I called Lisa Modin; she answered just as I was about to give up hope. I briefly explained what had happened – my daughter’s cry for help, my hurried departure.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even managed to sort out a hotel. Could you possibly use your computer to find something that’s in the city centre but no more than three-star? From tomorrow – the plane’s delayed, so I’ll be arriving in the middle of the night.’
‘How much do you want to spend? And for how many nights?’
‘I’ve no idea about the cost – three-star is three-star. I need the room for at least two nights.’
‘No problem.’
She called me back after twenty minutes to say that she had found a hotel.
‘It’s called the Hotel Celtic, and it’s in Montparnasse, Rue d’Odessa, not far from Rue de Vaugirard.’
At first I wondered if she was joking. Of all the thousands of streets in Paris, Rue de Vaugirard is the one I know best. During my longest stay in the city, in 1963, I rented a room on Rue de Cadix, just off the far end of that long street, right next to the Porte de Versailles. It was a forty-minute walk from Montparnasse. When I was out and about at night I often saw packs of huge rats by the kerb moving from one drain to another. Some of them were as big as cats. It was frightening; I felt as if they could change direction and attack me at any moment.
At night my footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. My shoes were brown and far from clean. I had been given them by someone I met by chance in a jazz club in Rue Mouffetard. He thought the shoes I was wearing, with the left-hand sole coming away, looked dreadful. Late that night I accompanied him and his girlfriend to one of the streets behind the Jardin du Luxembourg. He lived right at the top of a house in one of the tiny garrets that had once provided accommodation for servants. He didn’t want to come all the way down again, so he tossed the brown shoes out of the window. They hit the cobblestones with a short, sharp smack. I put them on there and then, and they fitted perfectly.
‘Are you still there?’ Lisa asked. ‘Shall I make the booking? There are rooms available.’
‘Yes, please. Will they want my credit card number?’
‘I’ll give them mine to secure the booking, then you can pay with yours.’
‘Won’t you come with me?’
Only when I heard myself say those words did I realise that that was what I had been planning ever since I asked her to find me a hotel. I wanted to entice her to come with me, even though I would be searching for my daughter.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. Come to Paris. I’ll pay for everything. To say thank you for the night I spent in your apartment.’
‘A trip to Paris is a big thank you for an uncomfortable sofa.’
‘You’re wrong.’
She laughed.
‘You’ve got my phone number,’ I went on. ‘Call me when you arrive and I’ll meet you.’
‘I’m not coming. We don’t know one another.’
‘I know myself. I mean what I say.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Arlanda, waiting for my flight. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more lonely in my life. I can’t imagine what it will be like when I’m dead.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said again.
‘That death seems to be a very lonely place, and an equally lonely state.’
‘I’ve got work to do. I can’t just swan off to Paris.’
‘Write about Paris. Write about the arsonist who’s on the run, looking for his daughter.’
‘Have you managed to get hold of her?’
‘No. I’m getting more and more worried.’
She didn’t say anything for a long time; life seemed to stop. Lisa Modin was present but silent. I was waiting for her to say that she loved me. I didn’t love her, I just had an overpowering need for a woman, any woman, and I was ready to say anything in order to persuade her.
When I was younger, a woman I had dumped accused me of being like a spider, catching my prey then watching it struggle. I never ate my victims, I just scuttled away to spin a new web.
‘Are you coming or not?’ I asked when the silence began to feel uncomfortable.
‘Not.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘What exactly are you expecting?’
‘Nothing. Company, that’s all.’
‘This conversation is making me uneasy.’
‘That wasn’t my intention.’
‘I’ll text you the address of the hotel.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I can’t talk any more right now.’
‘Why not?’
She ended the call, and neither of us rang back.
The plane was indeed two hours late by the time we took off. When Paris finally lay glittering below us, we had to wait in a holding pattern before we were allowed to land. I stayed in my seat, observing my fellow passengers as they grabbed their outdoor clothing and hand luggage. It was as if they had all lost vital time and were now pushing and shoving to get off the plane as quickly as possible. I watched the whole thing with growing astonishment. A flock of people, desperate to flee. But from what? Cramped seats, fear of flying or their own lives? Had I been like them once upon a time, a person who regarded time as a game where winning or losing was all that mattered? I knew I had, but now that time really was an issue for me, the important thing was to be careful with whatever I had left.
I was the last person to disembark. One of the stewardesses was yawning so widely that I could almost hear her jaw crack. It reminded me of an occasion when I had arrived in Paris by train, having developed severe toothache the previous night in Hamburg. It was a very cold winter and I had stayed put on the train when it stopped at the Gare du Nord until a sour-faced conductor flung open the door of my compartment and ordered me to get off. I was sixteen years old at the time, escaping from a muddled decision to leave school.
The airport, with its many escalators, reminded me of a factory I had visited with my father when he was running the canteen there for a brief period. We arrived early in the morning, just before the first shift was due to clock on. I had the same feeling now as I approached passport control and customs. I was waved through without anyone asking for my passport or ID; no one was interested in my suitcase either.
