The red notebook, p.6
The Red Notebook, page 6
On the stroke of seven Frédéric Pichier arrived at the bookshop where readers were already waiting. He took off his scarf and padded jacket, shook hands with each of the bookshop staff, said that he was ‘really very touched’ by Laurent’s compliments on his book and let himself be led to the little table set up for him. He settled down behind the piles of The Sky is our Frame and some of his earlier books. Maryse brought him a glass of vin chaud and some savoury biscuits. There were at least forty people in the shop already and more were pushing through the door. Laurent sat down beside Pichier, smiled at the assembled customers, which immediately hushed the low murmuring amongst them and then raised his voice to thank both the author for kindly accepting the invitation from Le Cahier Rouge and the customers for coming out on this cold evening. He then introduced Frédéric Pichier, talking briefly about his work, his life and his latest book. The writer answered the questions about the book from his host, who had annotated the text with care. The session ended with applause from the audience and Laurent left the author to his signing. Damien served the customers with glasses of vin chaud and they obediently queued up in front of the author’s table.
Laurent grabbed a glass of wine and went over to Maryse. ‘It’s good that so many people have turned up,’ he murmured to her.
‘And they’re still coming,’ she replied, looking over at the door. ‘Isn’t your friend Dominique joining us?’
‘Dominique won’t be coming any more, Maryse,’ replied Laurent, staring at the cinnamon stick floating in his wine.
‘I’m sorry, Laurent. I shouldn’t have said anything.’
‘No, it doesn’t matter, really it doesn’t,’ he told her, taking her hand. ‘I’ve met someone else,’ he added, wondering in the next instant what had come over him.
Pichier was listening with a smile to the compliments of one of the customers, Françoise, and replying to the usual questions: ‘How did you get the idea?’ ‘How long did it take you to write?’ ‘You must have had to do a huge amount of research.’ Then, as he was finishing off his dedication, ‘For Françoise, my loyal reader …’ she reluctantly asked him the ritual question, ‘Are you working on a new novel?’ ‘Yes, yes, I’m working on something …’ replied Pichier laconically.
The truth was that for the last two and a half months he had been adrift in a plot he himself described as crap to his friends and family, and which he had avoided relaying to his editor. It was the story of a young maid in the 1900s set against a wide backdrop that ranged from rural French society to the upper classes in Paris. And it depicted the purest souls as well as the slightly depraved elite of the Belle Époque. He was stuck on page 40. Marie, the young serving girl, was having an affair with a brutish but romantic butcher’s boy, while the son of the family, a timid aesthete who collected beetles, was secretly fantasising about her. Sometimes in his giddier moments, Pichier told himself he was going to give birth to a monster, that he would be the first to produce a novel that was part J.-K. Huysmans and part Marc Levy. Some afternoons, he wished that his heroine would end up at the hands of the knackers of Les Halles. As for the well-born young virgin, many a time had he itched to send him off to the Trappist monks. Sometimes, when he was in real trouble, he wrote barely three sentences before spending the rest of the day in front of his screen, surfing the web, especially eBay, looking for objects that, of course, could not be found. He also spent time, like all his fellow writers, typing his name and the title of his books into search engines, looking for reviews on blogs and literary sites, smiling when he came across a good review and cursing when he came across a mixed one that ended with the insulting phrase, ‘This book did not make much of an impression on me.’ Sometimes, using a pseudonym, he would write a review himself on Fnac.com or Amazon.com, praising himself and hailing the great talent of Frédéric Pichier. Recently he had even gone as far as to write, under the identity ‘Mitsi’, on Babelio.com, ‘Pichier, a future Goncourt winner?’
