Altered States (16 page)

‘You could take a taxi,’ I suggested.

‘I’ll never manage,’ he said, and indeed he looked to be in extremis.

‘Would it help if I took you to the rue d’Assas in a taxi?’

‘Please. Thank you.’

He quietened down slightly after this, introduced himself as Derek Masterton, representative for a soft drinks firm, and moaned again as the plane landed. I had to guide him from his seat, as he seemed barely capable of negotiating the gangway on his own. Standing behind him on the endless escalators I could see his legs trembling, though once in the open air he seemed to recover slightly.

‘Have you always been like this?’ I asked, as we stood in the queue for taxis. I glanced hastily at my watch; it was seven-fifteen.

He told me that he had had a breakdown after the death of his wife the previous year and that it had left him with this
monstrous fear which descended on him whenever he had to travel by public transport. He said that when he was back in London—and here a fresh burst of sweat indicated his terror of the return journey—he was going to resign from the soft drinks firm and apply for a grant to study for a degree at the Open University. His dependence on me was growing, along with a shakily renewed confidence. I pushed him rather roughly into a taxi and told the driver to be as quick as he could. The car filled with the smell of Derek Masterton’s sweat as we glided through the dusk. A steady rain was falling, making our progress slower than normal, although it would not have been very fast in any case; the rush-hour looked to be in full swing. My head was filling with urgent calculations: hotel, bath, telephone call to the rue de Rennes. Derek Masterton’s heartfelt thanks reached me in an abstract murmur as I deposited him rather summarily in the rue d’Assas and told the driver to go to the George V. It only then occurred to me that I should have booked a room. This had somehow not seemed necessary in the trance of my imaginings. Only now did I begin to wonder whether the whole adventure would have been better had I not decided to act it out. But I had never before been given to fantasising; life, real life, had been easy for me, and I was known to have a good practical intelligence. I resolved firmly to insist, if necessary, on my right to a room, although there should be no need, surely, to insist. I summoned up my normal state of resolution and was thus almost confident again as I stepped out onto the forecourt of the hotel.

The rain, which had been falling as a steady drizzle, put on a sudden spurt as I dashed for the hotel entrance. I was surprised to see, instead of uniformed flunkeys, a number of stocky men in ill-fitting suits both outside and inside the hotel. They considered me for a moment or two, and then, at an invisible sign from someone deep in the foyer, let me
pass. I went up to the desk and demanded a room with bath for two nights, two in case the so far unimaginable happened and I was to be allowed to spend the following day wandering through Paris with Sarah, showing her where I had been so happy in my youth, telling her—at last!—something of my own story, actually having a conversation with her, as I had never managed to do. Somehow it had been necessary to get her out of London in order to do this. This part of the fantasy was again rather hazy and required a good deal of concentration, so that I hardly registered the fact that the receptionist was telling me that no rooms were available. I protested. Two of the stocky men began to approach. ‘
Je regrette, Monsieur, l’hôtel est complet.
’ Repetition did not dull the impact of these words. I was escorted to the door by two of these men, whom I dimly identified as bodyguards. I stood outside, in the rain, still accompanied, until some kind of signal was given. A long black limousine, with a blue and white flag flying on the bonnet, seethed out into the night. Very slowly I picked up my bag and began to walk. On my watch the time stood at eight o’clock.

In my head a childish voice of encouragement took over. Perhaps the George V had been a mistake. All I had to do was find another hotel, something a little more modest, convey the address to Sarah, and wait for her there. I was less familiar with this part of town, so I walked absent-mindedly, without my usual sense of direction. It was now raining heavily, and I had left my umbrella at home. Besides, umbrellas played no part in this odyssey; the weather was to have been warm, enticing, in this second week of September. It was to have been my favourite season, in my favourite city, to which, of course, I had been bound to return. I should have been young, or younger than I actually was, as young as I remained in my memory. My steps led me into a dark street, in which I could see the blue lamp of a police station. At the
very end of what seemed more like a cul-de-sac I saw a trembling neon sign: Hôtel du Balcon. No balcony was visible. The street was momentarily identified by the lights of a passing car as the rue Clément Marot. The neon sign outside the hotel was fitful because it seemed about to expire. This did not strike me at the time as particularly significant. I went in, asked for a room, and was given one with alacrity. It was eight-fifteen.

