The Red Notebook

The taxi had dropped her on the corner of the boulevard. She was barely fifty metres from home. The road was lit by streetlamps which gave the buildings an orange glow, but even so she was anxious, as she always was when she returned late at night. She looked behind her but she saw nobody. Light from the hotel opposite flooded the pavement between the two potted trees flanking its entrance. She stopped outside her door, unzipping her bag to retrieve her keys and security fob, and then everything happened very quickly.

A hand grabbed her bag strap, a hand that had come out of nowhere, belonging to a dark-haired man wearing a leather jacket. It took only a second for fear to travel through her veins all the way to her heart where it burst into an icy rain. She instinctively clung to her bag. The man pulled harder and when she held on, he put his hand over her face and shoved her head back into the metal door frame. She stumbled in shock, seeing stars that shimmered above the road like hovering fireflies; she felt a tightness in her chest and let go of the bag. The man smiled, the strap swirled through the air and he ran off. She leant back against the door, watching him disappear into the night. She was breathing heavily, her throat was on fire, her mouth dry, but her bottle of water was in the bag. She reached over and tapped in the entry code, put her weight against the door and slipped inside.

The glass and black-iron door provided a safety barrier between her and the outside world. She sat down carefully on the marble steps of the hallway and closed her eyes, waiting for her brain to calm down and start working normally again. Just as the safety signs are gradually switched off on an aeroplane, so the warning lights flashing in her head – I’m being attacked, I’m going to die, my bag’s been stolen, I’m not hurt, I’m alive – disappeared one by one. She looked up at the rows of letter boxes and focused on the one bearing her name and floor number: 5th floor, left. But since she was without her keys at almost two o’clock in the morning, she realised she would not be going through the door of the left-hand flat on the fifth floor.

The implications of this realisation took shape in her mind: I can’t get into my home and my bag’s been stolen. It’s gone and I’ll never see it again. A part of her had been brutally torn away. She looked around as though willing the bag suddenly to materialise, wiping out the scene that had just taken place. But it definitely wasn’t there. It would be streets away by now, snatched, flying on the man’s arm as he ran; he would open it and inside he would find her keys, her identity card, her memories. Her entire life. She could feel tears welling. Her hands could not seem to stop shaking from fear, helplessness and anger, and the pain at the back of her head suddenly got sharper. When she raised her hand to where it hurt, she realised she was bleeding, but of course her tissues were in her handbag.

It was 1.58 a.m. She could not possibly knock on any of her neighbours’ doors at that time of night. She couldn’t even disturb the friendly man whose name she couldn’t remember who worked in graphic novels and had just moved in on the second floor. The hotel seemed the only solution. The light in the hallway had just timed out and she felt for the switch. When the light came back on again, she felt mildly dizzy and had to steady herself against the wall. She needed to pull herself together and go and ask to spend the night at the hotel, explaining that she lived just across the road and would pay for the room the next day. She hoped the night porter would be sympathetic because she was struggling to think of an alternative.

She pulled open the heavy front door and shivered. Not from cold but from a vague sense of fear, as if the buildings lining the street had soaked up something of what had happened and the man might suddenly magically step out from a wall. Laure looked around. The road was empty. The man was clearly not coming back, but it was difficult to control her fear, and it’s hard to distinguish between the irrational and the possible at almost two o’clock in the morning. She crossed the road and walked towards the hotel. Her instinct was to hold her bag close to her body but she found nothing but empty space between her hip and forearm. She stepped into the light under the hotel awning and
the automatic door slid open. The grey-haired man at the desk looked up as she walked in.

He agreed to let her stay. He had been a little reluctant, but when Laure began taking off her gold bracelet to leave as security, he had raised his hand in surrender. The young woman was visibly distressed and almost certainly telling the truth; she seemed a trustworthy character and he judged the chances of her coming back to pay her bill at a good nine out of ten. She had left her name and address. Besides, the hotel had faced cases of non-payment that went well beyond a single night’s stay for a lone woman who said she had been living opposite for the past fifteen years.

