The Red Notebook (11 page)

‘Yes, my lovely,’ he said, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘Don’t fret, everything’s fine.’

Laure smiled and turned to look at the ventilator beside the next bed. The sound it made was hypnotic, soft and repetitive. Perhaps this was what had inspired the running water in her dream?

William and the doctor went out into the corridor.

‘No.’ Baulieu stopped him before he even had the chance to ask the question.

‘But, doctor, I really think …’

‘No,’ Baulieu said again.

‘She has no memory of the man she’s dating. She must be suffering from amnesia.’

‘One more time: no, Laure does not have amnesia. I’m sorry, but we’ve carried out all the tests. I don’t have an explanation, but as far as I’m concerned it’s not a medical issue.’

There was a heavy silence. It seemed to William that however ‘unique’ Baulieu’s sense of humour, he was currently displaying none at all. His tone was almost cold, in fact, and he seemed anxious to draw the discussion to a close.

‘Call the man and ask him who he is.’

‘I don’t have his mobile number,’ muttered William. ‘Or any other way of contacting him.’

The hospital and the Ateliers Gardhier were seventeen Métro stops and a change of line apart. As the stops went by, William came up with a string of ever more outlandish theories: from potential burglar, he was now suspecting Laurent of being some kind of apparition. The criminal hypothesis had gone out the window by the third station. Laurent was dressed very respectably and certainly didn’t look as if he was hiding a crowbar inside his coat. He also knew Laure’s full name. And not only hers, but the cat’s. Plus he knew that Laure had met a famous author and asked him to sign her book. In short, he knew Laure, even if she didn’t remember him. Yet Baulieu wouldn’t entertain the idea of amnesia. I’m the only one who saw him, William told himself again and again. All attempts at a rational explanation seemed to defy logic.

At the fifth station, he typed the words ‘acid flashback’ into his iPhone and clicked on a Wikipedia article: ‘Term first used as part of a 1965 study carried out by William Forsch, a psychiatrist at Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital in New York. Forsch observed
that some users of LSD reported effects reminiscent of those caused by the drug several months after taking it.’ William had taken magic mushrooms on three occasions. Following the last of these, four years ago, he had spent the night lying in his bathtub talking to the shower head, which talked back. The pair had enjoyed a philosophical discussion of a rare intensity, spanning such universal themes as death, the afterlife, the possibility of life on other planets and the existence of God. The shower head came up with precise answers to all these questions. The following morning, William had to concede that the intellectual capacities of his bathroom fittings had severely diminished, and the shower head’s gifts were now limited to the provision of hot or cold water in classic or massage mode. That episode had marked the end of his experimentation with mind-altering substances. But neither this nor his previous dalliances with drugs had resulted in a man materialising and striking up a conversation. The Wikipedia article alluded to the possibility of short-lived disturbances in the months following a trip, not years afterwards. The theory did not hold water.

As he walked through the tunnels to change trains, he found himself considering a paranormal explanation. Sitting on one of the seats along the edge of the platform, William imagined that Laurent was the ghost of a long-dead former occupant of the flat – after all, the building dated from 1878 – it said so above the door. He had seen a film a bit like that, with Bruce Willis and a little boy who saw dead people. And there was
Ghost
, of course, with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, one of the most romantic films ever made, and Patrick Swayze was unbelievably hot in it – even playing a ghost. All he could think of were Hollywood movie plots, imaginary stories dreamt up by screenwriters. Nothing real.

The train pulled in and as it travelled to the next four stops, William toyed with the idea that Laurent could be the physical manifestation of a man travelling in an astral plane – a kind of lama figure – whose body was in a whole other realm, and who intuitively knew everything: the name of the cat and the owner of the apartment, as well as recent events in her life. But the theory was too muddled and Tibetan – and he knew nothing about astral travel or the mental capacities of lamas. At the eleventh station, he recalled a documentary he had watched a few months ago about an early-twentieth-century priest, Padre Pio. Not only had the holy man received Christ’s stigmata, but he also possessed the gift of ubiquity, or ‘bilocation’, as the documentary put it. Padre Pio was said to have been in several places at the same time, and these places were many thousands of kilometres apart. There were eyewitness accounts to back this up. Despite having kept quiet initially, the Church took the unexpected step of declaring the claims to be genuine.

