Authors: Antoine Laurain
Laurent reached a decision: he picked it up and went off up the street. The police station was only ten minutes away. He would drop it off there, fill in a form or two, then come back and settle down in the café.
It was strange carrying the bag. Like walking a pet that had been given to you and which only followed you with great reluctance. Laurent held the gold strap like a lead, having wound it round his hand a bit so that the bag wouldn’t swing about and attract attention. He was carrying something that wasn’t his, that had no business being on his shoulder. Another woman had looked down at the bag then back up at Laurent.
As he made his way up the boulevard, his discomfort increased. He felt as if everyone he passed was covertly watching him, having instantly grasped what was wrong with the image: a man with a woman’s bag. A mauve one. He would never have imagined that walking about with it would be such an uncomfortable experience. Yet he remembered how sometimes Claire had given him her bag while she went back up to the flat to get her cigarettes or went to the loo in a café. So he had found himself on the street holding a woman’s handbag. He remembered that he had felt a sort of amused embarrassment but it had never lasted long. Claire would immediately reappear and reclaim her bag. On those rare occasions, Laurent saw that there were women who noticed that the bag belonged to a female, but he had never seen any suspicion in their glances, just amusement. He was obviously a man waiting for his wife. It was as evident as if he had been wearing a sandwich board reading ‘My wife will be back shortly’.
A group of girls in jeans and Converse parted to let him pass and he heard a giggle followed by them all laughing. Were they laughing at him? He preferred not to know. Having attracted suspicion was he now a figure of fun? He crossed over and made his way to the police station through the back streets.
The waiting area had putty-coloured walls and a frosted-glass window with no handle. This space with its plastic chairs, Formica table and two offices with their doors wide open, where the public came to report the theft of personal belongings, seemed to be no more than a sort of limbo for missing handbags. Five women of various ages sat in silence. In one of the offices, an old woman with a walking stick and a plaster above her eye was sobbing as she recounted the theft of hers. The man with white hair who was with her didn’t know where to look. Laurent found himself in one of those purgatorial places one hopes never to have to enter – accident and emergency, customs offices at airports, rehabilitation centres … The kinds of places you pass thinking you are better off outside, even if it’s raining.
‘Anyway, our bags will never turn up,’ said a small dark woman who was reading
Voici
.
A young sergeant appeared, carrying several photocopied sheets.
‘Excuse me,’ Laurent said to him. ‘I’ve come to hand in a bag.’
The five waiting women looked up.
‘You’ll have to speak to one of my colleagues, Monsieur,’ the sergeant replied hastily, indicating one of the offices.
A stocky man with a shaved head and little sunken eyes got up to show a woman out. He glanced at Laurent, who held out the mauve handbag.
‘I’ve come to hand in a bag that I found in the street.’
‘That’s a fine act of citizenship,’ replied the man. He spoke in a powerful voice, adding, ‘Come and see this, Amélie.’
A plump little blonde woman came out of the same office and went over to them.
‘I told this gentleman that he’s performed a fine act of citizenship’ – he seemed pleased with his expression – ‘he’s brought us a handbag.’
‘I agree. Well done, Monsieur,’ responded Amélie.
Laurent felt that the young policewoman approved of a man who would take the time to hand in a woman’s bag.
‘As you can see,’ the powerful voice went on, this time with a hint of weariness, ‘these ladies are waiting. I’ll be with you in, let’s say …’ looking at his watch, ‘about an hour?’
‘At least an hour,’ corrected Amélie softly.
Her colleague nodded his agreement.
‘Perhaps I’ll come back tomorrow morning,’ suggested Laurent.
‘If you like – our offices are open from nine-thirty to one o’clock, and from two o’clock until seven,’ the man said.
‘Or you could go to the lost property office, Monsieur,’ suggested the policewoman. ‘It’s at 36 Rue des Morillons, in the fifteenth.’
When he left the police station he found another text from Maryse: her train had only just started moving again – she would not be there by opening time. Laurent walked past l’Espérance without stopping; he would read his notes on Pichier at work.