The night was chilly as I emerged through the glass doors, looking for the airport bus. However, I immediately changed my mind. Why go to my hotel and sit around in reception until late afternoon, when my room would be available? I went back inside the terminal building and found some empty plastic chairs. I lay down, using my suitcase as a pillow, and soon fell asleep. Unfortunately I woke up every time someone came near me. I had learned the art of dropping off for just a few minutes at a time during the years I spent on call at various hospitals.
It was just after seven o’clock when I sat up. My body was frozen stiff. I had a cup of coffee and a croissant in a cafe that had just opened. The black woman who served me had a noticeable scar down one cheek and part of her ear on the same side was also missing. I wondered which African civil war with its concomitant slaughterhouse she had managed to escape from. Liberia? Rwanda? I smiled at her to show that I understood, but she looked tired; perhaps she was also someone who could no longer trust people.
I sensed so many of the dead behind her. Family, friends, strangers who had not managed to get away, unlike her.
By quarter to eight the airport was beginning to fill up. I went outside and got on a bus showing the Opéra as its final destination. Half the seats were occupied by a large number of Chinese men and women who belonged to a tour group. The group leader moved up and down the aisle, chatting to them. I found a seat right at the back, wondering if I ought to mention that my shirt was made in China.
A black family with an enormous amount of luggage were the last to board before the bus set off with a jolt. The journey into the city centre was drawn out and tedious, with frequent dela
ys. The view from the window was the same as the view in so many other countries. The densely packed traffic induced in me a feeling of despair about the world into which I had been born and in which I happened to live. What were these people, many of them alone in their cars, thinking? Were they thinking at all?
I carried on staring out of the window but decided to ignore the traffic and turn my attention instead to how I was going to track down Louise. My French was far from perfect, but I could usually make myself understood and grasp what others were saying to me.
I got off at the Opéra, which looked almost exactly the same as it had fifty years ago when I saw it for the first time. I had intended to walk to Montparnasse, but after a glance at the Metro map I realised the distance was too great. As a young man I had happily walked from the city centre to the outskirts to visit a flea market, or simply in order to get to know different areas, but now it was too far. I made my way underground and found the line which would take me to Montparnasse, with one change at Châtelet. I remembered that the line going east from Châtelet used to have the most up-to-date trains. Those new trains had rubber wheels that hissed instead of scraping and squealing. I couldn’t get a seat and was squashed up against several women talking to each other in low, intense voices.
By the time I emerged it had started to drizzle, but I knew where I was going. Rue d’Odessa was quite close by, and it took me ten minutes to get to my hotel, during which time I kept having to duck to avoid open umbrellas that threatened to poke me in the eye. It was ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be allowed access to my room for several hours. The brass nameplate did indeed show three stars. The building dated from the end of the nineteenth century and the stone was somewhat crumbling, as if the place was slowly but imperceptibly falling down. The main door was up a short flight of steps, and an African girl was busy cleaning the glass with the name of the hotel etched upon it. She smiled and opened the door for me.
The compact reception area, adorned with brown wallpaper and wooden panelling, smelled of lavender. A thick, worn rug covered the floor. It was dark red, with a motif of smiling mermaids woven into it. A man was standing behind the counter, looking at me with what I perceived to be an odd expression. Then I realised he had a glass eye, just like Oslovski.
I produced my credit card and my temporary passport, and told him in halting French that I had a room booked. He immediately found my name on his computer screen and said that a different card had been used to secure the booking. I explained that this was my wife’s card, but that I wanted him to use the one I had just handed over.
‘Will I be able to get into the room at two o’clock?’ I asked.
The receptionist wore a name badge announcing that he was Monsieur Pierre. His expression was friendly as he said, ‘You can go up now. We had a guest who left very early, poor man – at half past four.’
He nodded in the direction of the black girl who was still polishing the glass door.
‘Rachel has already cleaned your room.’
He took down an old, heavy key with the number 213, pointed towards the lift and bade me welcome.
My room overlooked a courtyard at the back. Just as in the reception area, everything was in shades of brown, and once again there was the scent of lavender. The place wasn’t large, but Rachel had done her job well. I took off my shoes, folded back the bedspread and lay down. I gazed up at the ceiling, where a network of thin black cracks extended across a white background.
The ceiling was like a fog that was beginning to lift.
I took out my phone and tried Louise’s number once again. Still no answer, still no possibility of leaving a message.
I thought about the ruins of my house. About the tent out on the skerry, used by some unknown person.
And now room 213.
I remembered what Louise had told me about the Japanese garden known as the Ocean of Emptiness.
Suddenly there was just one thought in my head. I didn’t want to die of a heart attack or a stroke in this hotel room. Not before I had found my daughter. I sat up; I had to start searching for her. I went over to the window; it was raining harder now.
