Authors: Antoine Laurain
‘Your daughter is telling me you put five cloves in the onion
when you make pot-au-feu. I say you only need three and Bertrand agrees with me. So,’ Clare added, sounding exasperated, ‘as this seems to be extremely important right now, please can you confirm how many cloves you use?’
‘Put her on,’ replied Laurent calmly. ‘Chloé? … You need four cloves.’
‘You need five, I was right!’ shrieked Chloé.
‘Chloé, I said four,’ corrected Laurent.
‘But I always have to be right,’ she murmured.
Laurent closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Chloé … I’m at Laure’s.’
‘Wait, I’m walking away, they’re arguing. Are you with her?’
‘No, I’ll explain – I’m feeding her cat.’
‘So you found her?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Valadier, Laure Valadier.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘I’ve only seen her in photos. She’s a gilder.’
‘What is that, a gilder?’
‘She adds gold decoration to things, gold leaf on frames, and monuments.’
‘Too cool!’ Chloé said enthusiastically. ‘Wait, they’re calling me. I’ll have to go. Tell me all about it over dinner on Thursday,’ and she promptly hung up.
When Laurent went home his apartment struck him as empty and silent in a way he had never felt before.
The second evening he again poured himself a Jack Daniel’s and lit the fire. William rang, as they had agreed, on Laure’s landline ‘at cat time’. When he asked if Laurent had been to see her, Laurent had replied: ‘Yes’. This time the question had obliged him to move to the next level, that of the outright lie. Then Laurent had settled down on the sofa and the cat had installed itself on his lap and started to purr as he stroked it gently. He told himself that this could not go on, that he had crossed the line some time ago. From having performed a fine act of citizenship (as the police put it), he was now sitting by Laure’s open fire, which effectively made him guilty of breaking and entering. His amateur investigation had worked like a dream and when it came to an end – which it inevitably would – he would wonder whether these past few days had actually happened. For now, he felt reassured by the unfamiliar decor with its soft lighting and had no desire to return home. He had not experienced such a sense of peace for many years; time seemed to have been reduced to the rhythm of the crackling fire. Just as he was falling asleep he persuaded himself that he could spend the rest of his days here on this sofa, a black cat asleep on his lap, waiting for an unknown woman to wake up and return.
He found himself on the terrace of the tower at La Défense. It was a bad dream that recurred every two or three years. A
dream that wasn’t exactly a dream. The terrace must still exist. It was from another life. A life in which he was Laurent Letellier – wealth adviser – private banking. A life which had ended on the thirty-fourth floor of a tower in a business district, one summer afternoon at the end of the twentieth century. After a long meeting, everyone had been drinking coffee in the sunshine of the tower’s terrace café. His colleagues had taken off their jackets and loosened their ties; some had even put on sunglasses. Laurent left the group and went over to the steel guard-rail. He looked down at the figures in the square below, preceded at that hour by enormously elongated shadows. Some were moving slowly, others trotting briskly like ants – surely towards a meeting which they must not be late for. The air was burning his skin, the tower blocks bright in the sun and sharp like quartz rising from the earth. He lowered his head towards the 140 metres of emptiness. He thought it would only take a few seconds. His colleagues would be stupefied; some would drop their coffee cups, others would open their mouths wide without emitting any sound. He would leave behind the young woman he had just met, Claire; she would remake her life with someone better than him. Many years later she would remember that sad relationship she had started with the boy who had killed himself without leaving a letter of explanation.
An existence devoted to reading would have been his ultimate fulfilment, but it had not been given to him. He would have had to choose that path much earlier, to have known what he wanted to do straight after the baccalauréat. To have had a life plan. Laurent had let himself be drawn into studying law, which had led to the bank. At first it had been interesting to be recognised as a promising young banker, to climb the hierarchy, to have responsibilities and to earn a lot of money. Up until the day he
had started to feel, dimly at first, then more and more clearly, that the man he had become was the absolute opposite of what he really was. Although the dichotomy weighed heavily on him, for a while the money he was earning was compensation enough, but then it could no longer make up for it. The gap between his ideal and his reality was too great. The weight turned into an anguish which was succeeded by the intolerable idea that he was wasting his life – or even that he had already wasted it. Laurent backed away from the railing then turned towards his colleagues. He contemplated them, aware that something momentous had just taken place: he had coldly considered climbing over the railing of an office block at La Défense.
