The Red Notebook. Antoine Laurain

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