Joséphine listened to him stammer his explanation. He didn’t understand how the underwear had ended up here. It must have fallen into the sofa, and slipped back out when they sat down. It was absurd; better just to laugh about it.
“Are you still seeing her?” Joséphine asked.
“No. Of course not.”
“Why did you lie?”
“I didn’t! I’m telling you the truth.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“I swear! I haven’t seen her in a long time. Our break-up was acrimonious. She lived here a long time, though, so it’s possible that her knickers have been here the whole time, hidden inside the sofa.”
“…”
“Please don’t make a big deal out of this.”
Marc pronounced those words with real conviction. All the same, Joséphine felt bitter. This apparition of a ghost from the past, particularly in the form of lingerie, just as they were talking about getting married again… Was it a sign? Marc kept talking, attempting to downplay the incident. He threw the knickers out of the window, ridding himself of them in a theatrical, amusing way. Joséphine agreed to forget it and move on. Still, there was no more talk about marriage that evening.
13
That night, she couldn’t fall asleep. The little scrap of silk discovered under a cushion kept her awake; she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Marc slept next to her, alternating—as was his habit—between periods of snoring and periods of silence (a double life, even in his sleep?). Beside him, on the bedside table, was his mobile; Joséphine started obsessing over the idea of turning it on and reading his messages. She had never gone through his things when they were married, not even when she’d had good reason to be suspicious; it was not necessarily a question of trust, but of respect for the other’s freedom. But, in the middle of this night, it seemed to her that things were different. She was fifty; too old to make a wrong choice. He wanted to remarry her; she couldn’t walk into it like this, eyes closed and heart open.
Silently she got out of bed and picked up the phone. Then she locked herself in the bathroom. What an idiot! Of course the phone had a security code. She tried one that didn’t work. Obviously he hadn’t chosen their anniversary date. She had two more attempts left. It was absurd, trying to read his messages; she knew him better than anyone. They’d lived together for nearly thirty years, they had two daughters: what could she hope to find? She knew his qualities, his flaws, and sometimes the two were connected. She’d read in an article that more and more couples were getting back together. It was no longer rare to reunite with your first love, and to live together a second time, armed with your knowledge of each other. She couldn’t be disappointed by Marc any more; she’d been too disappointed in the past. Even though she reasoned to herself in this way, she couldn’t help continuing to think about what his code might be. Marc adored his daughters, and often went to see them in Berlin. Perhaps he’d simply used their two birth dates—the 15th and the 18th—side by side.
She tried “1518” and the phone unlocked.
Joséphine gaped. Never had she thought she would guess the code so easily. She had been driven by an urge that had been doomed, in all probability, to remain unfulfilled. And yet, fate had decided otherwise. It felt almost like divine intervention. On the other side of the door she could still hear Marc’s heavy breathing. She clicked on “Messages” and saw Pauline’s name appear—the name that she had always refused to utter, the name for which she had developed an inordinate hatred, without knowing whether it was deserved or not. So the first thing to note was: Marc was lying. He was still in contact with her. And the most recent message was dated today—that very evening.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, Joséphine felt nauseous. Did she need to go any further? Her nausea faded, leaving behind a cold anger. She read all the messages—and there were so many. Messages of love, promises to see each other soon, discussions of the plan, which was working perfectly. The plan was her. But what plan? Why? She didn’t understand. It was enough to drive her insane. Her breathing became erratic and uncontrollable, her body was in open revolt; she could no longer contain the fire that was spreading inside her.
At that moment, Marc knocked at the door:
“Are you there, my love?”
“…”
“What are you doing?”
“…”
“Are you okay? I’m worried. Open the door.”
Marc heard Joséphine’s breathing, which sounded like she was suffocating. What was happening? Perhaps she was having a seizure…
“If you don’t open the door, I’ll call an ambulance.”
“No,” she said coldly.
“But what’s going on?”
“…”
Joséphine was still staring at the screen of the phone, reading messages that talked of money. Suddenly, everything was clear. Trembling, she no longer heard Marc’s pleas. He begged her to open the door, to reply, to explain herself. What should she do? Open the door and slap him as hard as she could? Or leave without saying a word? She felt so sick, she didn’t feel capable of a confrontation. She stood up, splashed some water on her face. In the end, she left the bathroom and headed towards the sofa, where she’d left her belongings.
“What’s happening? I was so worried!”
“…”
“What are you doing? Why are you getting dressed?”
“…”
“I know you don’t want to answer. But please, tell me!”
“Look in the bathroom, and leave me alone,” Joséphine said.
Marc went in and immediately saw his mobile on the tile floor. He turned to Joséphine and begged her: “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m so ashamed…”
“…”
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a few days now. Really, I have. Because everything was so wonderful with you, and I felt so good.”
“Shut up. That’s all I ask of you: just shut your mouth. I’m going, and I never want to see you again.”
Suddenly Marc took Joséphine in his arms and pleaded with her. She shoved him away violently. Infuriated, she demanded: “But why? Why did you do this to me? How could you?”