‘I’m going to change jobs,’ he told Claire that evening – without telling her about the strange impulse that had come over him as he stared into the void. ‘I’m going to open a bookshop.’
She had spoken to him for a long time about it, had asked him to think about it carefully. Then she had said nothing more. Laurent had negotiated an amicable departure from the bank. Claire was promoted; the word ‘deputy’ was no longer appended to her title as marketing director of a frozen food brand. Laurent had bought the commercial lease of the Celtique, and the same week, Claire had announced that she was pregnant. A new life began.
The end of the dream never changed: he climbed over the railing and as the thrill of the fall took hold of him, he woke up. The cat leapt from his lap. The phone in the study was ringing. Laurent rose and went into the room. The answer phone had been activated. A button with a little envelope on it began to flash on the keypad, then stopped. Laurent hesitated then pressed on the envelope.
The loudspeaker said, ‘You have one new message. Message
received at 8.46. “Good evening, Laure … It’s Franck. I haven’t heard from you; you’re not answering your mobile, so … I know I was awkward last time, but … well, it’s up to you. This will be my last message … I won’t call again if you don’t ring me. So that’s it.” To listen to the message again press one, to save it press two, to delete press three.’
Laurent looked at the machine and pressed three. ‘Your message has been deleted. End of messages. To return to the main menu press nine; for other options press two.’
‘Hélène … Hélène, look … the line on the monitor’s rising. I’ll stay with her,’ said a female voice.
‘Call Doctor Baulieu,’ replied another woman’s voice. ‘Tell him there’s movement in the left hand.’
A prickling sensation. Vague at first before she pinned it down. The tips of her fingers and toes. She had gradually become aware of her own body again. She could hear the blood beating more and more loudly in her ears. The vast, sweet universe she had been floating in had shrunk to fit within a single room. Although everything remained dark, she could sense she was in a space enclosed by walls and a ceiling. Her mind could roam around the room; it didn’t take long to explore. Wherever she was, it was a quiet place to be lying in. She opened her eyes. Everything looked blurry, too bright and fuzzy, like a camera out of focus. A shadow moved towards her, hazy around the edges as if behind frosted glass.
‘Hello,’ said the shadow. ‘You’re waking up.’
The shadow came closer. Its face was still blurred but she was beginning to make out eyes, a nose, a mouth and blonde hair. She had heard this woman’s voice before, while she was asleep.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘there’s no lasting damage. You’re not hurt.’
Her mouth was not moving in time with the words. The sound was a good second behind.
‘Everything will look a bit fuzzy,’ said the blonde shadow. ‘Don’t try to talk. Blink twice if you can hear me and understand what I’m saying.’
Laure blinked twice.
‘That’s great,’ said the shadow encouragingly. ‘You’re coming out of a coma. You’ve been in hospital for two weeks. Do you understand?’
Laure opened her mouth to reply.
‘Sshhh,’ said the shadow, putting a finger to Laure’s lips as if to stop her spilling a secret.
‘Close your eyes,’ she said softly, ‘and try to take in what I’ve just told you. Take your time. There’s no lasting damage. You’re not hurt,’ the voice repeated before placing her hand on Laure’s. ‘I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. Everything’s fine.’
‘I’m your doctor,’ said the head with white hair, which was a bit less fuzzy than the woman’s face. ‘Don’t try to answer. As the nurse told you, you’re doing well. Can you nod your head? That’s good. I’m going to ask you a few questions and you can nod like that to answer. Can you see a little more clearly now than when you first woke up? Good. Is there a delay before you hear my voice? Good, that’s normal; it’ll pass. Wiggle your left foot, very good. Right foot, perfect, your right index finger, no, the index finger, thank you, your left little finger, and again, very good, breathe in, breathe out, perfect. Now we’re going to say a sentence: the robin is sitting on the branch. Off you go.’
Laure repeated after him, her voice hoarse.