She might have phoned the friends at whose house she had spent the evening, but their number was in her phone. Since the advent of mobile phones, the only numbers Laure knew by heart were her own home and work numbers. The receptionist also suggested she call a locksmith but that too was impossible. Laure had used up her cheque book and had been slow to order a new one; she wouldn’t receive it until early the following week. Other than her debit card and forty euros in cash, both of which were inside her wallet, she had no means of payment. It was remarkable how, in situations like this, all the tiny details that had seemed totally insignificant an hour before suddenly seemed to conspire against you. She followed the man into the lift, then along the corridor to room 52, which looked onto the street. He turned the light on, briefly pointed out the bathroom and handed her the key. She thanked him, promising once again to come back and pay as soon as possible the next day. The porter gave her a friendly smile, tiring a little of hearing the same promise for the fifth time. ‘I believe you, Mademoiselle. Good night.’

Laure walked over to the window and parted the net curtains.
She could see straight across to where she lived. She had left the living-room lamp on and placed a chair in front of the part-opened window so that Belphégor could look out. It was very odd seeing her flat from here. She almost expected to glimpse herself crossing the room. She opened the window.

‘Belphégor,’ she called in a whisper, ‘Belphégor,’ making the sharp little kissing sound all cat owners can make.

A few moments later, the black shape leapt up onto the chair and two yellow eyes stared back at her in amazement. How on earth was it possible for his mistress to be across the road and not inside the flat?

‘That’s right, I’m over here,’ she told him with a shrug.

She gave him a little wave and decided to get ready for bed. In the bathroom, she found a box of tissues and some water to clean the wound to her head. As she leant over, she felt dizzy again, but at least she seemed to have stopped bleeding. She took a towel and laid it over the pillow, and then she got undressed. Lying down, she could not stop replaying the scene of the mugging. The incident, which had lasted no more than a few seconds, was now developing into a slow-motion sequence. Longer and more fluid than the stylised sequences in films. More like the ones in science documentaries of dummies in simulated car crashes. You see the inside of the vehicle, the windscreen blowing out like a vertical puddle of water, the dummies’ heads moving smoothly forward, the airbags inflating like bubble gum and the metal shell lightly crumpling, as if rippled by a warm breeze.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Laurent gave up trying to shave. The electric razor, whose buzzing was the soundtrack to all his mornings, had made a tired groaning sound when he turned it on and had now stopped altogether, giving way to silence. He turned the razor off and on again, tapped the foil, unplugged it and plugged it back in again. Nothing. The Braun 860 with its three rotating blades had given up the ghost. Laurent was upset. He couldn’t bear to throw the razor away, at least not yet. He laid it down reverentially in the clam dish brought back from Greece ten years ago. His Gillette razor that he found mouldering in a drawer also turned out to be useless, because of a second setback. When he turned on the bath tap, he was greeted by a dull hiss. No water. The notice announcing that the water would be turned off had been up in the hallway of his building for a week, but he’d forgotten. Laurent looked in the mirror and saw a badly shaven man with strangely dishevelled hair after a restless night. There was just enough water in the kettle for one cup of coffee.

As he left the building he glanced over at the metal shutter of the shop. Shortly he would raise it by turning a key in the electronic panel, then nod a greeting to his neighbour Jean Martel (of Le Temps Perdu, antiques – bric-a-brac – bought and sold) enjoying a café crème on the terrace of the Jean Bart. He
would also wave to the lady from the dry-cleaner’s (La Blanche Colombe – Specialist Dry-cleaning) who in turn would wave back through the window. Then after the shutter was up he would look over his own shop window as he always did with its ‘New fiction’, ‘Art books’, ‘Bestsellers’, alongside ‘Books we love’ and ‘Must reads’.

On the stroke of ten-thirty, Maryse would arrive, followed by Damien. The team complete, the day could begin. They would unpack the deliveries of books and help customers with their varied requests. ‘I’m looking for that novel about the Second World War. I can’t remember who it’s by or the name of the publisher.’ And then there would be the recommendations. ‘Madame Berthier, I really think you should try this. You were looking for something light to distract you. I guarantee you’ll love it.’ And the orders to put through. ‘Yes, hello, Le Cahier Rouge here. Could I order three copies of
Don Juan
, Molière, the Bibliolycée paperback edition?’ And the returns: ‘Hello, it’s Le Cahier Rouge. I’d like to return four copies of
Tristesse d’été.
It’s not selling and I’m changing my displays.’ There would be events to plan: ‘Laurent Letellier from Le Cahier Rouge here. Would it be possible to organise a signing with your author …?’

