The Cherche-Midi mystery: a Julia Latour story

Jeanne

Paris, 1985

-What is this really about ?

Jeanne was unable to answer, as she considered the question to be both inappropriate and incongruous

-You knocked on my door out of the blue, you're thirty-five years old ... Tell me something: why didn't you contact me when you turned twenty-one? he continued.

-I was living in Washington back then.

-Haven't you heard of this little thing called a phone?

-Sir, with all due respect, I demand an answer. And you have to give it to me: it's the law.

-Well, I'll give you an answer. Give me thirty seconds to get your file. It is in another room, classified in a safe ... with other sensitive matters.

His tone was so harsh that it made Jeanne's entire body shake. For years, she had been thinking, worrying about this precise moment: the one that could possibly enable her to solve the enigma surrounding her birth. Little did she know she would come across such an austere attorney. The coldness of this forty-something man, whose forehead was already balding, contrasted with the warm decoration of his office, filled with leather armchairs and furnished with a carved wood desk.

-There's your envelope, he said, bursting back in his office several minutes later. The thing's been lying around for almost three decades in the safe with some other old stuff.

-Being as old as your envelope, I can't thank you enough for your comment, Jeanne replied. 

His glance seemed to show only measured appreciation for her irony.

-Madam, may I suggest, considering the content of your file, that you keep your jokes for yourself?

- What do you mean by that? 

-Don't tell me you're not aware of anything... 

- I'm not! 

 - Really? 

 - No. 

- It seems so unlikely...

-Sir, I am going to repeat what I've already told you twice since the beginning of our meeting: after I was adopted, I grew up in Quebec. I've spent the last fifteen years in the United-States. I had never set foot in France until two days ago. I know absolutely nothing about my biological parents.

-Okay I'm sorry... It's just a little hard to believe, considering the fuss it made back then.

-Fuss... What do you mean?

-Well, maybe I'm wrong... I was only eight, I don't remember it that well...

-Sir... You cannot be that frightening without going into further details... You have to tell me what really happened or else you just should have kept everything to yourself.

-Well... I'm going to tell you everything. And if you need any proof of it, you'll find everything in the report written by the police officers that investigated your parents' case. 

Police, officers... These two words paralysed Jeanne almost instantaneously. She kept on listening and found herself unable to react to these cruel words. 

-Your parents were unconscious when they were found in their home of the Cherche-Midi Street. Both had a bullet in the head. You were only a few months old back then. I distinctly remember the date: December 17th, 1951. You were screaming in your crib when the police discovered the bodies. 

As he finished his sentence, he noticed how empty the woman's eyes were: had he been in Jeanne's mind, he would not have been that surprised. She had troubles understanding what she had just heard. Should she be crying? She did not feel like shedding any tears: her biological parents had always appeared to her as two enigmatic shadows. Nevertheless, she had longed, since her early childhood, to unveil the mystery of her origins. As her need to know was infinite, she had promised herself she would contact the officer who had supervised this tragedy the second she would land on French soil. His name was mentioned on a document given by her orphanage to the couple that had adopted her more than three decades ago.

Yet the revelations of this last hour were light-years behind what Jeanne had fantasized over the years, even when she had imagined the most sordid scenarios. Her mind became blurry as her brain seemed to be drowning in turmoil. 

-Mrs McDamon? You've been quiet for a while. Do you want some water? 

-No, thank you. I must tell you, I don't quite understand: why wasn't I killed with my parents? This horror story you just told me clearly isn't logical... Assuming logic there still is in this type of situation... 

-The investigation that was conducted leaves little doubt as to the origin of the tragedy. Your parents most likely committed suicide and were, let's say, kind enough to spare you... At least, this is what is stipulated in the police document. 

Was she on the edge of a precipice? She had the feeling that just a few more words from the attorney would be enough to make her fall into total madness. Meanwhile, the small man, dreading emotions more than anything, was hoping to shorten this rather disturbing conversation. 

-If this is of any interest to you, Mrs. McDamon, here are the keys to your parent's house. As for the address: 43rd Cherche-Midi Street.

-No one's living there? 

The man, highly aware of the mysterious ways of the real estate market, found Jeanne's question rather ingenuous. He even had troubles hiding his disdain while answering her. 

-No... You can easily imagine that the home of such a tragedy is almost impossible to rent... As for selling it, well, it's absolutely impossible. In other words, you are the one and only heiress of this property. 

As Jeanne was staying awfully still, the man, seeking to shorten a conversation he could no longer bear, added: 

-I must also warn you that this house constitutes your sole and only inheritance. Your biological father was totally ruined when he died. 

This last piece of information was of no interest to Jeanne. Who did he think she was? In no way was she looking for a hidden fortune. She just wanted to understand who she was. Where she was coming from. 

In a grinning smile, the young woman grabbed the keys to the 43rd, Cherche-Midi Street and the file containing the details of her parents' death. She stood up painfully, babbling a soaring "goodbye". 

Just a few minutes later, wondering how she could still stand on her two legs, she walked up Rennes Street to reach the Montparnasse metro station. Her pace was heavy, she looked rather morbid and bereft, as if she was carrying the world's sadness on her back.Once in the subway, she could no longer prevent tears from shredding. What had just happened? Her hands were shivering as she held the envelope containing the details of her parents' tragic ending. Would she have the strength to open it? Probably not in the upcoming hours.