I caught a glimpse of a rat disappearing among the rubbish bins.
I left the room. The lift was busy and didn’t arrive even though I pressed the button several times. I met Rachel on the stairs, carrying a pile of clean sheets. She smiled at me again, and I thanked her for cleaning my room so well. I gave her a five-euro note and carried on down the stairs.
When I glanced over my shoulder, she was standing there watching me.
CHAPTER 15
In reception I asked Monsieur Pierre if I could borrow the Paris telephone directories. He immediately offered to look up the number I wanted on his computer, but I declined; I didn’t want to tell him that I was going to make a list of all the prisons and police stations in the city.
He gave me the heavy directories; I also asked him for a pen and some paper, then settled down in the closed bar. I spent almost an hour jotting down addresses and phone numbers. I also found the name of the prison where I had spent an afternoon, a night and several hours the following morning in the spring of 1968.
I had realised that my visit coincided with the student riots only when I was looking for cheap accommodation around the Latin Quarter. I ended up right in the middle of utter chaos – burning cars, tear gas, riot police, a boiling sea of people. Of course I was aware of the student movement in Europe, but I had never been a part of it. I had just started training to be a doctor and never joined in the political discussions over lunch or at break time. I distrusted those who became doctors in order to travel to poor countries. I wanted to be a doctor so that I could earn a good salary and have the freedom to choose where I worked. The thought of going off to Africa or Asia was complete anathema to me. I regarded my colleagues who were contemplating such a course of action as naive; I had no doubt that they would change their minds or regret their decision. Today I think I was probably wrong.
I had gone to Paris for a week because my exams were over. I went alone, looking forward to strolling along the boulevards. I had no plans other than to immerse myself in the anonymity of the city.
I found a small, shabby boarding house not far from the Sorbonne, then went out for something to eat. There were no demonstrations, no burning cars, no ranks of riot police. I turned into a side street where I knew there were a number of restaurants. It was a very short street, and in seconds two police cars arrived and blocked off both ends. A large number of officers poured out and arrested everyone in sight. There was no explanation; I was simply thrown in the back of a dark blue police van with barred windows and driven away. We were an odd mixture of men and women, French workers, students and foreign tourists. Nobody knew what was going on. One of the women started to cry. I don’t remember whether I was afraid or merely surprised. However, I do recall that I was very hungry.
I didn’t get any food until the following day. We were delivered to the police station on the Île de la Cité and bundled into a gigantic windowless cellar. I counted over two hundred people sitting on the stone floor or on the benches lining the whitewashed walls. I could see no connection between the members of this disparate group. Some of the women might have been prostitutes, judging by their clothing, but most were perfectly ordinary people. No doubt many of them were just as hungry as I was.
Our passports or ID documents were taken away, but no one would tell us why we had been arrested. During the night a rumour spread, alleging that it had nothing to do with the student protests. Apparently some hitchhikers had murdered a driver somewhere between Rouen and Paris. I looked around the enormous prison cell and couldn’t see anyone that looked like a hitchhiking killer.
In the morning I was taken to an interview room, where I explained that I was a medical student, that I had a week off and was staying in a boarding house in Paris. The officer sighed, returned my passport and suggested that I should avoid open areas for the rest of my visit. As
I was hungry and tired after a sleepless night on the concrete floor, I immediately replied, ‘I’m on the side of the students, of course.’
I went straight to a cafe and ordered coffee and sandwiches. I spent the rest of the week sticking close to the walls of buildings whenever I ventured out, and I felt a surge of anxiety every time I saw a police car.
I gave the directories back to Monsieur Pierre and left the hotel, taking care not to leave any fingerprints on the newly polished glass doors.
The sun was shining through a thin mist. I was struck by the fact that the people I saw, with very few exceptions, were younger than me. It had never been more noticeable. I was part of a marginal group on my way out of this life. Every person who passed me drove the point home as they hurried towards destinations of which I knew nothing.
When I was young I was one of those people who used to run up the escalator. I was always in a rush, even if I wasn’t actually going anywhere in particular. One desolate Midsummer’s Eve in Stockholm I went to visit the Museum of Modern Art in Skeppsholmen. Afterwards I followed an attractive woman, who must have been ten years older than me, taking care to keep my distance. My only aim was to watch her walking in front of me. We had reached Norrmalmstorg when she suddenly stopped, turned and smiled. I caught up with her and she asked what I wanted.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I guess we’re just going in the same direction.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘We’re not. And you are going to stay here and stop following me, otherwise I won’t be smiling.’
I watched her turn into Biblioteksgatan. At that moment I wasn’t the oldest person on the street.
The memory of that long night in the prison cell had made me hungry. I strolled down the street and couldn’t help calling in at La Coupole, even though I suspected that particular restaurant charged an arm and a leg because of its reputation. To my surprise it wasn’t too busy. I was immediately shown to a table for one overlooking the pavement cafe.
After the Fire Page 19