Like many writers, Pichier had another job. He was a year eleven and twelve French teacher. At the Lycée Pablo-Neruda in the outer suburbs, which was next door to the Robespierre nursery school. After twenty-one years’ teaching, he had felt a sense of exhaustion creeping in. Nervous exhaustion. Encouraged by his nearest and dearest and by his editor, he had taken a year’s ‘sabbatical’, so that he could devote himself exclusively to his writing. Now, suffering from writer’s block, alone every day at home, he regretted the decision that had deprived him of his pupils. They might have been rowdy, sly, complicated, and lacking in culture, sometimes appallingly so, but he had to admit that his days with them had been vastly more entertaining than those he now spent in front of his screen. Their concept of literature was frequently disconcerting. To them the Marquise de Merteuil was a sort of ‘cougar’ and Valmont ‘too sick’. They had spent a month going through the text as if it were a TV series. He had chopped it into extracts: season one, season two … of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. They had really liked the title; they thought it sounded sexy and subversive, both attributes that aroused their curiosity. In their own fashion, they had actually followed the thoughts of the eighteenth-century author. Madame Bovary had just been, for most of the boys, ‘lame’ with a totally desperate heroine. The girls, however, seemed to understand the woes of Emma a bit better. As for the mining community in Germinal, the entire class might as well have been reading science fiction. Un Amour de Swann with its ending, ‘To think that I’ve wasted years of my life, that I’ve longed to die, that I’ve experienced my greatest love, for a woman who didn’t appeal to me, who wasn’t even my type!’ awakened more interest. Some of the boys seemed to find a connection between Proust’s thoughts and their personal experience of disappointment in love. ‘The hero was really into a top bird who just wasn’t right for him. He finally realised it and that made him think a lot about himself and his life’ was Hugo’s brilliant summing up – fourteen out of twenty – ‘Good comprehension of the text, but your analysis is underdeveloped and watch your spelling, Hugo.’ Some pupils, mainly girls, had read The Sky is our Frame. Djamila had even asked him to sign her copy and asked him lots of pertinent questions about the structure of the book, which had both touched him and made him feel optimistic.
The author signed and smiled politely at his readers, drinking down several vins chauds. Laurent went over to ask if everything was all right.
‘Yes, excellent,’ replied Pichier.
‘We’ve sold thirty copies,’ Laurent murmured to him.
Pichier nodded.
‘Hello,’ he said to a new customer as she approached. ‘Hello … Nathalie,’ he added with a friendly smile, looking at her neckline.
‘How do you know my name?’ exclaimed the customer.
Pichier smiled, pleased with the effect he had produced. ‘You’re wearing it round your neck,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.
She put her hand up to a gold pendant. ‘You read hieroglyphics?’ she said admiringly.
‘I wrote Tears of Sand,’ responded Pichier, laying his hand on a copy. ‘There’s a lot about Egypt in it. I learnt as I was doing research for the book.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ said Laurent quickly and he made his way through the customers to the internal door of the bookshop that led to the lobby of the apartment building. He took the stairs four at a time up to his flat, opened the door, turned the light on, quickly grabbed the keys from the card table, and looked breathlessly at the fob with the hieroglyphics. Now he understood: it had never been meant for keys, it was a pendant just like the customer’s; it was simply that she had attached it to her key ring. He left the apartment, slamming the door behind him and rushed back down the stairs.
The customer was having two books signed: Tears of Sand for her husband and the latest novel for herself. Pichier was polishing off the dedication as Laurent approached. He had to wait while the customer related a colourful family anecdote, something that had happened to her great-grandmother during the Great War which was very like an episode in the novel. At last she said goodbye to the author and Laurent slipped in front of the next customer.
‘Can I just interrupt a moment,’ he said to Pichier. ‘Do you know what this says?’ And he laid the bunch of keys on the cover of one of the books.
Pichier picked it up, adjusted his glasses and looked closely at the Egyptian characters. ‘Yes …’ he murmured. ‘It says Laure …’ Then he turned the little rectangle over. ‘…Va … Vala … Valadier.’
Laure Valadier.