‘What a lovely voice,’ commented the doctor.
Laure made a face.
‘I’m going to ask four questions that may seem a little strange. Are you ready?’
Laure nodded.
‘Can you tell me the name of a cuddly toy or doll you were especially fond of as a little girl?’
‘Foxy,’ whispered Laure after a pause.
‘Good,’ said Baulieu. ‘Presumably Foxy was a fox?’
Laure nodded.
‘Where were you on 11 September 2001?’
‘In Kuwait … gilding … the palace of Prince Al-Sabah.’
Baulieu shook his head.
‘That’s a first,’ he said. ‘Never heard that one before. What’s your name?’
‘Laure. Laure Valadier.’
‘Last question: do you know why you’re here?’
‘My bag …’ she murmured.
‘Don’t talk too much,’ said William, stroking her hand. ‘You mustn’t wear yourself out.’
‘Thank you for being here. What about Belphégor…?’ she asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t worry, he’s fine. Laurent took care of everything.’
‘Laurent … Who’s Laurent?’
At the very moment Laure was asking that question – to which William replied with an uneasy silence – Laurent was pushing open the cast-iron gate to three large courtyards that led on from one another. They had both agreed during the ‘cat time’ phone conversation the previous evening to meet the following day at the workshop so that Laurent could return the keys. As he was looking around for the sign indicating which workshop was where, his gaze was attracted by a paving stone in the courtyard covered in gold. There was another one a few metres away and further on a third one. Like a fairy-tale trail, all you had to do was follow the golden stones to the third courtyard and the glass frontage of the Ateliers Gardhier. A curly-haired woman wearing little gold glasses was smoking a cigarette in front of the door. She wore black jeans and white Repetto pumps. Laurent said hello to her as he entered the building, where he found himself in a vast hallway whose walls were covered in ladders, ropes and tools that he did not recognise.
‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked him.
‘Yes, I have a meeting with William.’
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here,’ she said, blowing her cigarette smoke into the light.
‘Oh.’ Laurent was disconcerted. ‘I was supposed to return Laure’s keys to him. Laure Valadier?’
‘You’re a friend of Laure’s?’
‘Yes, I was feeding her cat.’
‘It’s Laure he’s gone to see. The hospital called, she’s just come round.’
‘How is she?’
‘I think she’s fine, but William didn’t go into detail; he left very quickly. He was very anxious. Well, you know what William’s like …’ and the woman ended with a rueful smile.
‘Good, that’s very good,’ murmured Laurent. ‘Everything is very good,’ he added in a low voice as if just to himself, then he smiled back at the woman. ‘Could I ask you a favour?’ he said, taking the duplicate keys out of his pocket. ‘Could you give him Laure’s keys?’
‘Of course,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette. Laurent handed over the keys, said goodbye and went out into the courtyard, following the golden paving stones. He knew what he had to do: he had to put out of his mind those two extraordinary days and the illusion of being with the woman he must never now meet. How would she accept the fact that a stranger had inveigled himself into her home, had fed her cat and passed himself off as her lover? He himself would have difficulty explaining his actions if by chance anyone should ask him to justify them. To the questions: Why did you personally try to find the owner of the bag? Why did you wait for an author in a park two days in a row? Why did you pay Aphrodite Dry-cleaner’s with your own
money? Why did you not correct Laure’s friend when he took you for her lover? Laurent could only answer truthfully, but unsatisfactorily: I don’t know.
‘So it appears I let in an imaginary man who fed a real-life cat for two days,’ William concluded.
Laure and Baulieu were watching him in silence.
‘Have you seen him again since?’ Laure asked.
‘No,’ William replied weakly, laughing nervously at how ridiculous his answer sounded.
‘I’m sorry, William, but I don’t know any booksellers called Laurent,’ Laure said.
‘Right, I think we’ll leave it there,’ said Baulieu. ‘I’ll be back later this afternoon.’
‘And I’ll be back tomorrow morning,’ added William. ‘Get some rest,’ he told her, stroking her hand.
‘We need to find out who it was, don’t we, William? Will you let me know who it was that came to my flat?’