“I had problems. Serious problems. I have no money left at all. I lost it all… and I realized that you were going to be rich…”
“You wanted to marry me, take my money… and then go back to your whore? Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“I wasn’t rational. I’d lost it completely. But yes, I realize. I… I’m pathetic.”
“I can’t believe how much pain you’ve put me through.”
“…”
Marc started weeping; this was the first time Joséphine had ever seen him in tears. No tragedy had ever done this to him before. But it changed nothing. She left without a word. Let him rot in his mediocrity. Outside, she tried to find a cab, in vain. She wandered through the night for nearly an hour.
Joséphine had spent years putting herself back together, and, barely had she started to recover than Marc killed her again. And all this because of that cursed novel. When he was alive, her father had hardly ever hugged her, and now he’d left behind a book that was wreaking devastation. She had suffered through all those years, but that wasn’t enough. She had to suffer even more; she had to live through the last hours of a love affair, as if her death throes were not over yet.
14
The next morning, she waited for Mathilde to arrive at the shop, before telling her that she was going to be away for a while.
15
Rouche had listened to Mathilde’s account with intense concentration, hoping to come across some small detail that might prove crucial for his investigation. Of course, all he’d heard was what the salesgirl knew: a partial version of the drama that had played out in Joséphine’s life. But, amid the turmoil of recent events, one fact stuck out: the letter written by Pick. Rouche decided not to ask about this straight away (he would wait until his second qu
estion):
“And have you heard from her since then?”
“No, not a word. I tried to call, but I just got her voicemail.”
“And the letter?”
“What letter?”
“The letter from her father. Did she take it with her?”
“No, it’s still in the safe.”
Mathilde pronounced these words without understanding their importance for Jean-Michel. He was so close to a written trace of Pick.3 Mathilde observed him, amused.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I think I’ll order another beer. Perrier is depressing.”
Mathilde smiled. She liked the company of this strange-looking older man; she’d found him somewhat repellent to start with, but after spending time with him she could detect a certain charm (or was it the alcohol?). She felt increasingly moved by him, by the way he always seemed so surprised, like a man who couldn’t quite believe he was still alive. He had the special energy of a survivor: he was satisfied with so little.
As for Rouche, he didn’t dare look Mathilde in the eyes, preferring to stare at the lamp post in front of him, a lamp post that he could have described more easily than he could the salesgirl’s face. He was beginning to find it a little odd that she was giving him so much of her time. And yet she had admitted that she didn’t know anybody in this city. That’s what it takes for a girl to spend an hour with me, he thought. Before, he could talk, charmingly, wittily, without any problem at all; now, each word he uttered was first weighed up, examined, before being stammered. His professional fall from grace had stolen his self-confidence. Thankfully, he’d met Brigitte, and he loved her; or at any rate, he thought he still loved her. She was the one who seemed to be distancing herself from him. They rarely made love any more, and he missed it. By some strange mechanism, the more Jean-Michel talked with Mathilde, the closer he felt to Brigitte. This did not prevent him feeling desire for this young woman, but his heart remained under the consoling thumb of the owner of a twice-scratched car.
Just before midnight, Rouche finally dared ask Mathilde to go and get the letter.
“I should ask Joséphine first, don’t you think?”
“Please. Just show it to me.”
“You’re asking me to do a bad thing,” she added, before bursting into laughter. It was a crucial moment; and, crucially, it was a moment when she had a considerable amount of alcohol in her bloodstream. “Okay, I’ll do it, Mr Rouche,” she said eventually. “Okay… but if I get into trouble over this, I’ll tell them that you forced me to do it.”
“Yes, all right. Like a hold-up.”
“Or a bra-up!”
“Um… that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Mathilde concluded, getting to her feet.
The journalist watched her go, amazed by her precise, gracious gait despite her long working day and all those beers. She returned two minutes later, the letter in her hands. Rouche took it from her and carefully opened it. He read it, then read it again. Several times. Then he looked up. Everything was clear now.
16
Mathilde watched in silence as the journalist seemed lost in thought. She didn’t want to break his concentration. The coolness of the night was clearing her head. After a while she said: “So?”
“…”
“What do you think of it?”
“…”
“You don’t have anything to tell me?”
“Thank you. Sincerely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Can I keep it?” Rouche asked.
“No. You’re asking too much now. I can’t do that. That letter is important to her, I could tell.”
“Let me make a copy, then. There must be a photocopier in the shop?”
“God, it never ends with you!”
“That’s not something I hear very often,” he replied with a smile.
They were calling each other tu instead of vous now (after how many beers had they started doing that?), and there was a genuine complicity between them. Would that have happened if they’d been drinking water? Probably. Anyway, they paid for their drinks then walked to the shop. At midnight, in the darkness, Rouche was frightened by the mannequins. He had the impression that they’d been talking to one another, just before he and Mathilde arrived. They froze in the presence of humans, but the rest of the time they talked about their escape plans. Why was he thinking such nonsense at a moment like this? Mathilde photocopied the letter and handed him the copy.