Silence is golden. The phrase inscribed above the entrance of the ateliers and gold-plated by Alfred Gardhier (1878–1949) himself had taken on a new significance for William. It had been four days now, and Laure had still not woken up. No matter what Professor Baulieu said to reassure him – the brain scan had not shown any damage – the fact that she was still in a coma surely did not bode well. He picked up the leaf with the flat of his knife, placed it on the calfskin cushion and blew very gently; it unfurled into a perfect rectangle. With the sharp edge of the knife, he divided it in two, rubbed the sable brush against his cheek and picked up the first half in one smooth movement. The static electricity lifted the leaf above the layer of wetted Armenian bole covering the woodwork. With a flick of the wrist he dropped it into place. In a fraction of a second, the gold leaf moulded perfectly to the contours of the wood, blending in with the seventy-five others he had already positioned that day. Two more and the restoration of the pier glass bearing the coat of arms of the Counts of Rivaille would be all but complete. The only thing left was to burnish the surface with an agate stone until the gold shone as it had in its glory days.
For the last four days Laure’s seat in the workshop had been vacant. When she had not arrived on Thursday morning, he had known something was wrong. At eleven o’clock he left her a message. At midday he left another. At one o’clock he rang her landline. After lunch, during which Laure’s absence was the main subject of conversation with Agathe, Pierre, François, Jeanne and Amandine – the other gilders who had completed their apprenticeships – he agreed with Sébastien Gardhier (the fourth generation to run the family business) that it would be sensible if he went round to see her.
‘It’s William again. I’ve left work. I’ll just go home and pick up Belphégor’s keys and then I’m coming round’ was the last message he had left on Laure’s mobile. This was how they referred to the spare set of keys to her apartment; William only used them to go in and feed the cat when she was away.
When he had rung the bell twice and no one had come to the door, he made up his mind to let himself in. As soon as the door opened, the cat slipped out onto the landing, as he had a habit of doing. He looked at William, arched his back and started moving crabwise, his ears pointing backwards. ‘He does that when he’s scared – it’s an attacking position.’ Laure’s words came into his head, and if the cat was scared it must mean something had happened.
‘Laure?’ he called out. ‘Are you home?’
As soon as he stepped inside, he had a strong sense of déjà vu. The scene in front of him was merging with one he had seen before, as he suddenly remembered the afternoon he had let himself into his grandmother’s house when she had not come to the door. That afternoon, ten years ago, when she had not responded to him asking if she was there, as he was doing now. He had gone round opening doors and found every room empty until he reached the kitchen. She was lying on the tiled floor. Lifeless.
‘Laure?’ he shouted, opening the door to her bedroom and then the study, the bathroom, the toilet and finally, at the end of the corridor, the kitchen. This time the apartment really was empty, and William sat himself down on the sofa in the sitting room. He concentrated on his breathing; his chest felt tight and wheezy and the telltale itch was creeping up his back. He took out his inhaler, held it to his mouth and pressed twice. Belphégor slid between William’s legs, brushing him with his tail.
‘Where is Laure? Do you know?’ asked William. But the animal remained silent.
Having stroked the cat and established that nothing in the flat appeared untoward, William made one last call to Laure’s mobile and got her voicemail again. He left a brief message before closing the door behind him and heading back downstairs. On the face of it, no, nothing untoward, but something must have happened, something big, for her to have failed to turn up for work and not be answering her phone. If he hadn’t heard from her by the end of the day, he would call the police. When he reached the lobby, he saw that a white envelope had been pushed under the main door. He was sure it had not been there when he arrived. He leant down and read the delicate handwriting: Mademoiselle Laure Valadier and family.
Hotel Paris Bellevue ***
Madame, Monsieur,
Should you require any information about Laure Valadier, who stayed with us on the night of 15 January and was taken ill, please contact reception.
