 24.”

  “What about her credit cards?”

  “The last charge was at a hotel in Casablanca on May 15. There is no record after that:”

  “So she might have been in Spain?”

  “The EU’s borders are open now, Monsieur Nolan. She might have gone anywhere in those seven months:”

  “Have you checked the hospitals, clinics?”

  “Yes. There is no record we can find of her receiving treatment for her cancer. She killed herself on December 30. Her concierge says she had one visitor, a woman who arrived on the thirtieth and stayed for a half hour. Do you know who that might be?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “She came to Paris often. Who were her friends here? Her associates?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you were certain it was suicide:”

  LeGrand looked down at her paperwork before answering and Pat took the opportunity to study her. Were you estranged from your daugbter, Monsieur Nolan? The EU’s borders are open now, Monsieur Nolan. Her voice not quite neutral, not quite professional. To the pain of Megan’s death was now added the pain—the dishonor—of having to expose their failed relationship to the contemptuous eye of Inspector Geneviève LeGrand. French Inspector Geneviève LeGrand. He would not, at least, give her the pleasure of showing in the slightest how he felt.

  “I am,” the inspector said finally.“But it is a curious suicide. Your daughter did not live an ordinary life, Monsieur Nolan. Her passport has dozens of entries in Europe and North Africa over the past ten years. She never returned to America. Was she ever married?”

  “No.”

  “Are there other next of kin? Her mother? Siblings?”

  “No. Her mother died giving birth to her. I’ve had no other children. Are we done? I like to bury my daughter.”

  “Bury? Her note talks of cremation:”

  Megan, who held strong opinions on many subjects, had never mentioned any squeamishness about being buried. But there it was, in her neat cursive hand, and he would abide by it.

  “That’s what I meant:”

  “The body is at the morgue at the Hospital of All Souls, not far from here on the river. I have arranged for one of my officers to take you there to officially identify it:”

  “Can I have the note?” Pat asked.

  “I will give you a photocopy. The original must stay in the official file:”

  “I would like to visit her room:”

  “Mademoiselle Laurence will take you there:”

  “Mademoiselle ... ?”

  “She is the officer who will accompany you to the morgue. She must be present at the identification:”

  “I see. Are there any male police officers in Paris?”

  “They are busy hunting hegemonic imperialists:”

  Pat Nolan was careless about his looks. Some would say he could afford to be. A lifetime spent outdoors had kept his six-foot-three, two-hundred-twenty-pound body trim and supple, and burnished his naturally high color to a reddish gold, a perfect setting for his clear, forthright, and often piercing eyes. The lines around these eyes and on his brow when it knitted in thought added a depth and interest lacking in the faces of men who are young or who haven’t lived much. His thick black hair, swept away from his forehead and carelessly long, framed a face that was handsome in a wry, laconic way. His feelings, more often than not, went unexpressed. Much more often than not. But Inspector LeGrand had turned human for a second and so, despite his predilection to dislike her—to caricaturize her—he smiled. He could see her features soften for a brief moment when he did.

  “Yours is not an easy job;” he said, rising and extending his hand to Inspector LeGrand, who also rose. For a second, they made eye contact. You have been touched—physically and sentimentally—by the prototypical American bête noire, Pat thought. Have no fear, you will survive.

  “Where are you staying, Monsieur Nolan?”

  “Le Tourville. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. Officer Laurence will collect you there. Say at noon? She will have your daughter’s effects and a copy of the note:”

  “Thank you:”

  “De rien ... Monsieur Nolan.”

  “Yes?”

  “I am quite sorry for your loss:”

  Inspector LeGrand’s words echoed in Pat Nolan’s head as he stepped outside of the police building and turned right toward the river. Your loss. For almost thirty years, Lorrie, his twenty-year-old bride, had been his loss. In the summer of 1974, he had married Lorraine Ryan—impossibly young and beautiful—impregnated her, and dragged her to Paraguay where he had been offered a job operating an earth mover at the site of what was to become one of the official Seven Wonders of the Modern World, the Itaipu Dam. Six months later, Lorrie was dead of eclampsia and Megan—the name Lorrie had chosen for a girl baby—was lying in an incubator across the border in Montevideo, Uruguay. Two months premature, sticklike, she clung tenaciously to life, oblivious to Pat’s weekend visits and haggard look. If she lives and if it is your wish, we will help you place her for adoption, one of the sisters at the hospital had told him, her face grim, as if she had read his angry, tortured thoughts. In the end, he had not given Megan away. But he had come close. He and a crew of five hundred had merely been in the midst of shifting the course of the Paraná River—the seventh largest in the world—around the eventual construction site. A one-point-three-mile long, three-hundred-foot-deep, five-hundred-foot-wide diversion. He would never get work like that again, not with a child to care for. That was his second loss. Or was it his first? The intervening years had blended the loss of Lorrie and of his big dreams into one, and then blurred them and worn them down until they were no longer separate and no longer hurt. They were long years, in which his sticklike g
irl baby had grown up and run away. Loss on top of loss.

  Megan, who had left Bennington at the beginning of her freshman year and gone directly to Europe, claiming that America was so bourgeois she could not take another minute of it, had since then made her living writing and, not to put too fine a point on it, seducing men. The writing, mostly for women’s magazines like Cosmopolitan and Glamour, she could do from anywhere, which facilitated her lifelong urge to move from place to place, which in turn afforded ample venues for meeting men willing—gladly willing—to pay for having her on their arms and in their beds. Pat had met one or two of these victims early on and quickly got the picture. There would be no son-in-law or grandchildren in his future. No Sunday dinners with the family in rural Connecticut or Westchester when he got old, with a fire burning in the fireplace and football on the television. This wound also healed over in time.