17
Outside on the street, Rouche finally gave some thought to practical matters. He had not booked a hotel room. He asked Mathilde if she knew a good place nearby. “Not too expensive,” he specified.
“You can sleep at my place, if you want…”
Rouche didn’t know how to respond. What did this mean exactly? In the end, he decided to drive her home, to give him time to think. When they arrived at her apartment, he said: “You shouldn’t invite strangers to sleep at your place like that.”
“You’re hardly a stranger.”
“I could be a psychopath. After all, I was a literary critic for several years.”
“Well, maybe you should be wary too. What makes you so sure that I’m not a serial killer of depressive old men?”
“True.”
They continued to talk playfully like this for a while as they sat in the car. As often happens after a night of drinking, it was becoming difficult to distinguish seduction from simple camaraderie. What did Mathilde want? Perhaps she was simply tired of being alone. In the end, Rouche decided not to go upstairs. This was not necessarily a triumph of mind over body, but it was a reasonable choice, and he was happy to have made it. For several minutes, he had been thinking semi-constantly about Brigitte. His conclusion was that things were not over between them. Despite some recent difficulties, he did not want to admit defeat. He loved her, perhaps even more right now. Of course, he could have gone to Mathilde’s room, and maybe nothing would have happened; in fact, that was quite likely. But he wouldn’t have been able to sleep, knowing that she was close by. No, it was better to stay in the car. He’d sleep on the back seat, with the photocopy of Pick’s letter. After all, his mission was what mattered; he should stay focused on that.
18
They embraced for a long moment. Then Mathilde went to her apartment and Jean-Michel thought he would never see her again.
19
To begin with, nothing had struck Hervé Maroutou as abnormal. He just felt a bit more tired than he had in previous days; but he was getting older, after all, and being a sales representative was not exactly a restful occupation. Not to mention the increasing pressure. With the ever-growing numbers of books being published, he had to fight ever harder for the ones he represented to be displayed prominently on bookshop shelves. Or, even better, in bookshop windows. As a connoisseur of the region, and having patiently formed relationships with the booksellers here, Maroutou was held in esteem by everybody who knew him. He still felt the same shiver of pleasure at reading a novel before the rest of the world, at receiving it long before publication so that he could present it to his customers. Highly motivated by that meeting at Grasset, he had managed to communicate the publishers’ enthusiasm for Pick’s book. And look at the results! The novel was going from strength to strength. Hervé had just received an invitation to a party to celebrate that success; this made him happy. It was normal for sales reps to be pampered at the start of the bookselling process, but after a book had become a success they were rarely included in the festivities. That oversight had been fixed with this party, which he envisaged as the grand finale to an extraordinary literary adventure.
After a few weeks, he had to face the reality: this was no ordinary fatigue. One morning, he got out of bed and vomited, and had a terrible headache for the rest of the day. His lower back hurt too: a strange, burning pain. For the first time in a long time, he cancelled all his meetings, because he felt
incapable of driving or speaking. He was staying at the Mercure hotel in Nancy at the time. He decided to consult a doctor. He had to call several numbers before he found someone who would see him. In the waiting room, he felt too sick to look through the old magazines scattered across the table. The only thing he cared about was putting an end to his pain. Even though he hadn’t eaten anything that morning, he again felt like he was going to vomit. He trembled, but felt hot. It was as if his body was a theatre of war between two armies. Little by little, he lost all sense of time. How long had he been waiting there?
Finally, his name was called. The doctor had a yellowish complexion; he looked sickly. Who wants to be healed by a dying man? The doctor asked him several questions in a mechanical manner. The usual interrogation about the patient’s family history. Maroutou felt reassured: the doctor was listening to him, he would find whatever was wrong with him. After a few pills and some rest, he’d be back at work. The first place he would go was a bookshop called the Hall du Livre, because he liked the owner; she had shown great confidence in him by ordering a hundred copies of Pick’s book.
“Cough, please,” said the doctor.
“I can’t,” he replied. “I don’t feel well.”
“Yes, your breathing is laboured.”
“What do you think it is?”
“You’ll need to do some more advanced tests.”
“Can I do that in a few days?” asked Maroutou. “When I get back to Paris?”
“Um… The sooner the better,” said the doctor, sounding apprehensive.
A few hours later, at the hospital in Nancy, Maroutou was standing bare-chested against a cold imaging plate. This was the first in a series of tests. Not a good sign. The doctors kept wanting to refine the diagnosis. When you’re fine, they always know straight away. Refining the diagnosis meant something was definitely wrong, they just weren’t sure exactly what. There was no point beating about the bush; he could tell it was bad news from the expressions on the doctors’ faces. In the end, one of them asked Hervé if he wanted to know the truth. What was he supposed to say? “No, I took all those tests, but don’t tell me anything.” Of course he wanted to know. It was the doctor who seemed reluctant to speak. Then again, you probably don’t become a doctor for the pleasure of telling someone that they’re going to die.
The Mystery of Henri Pick Page 13