Grappling with such mystical questions in the middle of a Métro carriage planted two spine-tingling words in William’s head: guardian angel. After all, it was while he was in the grip of the cat-feeding dilemma, with no one to stand in for him during his trip to Berlin, that the doorbell had rung. The visitor had agreed to feed the cat while he was away, as if that was exactly what he had come up to the fifth floor to do. To help them, him and Laure. As if that had always been his mission.

William was weighing up the probability of an angel making a visit to central Paris when the warning sound signalled the doors were about to close at his stop. He scrambled to his feet and ran onto the platform. No, none of it added up, angels, lamas or phantoms. Besides, he remembered Laurent had been due to come and drop off the keys that morning, which meant someone
else might have seen him. That put his mind at ease, and he left his wild thoughts behind him as the escalator returned him to street level.

He had barely crossed the threshold of the ateliers when he bumped into Pierre carrying a heavy gilt picture frame.

‘So,’ asked Pierre, ‘did you see her? How is she?’

‘She’s doing well, the doctor’s happy, she sends her love to everyone, she should be out in four days.’

Pierre shook his head. ‘She’s had a close shave,’ he said.

‘Oh, Pierre, did I have any visitors this morning?’

‘No, I didn’t see anyone.’

William carried on past Agathe, who was stirring her Armenian bole mixture in front of a contemporary sculpture which was to be entirely covered in gold leaf. She turned to stop him.

‘So, how is she?’

‘She’s doing well, she’s conscious, the doctor’s happy, she sends her love to everyone, she should be out in four days.’

‘Phew,’ said Agathe.

‘Oh, Agathe, did someone call for me this morning?’

‘No, not as far as I know.’

François came towards them, his finished pipe still clenched between his teeth.

‘So, did you see her?’

‘Yes, she’s doing well, her doctor’s happy, she sends her love, she should be out in four days.’

‘That’s what I like to hear, my boy,’ said François.

‘François, did you by any chance notice anyone asking for me this morning?’

‘Nope, no one.’

William closed his eyes.

‘William!’ Sébastien Gardhier called down from the first-floor mezzanine. ‘So, did you see her?’

‘Yes, she’s doing well, she’s conscious, the doctor’s happy, and should be out in four days.’

‘Marvellous. Send her our love, won’t you?’ he said.

William crossed the workshop and swooped on Jeanne, who was burnishing some gilding with an agate stone.

‘Jeanne,’ he said with something approaching solemnity. ‘Did someone ask to see me this morning?’

‘No,’ replied Jeanne. ‘Why are you looking at me like that? You’re being peculiar. Anyway, how’s Laure?’

‘She’s fine, everything’s fine. Everything’s great. Amandine,’ he mumbled, ‘where’s Amandine?’

‘She popped out to buy something. She shouldn’t be long.’

He had been pacing around the courtyard on the pretext of needing some fresh air for a good ten minutes when he glimpsed his colleague across the cobbles.

‘Amandine!’ he shouted, darting towards her.

Amandine froze.

‘My God, no,’ she said, holding her fist to her mouth as if to hold back the words. ‘Please don’t tell me Laure’s …’ she whispered.

‘No, no! Laure’s fine, she’s conscious, she’ll be out soon.’

‘What’s the matter with you!’ cried Amandine. ‘You scared the living daylights out of me. I thought she was dead.’

‘Sorry,’ stammered William. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘I’m still shaking,’ she went on, looking down at her hands while William went on apologising profusely. ‘Oh, a guy came to give you back her keys,’ she added crossly, delving into her jacket pocket.

‘So?’ said Baulieu, walking in without knocking. ‘How are we feeling this morning?’

‘Better,’ replied Laure.

‘Good,’ said Baulieu.

He sat down beside her and took her blood pressure, pressing the little button on the machine with a steady hand.

‘Have you solved the riddle of the mystery man?’ he asked without taking his eyes off the screen.

‘We think he must be a neighbour,’ said Laure.

Baulieu nodded.

‘120/50 … No dizziness? Nausea? Headaches?’

‘A little bit, last night.’

‘That’s normal. Good, I think we’ll soon have you gilding again,’ he said with a smile.

‘Yes, everything will be just the same as before,’ murmured Laure, ‘except I’ll never get my bag back.’