The green dustcart had stopped in front of the apartments and two young refuse collectors plugged into iPods were hooking on the bins, which were then emptied noisily into the truck. There was no doubt that without Laurent, the bag would by now have
been taken by someone or have ended up in landfill with only flies for company.
Laurent, the temporary guardian of someone else’s belongings, went up to his apartment, put the bag on the sofa and went back down again to open the bookshop. The day could begin.
At twelve-thirty, having read the night porter’s note about a slightly peculiar guest, the two reception staff began to worry. The woman should have left her room long before now, and by midday check-out at the latest. One of the men decided to go up with the master key. Having reached the room, he put his ear to the wooden door and listened for the shower. He couldn’t go striding into a woman’s room and risk catching her coming out of the bathroom naked; this had happened to him once before and he had no intention of making the same mistake again. But there was no sound coming from 52. He knocked several times but receiving no reply, he decided to go in.
‘Reception, Madame,’ he said, flicking the light switch. ‘Since you haven’t vacated your room, I took the liberty of—’
He stopped in his tracks. Laure was sprawled on the bed, her half-naked body lying between the cover and the sheet. With her eyes closed, she appeared to be asleep. He took a step forward. Her head was resting on the pillow.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said loudly, and again, ‘Mademoiselle,’ as he edged towards the bed. He was becoming more and more certain that something was not right. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he muttered. He said the word ‘Mademoiselle’ once more, knowing it would be met with silence.
He leant in closer. Her face was perfectly still, the features
regular and relaxed. In spite of his growing concern, he found himself noticing she was pretty before forcing himself to focus on establishing one key point: was she breathing? He thought so. He reached over and touched her shoulder. No reaction. He shook her gently. ‘Mademoiselle …’ Her eyes remained shut and she did not stir. The hotel employee stared hard at the woman’s bare breasts, watching to see if the chest rose and fell. Yes, all was well, she was breathing. A pigeon landed noisily on the balcony, making him jump. Without thinking, he swiftly pulled back the curtains, sunlight flooded the room and the bird flew off. Perched on a chair in the window of the building opposite was a black cat whose dilated eyes seemed to stare back at him. The man lifted the phone beside the bed and dialled nine for reception.
‘Julien,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem with the guest in 52 …’
As he spoke, his gaze fell on the pillow. Under Laure’s head, there was a large patch of dried blood and her hair was stuck to the towel beneath it.
‘A big problem,’ he corrected himself. ‘Call an ambulance, immediately.’
Half an hour later, Laure was wheeled out on a folding stretcher, pushed thirty metres along the pavement and lifted into the back of the red vehicle. The words ‘haematoma’, ‘head injury’ and ‘coma’ were mentioned.
In the boiling-hot shower, shampoo ran down his face. Laurent had sold twenty-eight novels, nine coffee-table books, seven children’s books, five graphic novels, four essays, and three guides to Paris and France. He had filled in four loyalty cards and placed fourteen orders. Then the day had finally come to an end and he had been able to close the shop and come up to his flat, noticing on the way that the water was back on. He had spent all day apologising with a smile for his dishevelled appearance. One of his customers had said he looked like Chateaubriand, another like Rimbaud in Fantin-Latour’s painting
Un coin de table
(whilst making it clear that he was only referring to the poet’s hair).
Laurent dried his face then took the razor from the drawer and an old can of Williams shaving foam he had luckily kept. Close-shaven, he put on clean jeans, a white shirt and loafers and brushed his hair back, preparing for the opening of the bag as if he were going out to dinner with a woman.
In his inbox he found all sorts of spam. Mostly offering him, in the warmest first-name terms, insurance or a holiday to an exorbitantly expensive destination – but all at half price! ‘Leave today,’ announced one. Another suggested in that chummy digital way, ‘Laurent, time for a holiday.’ He was also exhorted to buy one of those oddities you come across on the internet, in this case an umbrella for dogs. The email urged him in all seriousness
to hurry to acquire this indispensable accessory – ‘Your loyal companion will be so grateful.’ In the midst of this digital forest there was not a single personal message. Yet he was due to have dinner soon with his daughter. No doubt she would appear in his inbox shortly – Chloé never forgot an arrangement.