When he had bought it, the bookshop had been a moribund café, Le Celtique, run by an elderly couple. They were waiting to sell up so that they could return to the Auvergne and Laurent was their unexpected saviour. The café had the added advantage of coming with a flat. That, however, was a mixed blessing. It eliminated travelling, but it also meant that Laurent never left his place of work.

Laurent walked round the square and up Rue de la Pentille. He was carrying the latest novel by Frédéric Pichier, who was coming in for a signing the following week. Laurent planned to reread the notes he had jotted in the book over a double espresso sitting outside l’Espérance café, where he often ended up on his morning perambulations. The book told the story of a young farm worker during the Great War. It was the fourth book from the author, who had made his name with
Tears of Sand
, the story of a Napoleonic soldier falling in love with a young Egyptian girl during the French campaign in the Middle East. Pichier was adept at setting the sufferings of his characters against the backdrop of great historical events. Laurent couldn’t make up his mind whether Pichier was just a good storyteller or a real writer. There were arguments for both views. But in any case, the book was selling very well and the signing session would certainly be popular.

As he was walking along, Maryse sent him a text. Her train had been delayed and she might be late. ‘Keep me posted, Maryse,’ Laurent texted back before setting off along Rue Vivant-Denon. As he reached number 6, he checked to make sure his customer, Madame Merlier, had opened her blinds. The old lady, who looked remarkably like the actress Marguerite Moreno, was an avid reader and always rose early. She had remarked to Laurent one day, ‘If I haven’t opened my blinds, I’ll either be dead or well on the way.’ They had agreed that Laurent would call an ambulance if he ever saw the blinds down in daytime. But everything was fine at number 6; the blinds were open. Almost the only ones on the street in fact, apparently people were enjoying a lie-in. The area was deserted. He continued on his way down Rue du Passe-Musette. L’Espérance café was right at the end, on the corner between the boulevard and the weekend market. The bins had been put out in front of each courtyard door, some accompanied by pieces of old furniture awaiting the large waste collection. Laurent passed one of the bins, slowing down – it had taken a little time to register what he had seen – then turned back and retraced his steps.

There was a handbag on top of the bin. It was mauve leather and in very good condition. It had several compartments and zipped pockets, two broad handles, a shoulder strap and gold clasps. Instinctively Laurent glanced around him – an absurd thing to do; no woman was suddenly going to appear and come and claim her property. From the way the leather bulged it was obvious it wasn’t empty. Had it been damaged and empty the owner would have thrown it into the bin, and not left it on top. In any case, did women ever throw their handbags away? Laurent thought about the woman who had shared his life for twelve years. No, Claire had never thrown away any of her bags. She
had several and changed them with the seasons. She never threw away shoes either; not even when the little straps on her court shoes wore out – she would have them mended at the cobbler’s. In fact, even when the shoes were beyond repair, Laurent had never seen a pair in the kitchen bin amongst the peelings. They just mysteriously disappeared. It was still possible that a woman
might
have thrown away her bag, despite these thoughts that took him back to his past. But on the other hand, the fact that the pristine bag was sitting on its own on top of the bin seemed to suggest something more sinister. A theft, for example.

Laurent lifted the bag. He half opened the main zip and saw that it did indeed contain many ‘personal effects’ as they were called. He was about to look through the bag when a young woman came out of a doorway, dragging a suitcase on wheels. She went past, then looked back at him. When her eye met Laurent’s, she speeded up imperceptibly, then disappeared round the corner. At that moment, Laurent realised how shady he looked – a man on his own, ill-shaven with unkempt hair, opening a woman’s handbag on top of a bin … He shut it hastily. What was the moral course of action now: to take it with him or to leave it where it was? Somewhere in the city, a woman had almost certainly been robbed of her bag and in all probability had given up hope of ever seeing it again. I’m the only one who knows where it is, he thought, and if I leave it here it will be destroyed by the refuse collectors or stolen all over again.