Kind regards,
The management
That evening, they had let him see her through a window. She was lying in a room shared with several others. The patient next to her was hooked up to a ventilator. Laure seemed just to be asleep with a drip in her arm. When he returned the next day he was allowed to sit at her bedside. Her face was relaxed, her eyelids closed. Her breathing was barely perceptible, in and out at regular intervals. The hushed room was bathed in weak artificial light. There were six beds he now counted, and the men and women lying in them were all deep in the kind of sleep that goes on for days, weeks, years, or even until the end of their lives, leaving loved ones to wonder: was he aware he was dying, or was he already long gone? The only sound was the quiet pumping of the ventilator by the neighbouring bed, which went on continuously as if it had a life of its own which would never end. The human race could die out, mortal bodies turn to dust, and this pump would go on gently rising and falling until the end of time.
‘It’s William,’ he finally murmured. ‘I’m here. Apparently people in comas can still hear. I don’t know if that’s true. Don’t worry, I’m looking after Belphégor. He’s eating his Virbac biscuits, the duck ones. Amandine and Pierre took over your work today; they’ll finish restoring the Virgin Mary for you.’
He placed his hand over hers. It didn’t move.
‘I have to go to Berlin soon to do the ceiling for the German guy – Schmidt or Schmirt, is it? – you know, the gold mouldings.’
I’m scared of storms.
‘I’ll think of a plan for the cat. I’ll think of something, don’t worry.’
I’m scared of zoos. I’m scared because the animals are in cages.
‘You have to wake up. You have to come back, Laure.’
I’m scared of boats.
‘All this for a bag. I told you not to buy it, it was too nice.’
I’m scared when I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I’m here.
I’m scared when I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know ‘when’ I am.
I’m scared when William talks to me and I can’t say anything back.
The days had passed between visits to Laure in the morning and Belphégor at night. Professor Baulieu had taken him into his office.
‘Your sister … She is your sister, isn’t she?’
The doctor had a sweep of white hair, a rather round face and kind, laughing eyes. The ability to keep a degree of detachment and a sense of humour must be essential in this job, William thought to himself.
‘What do you think?’ he replied, smiling ruefully.
‘I think … you’re not her brother,’ the doctor said with a knowing smile. ‘But that’s really neither here nor there. What matters is that you’re here, which is great, and you’re the only one able to speak for her.’
William replied as best he could to the doctor’s questions. Yes, he was effectively Laure’s next of kin; she had lost her husband and parents and had no children – only a sister who lived a long way away, in Moscow, from whom she heard only once or twice a year.
‘She has a lot of friends, though,’ William began explaining.
‘Including you,’ the doctor cut in, ‘the best of them, the only one who’s here. You must talk to her when you come. That’s very important. She can hear you.’
‘I do talk to her.’
‘That’s good,’ the doctor said, nodding approvingly. ‘Right, let me tell you where we are. Laure is in a mild form of coma caused by the head injury and the subdural haematoma that developed during the night. This sometimes happens to people involved in car crashes – they go home feeling a bit dazed and collapse an hour later. The signs are encouraging. I see no cause for concern – she should wake up within days. It seems she was mugged,’ he said, consulting the notes on his desk.
‘She had her bag stolen. I guess she must have tried to fight back,’ replied William.
The doctor shook his head with a sigh. ‘All for a handful of euros, and I’ve seen far worse,’ he muttered.
William went on to answer a series of questions about Laure: Was he aware of any previous operations? Was she on any medication? Had she ever been involved in an accident? Any drug or alcohol addictions? If at all possible, he should also get hold of her social security number and a few other bits of paperwork. William said yes, he could supply that information – the ateliers would provide the necessary documents.
‘Profession?’ asked the doctor.
‘Gilder,’ replied William.
Baulieu looked up.
‘Applying gold leaf to wood, metal or plaster,’ William elaborated. ‘Anything from an old picture frame to the dome of Les Invalides.’
‘I take it you work together?’
‘Correct,’ mumbled William.
‘That’s interesting work. How many gold leaves does it take to do the dome of Les Invalides?’ asked the doctor without looking up from his notes.