‘You can always buy another one …’

‘No, the things inside it were irreplaceable. You can’t replace a piece of your life. I realise that must sound over the top, but it feels that way to me.’

Baulieu smiled in acceptance.

‘I believe you,’ he said, placing his hand on Laure’s. ‘You’re my last patient. Your waking up is a good note to end my career on.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ whispered Laure after a pause.

‘No,’ said the doctor softly, turning his head towards the window, ‘I’m the one who should be thanking you. Do great things, Laure, be happy, or at least do your best to be. Life is fragile; you’ve found that out for yourself.’

He stood up and smiled at her.

‘Just one thing,’ he added, rolling up the cuff of his
blood-pressure
monitor. ‘Miserable old cynic that I am, I don’t really buy the idea of a neighbour coming in to feed a stranger’s cat.’

He winked and left without another word.

Laurent sat at the desk by the entrance checking stock on the computer while, perched on the tall ladder, Maryse tidied up the history shelves. Damien was deep in conversation with one of their favourite customers, Monsieur Belier, a retired École Normale Supérieure maths professor. It was always entertaining to see this formally attired man in matching tie and handkerchief and the tall, long-haired youth with his earring and goatee (whom you might imagine at first glance to be an expert on reggae albums rather than philosophical essays) locked in heated debate. For a good half-hour their conversation provided background noise that was rather agreeable. From the snippets Laurent overheard, the two were arguing amicably about the concept of reality, invoking Descartes and the recent work of mathematician Misha Gromov. For Monsieur Belier, reality did not truly exist, it was formed on our retina from a mixture of emptiness and atoms.

‘It exists and at the same time it doesn’t exist,’ objected Damien.

Laurent turned to look at Maryse who rolled her eyes, indicating that all these concepts were over her head and that was fine with her.

A man of about fifty came through the door and went up to Laurent. ‘Do you have
La Nostalgie du Possible
?’

‘Yes.’ Laurent stared hard at the man, who gave him an embarrassed smile.

‘Sorry,’ said Laurent. ‘I’ll go and get it for you.’

Antonio Tabucchi’s text on Pessoa. But it wasn’t the title that he had heard but an actual question, ‘Are you nostalgic for what could have been?’ posed by a stranger. A question he had answered truthfully: ‘Yes.’ And when this random customer had departed with his book, Laurent wondered whether the man had come in purely to put into words the feeling he was living with.

Can you experience nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened? We talk of ‘regrets’ about the course of our lives, when we are almost certain we have taken the wrong decision; but one can also be enveloped in a sweet and mysterious euphoria, a sort of nostalgia for what might have been. Meeting Laure, that might have happened but didn’t and yet Laurent remembered the café where they had arranged to meet. She wore that white strappy dress, her mauve bag and sunglasses. It had been a very sunny day. As it was fine they had chosen to sit on the terrace.

‘Is it really you, Laurent?’ She sat down and removed her sunglasses.

They had looked at each other for a long time, unsure what to say first, then Laure’s light-coloured eyes crinkled and she smiled. They talked for ages then went for a walk. Laurent could picture very clearly the way he had walked alongside her down the tree-lined streets. The sun shone through the branches, casting flecks of light onto the road. Laure wore white ballet pumps which passed from shadow into light in time with her steps. Then the pumps had stopped moving. Laurent looked up at her. Laure held his gaze a little too steadily and he had known it was the moment they would kiss.

That was exactly what Tabucchi was suggesting in his title – that we can pass right by something very important: love, a job, moving to another city or another country. Or another life. ‘Pass
by’ and at the same time be ‘so close’ that sometimes, while in that state of melancholy that is akin to hypnosis, we can, in spite of everything, manage to grab little fragments of what might have been. Like catching snatches of a far-off radio frequency. The message is obscure, yet by listening carefully you can still catch snippets of the soundtrack of the life that never was. You hear sentences that were never actually said, you hear footsteps echoing in places you’ve never been to, you can make out the surf on a beach whose sand you have never touched. You hear the laughter and loving words of a woman though nothing ever happened between you. The idea of an affair with her had crossed your mind. Perhaps she would have liked that – probably in fact – but nothing ever happened. For some unknown reason, we never gave in to the exquisite vertigo that you feel when you move those few centimetres towards the face of the other for the first kiss. We passed by, we passed so close that something of the experience remains.