He took the remains of the
hachis Parmentier
from the fridge and decided to open a bottle of Fixin from the case one of his loyal clients had given him. He tasted it; the Burgundy was perfect. Glass in hand, he went back to the sitting room.
The bag was there, on the sofa. He was about to open it when he received a text. Dominique: ‘Maybe see you this evening, but very late, complicated day, will explain later, still at the office. The Bourse is crashing, if you watch the news you’ll see how I’m spending my evening! xxx’. Laurent drank some wine then sent back a sober ‘Let me know xxx’. Then he sat down
cross-legged
on the floor, with his glass beside him and picked up the bag carefully. It was beautiful. Mauve leather, gold clasps and external pockets of various sizes. There was nothing comparable for men. They had to make do with satchels, or otherwise briefcases which were all a standard shape intended only for carrying paperwork. He drank some more wine, feeling he was about to commit a forbidden act. A transgression. For a man should never go through a woman’s handbag – even the most remote tribe would adhere to that ancestral rule. Husbands in loincloths definitely did not have the right to go and look for a poisoned arrow or a root to eat in their wives’ rawhide bags.
Laurent had never opened a woman’s handbag. He hadn’t opened his mother’s when he was a child and he hadn’t opened Claire’s either. Occasionally he had been told, ‘Take the keys from my bag,’ or ‘There’s a pack of tissues in my bag; you can take those.’ He had not touched a handbag without explicit
prior authorisation, more like a command that was only valid for a very limited time. If Laurent couldn’t find the keys or the tissues in less than ten seconds and began to rummage about in the bag, it was immediately reclaimed by its owner. The action was accompanied by an irritated little exclamation, always in the imperative, ‘Give that to me!’ And the keys or tissues would magically appear.
He gently pulled the zip open all the way. The bag gave off an odour of warm leather and women’s perfume.
What I really need is a friend just like me; I’m sure I’d be my own best friend.
Last night’s dream: Belphégor was a man, which was a bit of a surprise, but in a way it wasn’t. I knew it was him – he made quite an attractive man. We were going back up to our room in a luxury hotel after a drink at the bar. We were falling asleep on the bed and then making love on the terrace (it was good). I woke up and he was rubbing his nose against mine (that bit was real, not in the dream). BUY CAT FOOD, Virbac
duck flavour.
I like:
Walking along the water’s edge just as everyone else is leaving the beach.
The name ‘americano’, but I prefer to drink a ‘mojito’.
The smell of mint, and basil.
Sleeping on trains.
Paintings of landscapes without people.
The smell of incense in churches.
Velvet and panne velvet.
Having lunch in the garden.
Erik Satie. Buy an ERIK SATIE BOX SET.
I’m scared of birds (especially pigeons).
Think of other things ‘I’m scared of’.
On my way home, I always scan the Métro carriage for ‘possible’ men. (I’ve never met a man on the Métro.)
I need to break up with Hervé. Hervé is boring. There’s nothing worse than being bored with a boring man.
I like open fires. I like the smell of burning wood. The smell of a wood fire.
I’ve broken up with Hervé. I don’t like breaking up. Think of other things ‘I don’t like’.
It was almost eleven o’clock. Still sitting on the floor but now surrounded by objects, Laurent was absorbed in the red Moleskine notebook. The thoughts of the unknown woman were written over several pages, sometimes with crossings out, underlinings, or words written in capital letters. The handwriting was elegant and fluid. She must have recorded her thoughts in the notebook as the whim took her, on café terraces or on the Métro. Laurent was fascinated by her reflections which followed on one from the other, random, touching, zany, sensual. He had opened a door into the soul of the woman with the mauve bag and even though he felt what he was doing was inappropriate, he couldn’t stop himself from reading on. A quote from Sacha Guitry came to mind: ‘Watching someone sleep is like reading a letter that’s not addressed to you.’ The bottle of wine was half empty and the
hachis Parmentier
forgotten on the kitchen counter.