The Red Notebook. Antoine Laurain

was time to stop reading Laure’s red notebook and get on with emptying the bag to look for any clue, however tiny, that might provide him with the owner’s name or address. He still had more pockets to look in, some zipped and some not. Laurent would never have imagined that a woman’s bag could have so many nooks and crannies. It was even more complicated than dissecting an octopus on a kitchen table. Several times he thought he had emptied a pocket only to find a lump at the bottom which turned out to be a stone, no doubt picked up at some meaningful moment. He had found three of them in all, in different parts of the bag. And a conker, probably picked up in a park.

      He paused in his task, and got up to open the window, letting in the cold night air. The square was deserted. His head was spinning – was it because of the wine and lack of dinner or because of the accumulation of objects he had unearthed? He wasn’t really sure. Laurent was about to go back to his inventory when his phone beeped. He had completely forgotten about Dominique. Her text read, ‘Be with you in five minutes, hope you haven’t gone to bed yet.’ He had not finished with the bag but immediately began to put everything back inside, not without feeling a certain resentment towards Dominique who was forcing him to interrupt his investigation just as it was beginning. Then he shoved the bag regretfully into his wardrobe.

      As he combed his hair in front of the mirror, he reflected that he could easily have left all the items on the floor and explained the story to Dominique. But he hadn’t wanted to. Dominique would have been jealous and suspicious, and Laurent did not want to share his discovery. For the moment, Modiano’s Laure was a mystery he would keep to himself.

      ‘You’ve had a woman here …’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ replied Laurent.

      Dominique’s dark eyes bored into his, and her short haircut, which suited her fine features so well, now seemed to make her look like a bird of prey.

      ‘There’s been no woman here,’ said Laurent with as much assurance as he could muster at that hour. How on earth could Dominique divine the presence of a woman’s belongings in the room twenty minutes earlier? It was commonly said that women had a sixth sense. But this was surely a case of witchcraft.

      Dominique twisted her wine glass in her hand and tapped her cigarette ash into the crystal ashtray.

      ‘A woman has been here – I can smell her perfume,’ she said with a knowing look.

      The black bottle in the bag. It had been a bad idea to try out the spray; the smell of Habanita must still be in the air. Yet it had only been one quick spray and more than two hours had passed. Like a bloodhound Dominique had picked up the scent in a way that Laurent was certain no other woman could have done.

      ‘There have been no women here. I swear to you … on my daughter’s life, on my bookshop, that if a woman has been in this room, I will be ruined in a matter of months.’

      Laurent had chosen his words carefully. He could swear on anything he liked because he had spoken the truth: no woman had been in his apartment. It was only her bag that had taken up residence.

      The speech appeared to pacify Dominique. ‘I believe you,’ she said. ‘You’re too superstitious to lie about something like that.’ She then went on to tell him how she had had to spend her evening watching screens recording the latest tumbles of stock markets around the world and the final million-dollar transactions, in order to write her column for the famous newspaper where she was economics editor. Dominique also had a radio slot and sometimes appeared on television for TF1. It was always strange to see the woman he shared his nights with on the small screen chatting with other journalists and sometimes even with big names in broadcasting.

      They had met when Laurent had been invited on to TF1 to talk about a high-profile book and Dominique had been waiting to go on to do her economics broadcast. She had read the book he had talked about and told him how much she liked it. The author was doing a signing the following week at Le Cahier Rouge and Laurent had invited her along. She was still there at closing time. Their eyes had met for that fraction of a second during which, without saying a word, a man and a woman who don’t know each other signal that the night is not yet over.

      ‘Well, anyway, it’s late,’ she said, leading the way to the bedroom.

      As he embraced her on the bed, Laurent could not help turning his head towards the wardrobe where he had hidden the bag, and, as Dominique kissed him, the phrase ‘I’m scared of red ants’ seemed to take root permanently in his brain.

      Laurent turned over in bed and realised he was alone. He looked at the clock: it was six in the morning. Even when Dominique got up early, she never left before seven, and not without saying goodbye. Laurent got up and found her fully dressed in the hall, about to leave.

      ‘You’re going?’

      ‘That’s right. I’m leaving.’

      ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

      ‘I’ve left you a note on the coffee table,’ Dominique replied coldly, doing up the belt on her coat.

       Laurent,

       As you were so keen to swear on them, I would keep an eye on your daughter and the finances of your bookshop. I got up early this morning and went to lie down for a moment on the sofa. This is what I found on your carpet. Perhaps we can discuss it one day. Or perhaps not. That’s up to you. I won’t be the one making the first move, I can assure you.

       Dominique

      Under her signature, Dominique had conspicuously placed the hairgrip from the bag. Laurent must have dropped it as he was hurriedly putting everything back in the bag.

      ‘You’re not going to tell me it’s your daughter’s.’

      ‘No, it’s not my daughter’s. I can explain, if you wait a moment.’ He fetched the bag from his wardrobe and set it on the coffee table.

      ‘It just gets better,’ murmured Dominique, amazed by Laurent’s brazen gesture. ‘She actually leaves her things here.’

      ‘No, it’s not that at all! You’ll laugh when I tell you the truth.’

      ‘Go on then, Laurent, make me laugh.’

      ‘I found the bag in the street.’

      ‘You must think I’m an idiot.’ Dominique’s face was suddenly impassive and Laurent experienced the vertigo of the falsely accused who finds that absolutely no one believes him, not even his own lawyer.

      ‘No,’ stammered Laurent, ‘I don’t think you’re an idiot. I found it yesterday in the street. In Rue du Passe-Musette to be precise.’

      Dominique nodded slowly, but her expression was getting colder and colder.

      ‘A full bag, in the street …’

      ‘Yes, a stolen bag; it had been stolen,’ replied Laurent.

      ‘And what was it doing in your cupboard, this stolen bag?’

      Laurent opened his mouth to reply but he didn’t get the chance.

      ‘Why didn’t you tell me this fanciful tale last night?’

      ‘Well, because—’

      ‘Because I wasn’t supposed to find the hairgrip on the carpet!’ Dominique cut him off heatedly.

      Laurent was speechless.

      ‘The first thing I could smell here was her perfume,’ went on Dominique, walking unseeingly round the room. ‘I should have suspected something, you were being weird …’

      ‘It wasn’t her perfume. Well, yes, it was, but it was me who sprayed it,’ he said, rummaging around in the bag. ‘Where’s the bottle got to? I’ll show you; it’s here somewhere. Why can you never find anything in a handbag?’ Laurent was getting annoyed. ‘Here it is,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. He pressed the nozzle and a light