I threw my bag onto the bed of a medium-sized room, badly lit by numerous bulbs of singularly low wattage. I searched in my pocket for Berthe Rigaud’s address and telephone number, which I immediately dialled. There was no answer. The childish voice in my head told me that the entire family had gone out to dinner; my task now was to take a taxi to the rue de Rennes and to slip a note under Berthe Rigaud’s door. This would in any case be more discreet than telephoning. I was not sure how much Sarah had confided in her friend; there was the matter of Berthe Rigaud’s father’s friend, this man de Leuze, who wanted Sarah to marry him. If he were there Sarah would not want him to know of my presence. I went down and asked the man at the desk for a sheet of paper and an envelope. Wheezing, he bent down, searched for a few precious seconds, and came up again with a crimson face. He appeared to be in the last stages of emphysema. Clearly everyone with whom I was doomed to come into contact was morbidly afflicted. I snatched the paper from his hand, scribbled my message, and ran out to look for a taxi.

After five or six minutes it became clear that there were to be no taxis. I began to walk, or rather to run. I ran down the Avenue Montaigne to the Place de l’Alma, where luckily a couple got out of a taxi to go to dinner at Chez Francis. I flung myself in the back and gave the driver the address. He
told me he was on his way home. I refused to move. We sat there, deadlocked, for what seemed a very long time, until I handed over a hundred franc note, at which he silently drove away. Lights glimmered through blurred windows; dimly the shouts of the pleasure-bound reached me. I revised my plans: we should dine Chez Francis, like that couple to whom I was indebted for the taxi. We should have our walk, that very night, romantically, in the rain. For a while this fantasy was even more attractive than the earlier one. The rain on Sarah’s hair would bring out that marvellous feral smell that I craved, had never ceased to crave. In the rue de Rennes I gave the driver another hundred franc note and watched him drive off. The rain had momentarily stopped; the sky was clear enough for me to make out scudding clouds. To my left shone the lights of St-Germain-des-Prés; I had a sudden desire to drink a cup of coffee at the Flore. I took my letter out of my pocket and scribbled on the envelope, ‘I shall expect you at ten.’ Then I pressed the button for the concierge. I had recovered my resolution. ‘Rigaud,’ I said firmly. ‘
Deuxième gauche
,’ was the reply. As I bounded up the stairs I heard some words floating up behind me. It was not until I was outside the door, on which a brass plate announced ‘Jean-Jacques Rigaud. Notaire,’ that I decoded them as, ‘
Mais il n’y a personne.
’

There was no answer to my ring, but then I had expected none. I pushed my letter under the door, and then, filled with renewed energy, bounded down again. Outside the heavy street door the air was sweet. I toyed with the idea of a drink at the Rhumerie, for old times’ sake, then, almost regretfully, settled for a coffee at the Flore. I told myself that if so far everything had not gone exactly to plan then at least I had made some quick decisions. My clothes were drying on me, although the shoulders of my raincoat were still damp. I
reminded myself that I had still to take a bath and apply unguents. I was lucky with a taxi, and was back in the Hôtel du Balcon at nine-thirty.

Then I settled down to wait. I had managed to buy a paper, though my eyes skimmed over the words without taking them in; I saw something about a visit to Paris from the President of Israel. After taking off my clothes the effort of putting them on again seemed almost too much for me. I had not brought pyjamas; they had no place in my scenario. I sat down on the bed to wait, perfuming the slightly musty air of the room. I fought an impulse to lie down on the bed and sleep—I had not slept the previous night—and although I remained resolutely upright I must have dozed. When I came to it was exceedingly quiet and I was exceedingly hungry. I wondered how Derek Masterton was getting on, perhaps dimly regretted that I was confined in this manner, when I could be out in the beautiful streets, innocently eating and drinking, as if this were an entirely normal interlude, as if I could return to London with a clear conscience. I had bought cigarettes for Sarah, and although I did not smoke I smoked three. When I looked at my watch I saw that it was just after eleven. Then I must have dozed off again, for when I woke up I was lying on the bed, still fully clothed. I got up and brushed my hair. I read the paper again, including the television programmes, although there was no television, and even if there had been I should not have had the patience to watch it. The door to the room next to mine opened and closed, and muffled conversation could be heard, together with the clink of the key dropping onto a hard surface. I cleared my throat ostentatiously, as if to warn this couple to make no further noise. Obediently the conversation stopped. Minutes later there was a groan, as if of exhaustion, and then the sound of bedsprings. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly one o’clock.

I took my key and went downstairs. There was another man behind the desk, no healthier than the first. This one had his collar undone and was reading
L’Equipe.
I summoned up an insouciant smile.

‘
Il n’y a pas eu d’appel pour moi?
’

‘
Mais non, pensez-vous, à cette heure-ci.
’

‘
C’est une urgence.
’

‘
Vous êtes médecin?
’

‘
Non.
’

‘
Alors.
’ He shrugged and went back to his paper.

I spent the night in that sepulchral hotel sitting on the bed. It seemed like a vigil, and for a time it held reality at bay. The reality, when it came, seemed no more or less hallucinatory than the rest of the episode. There had been a misunderstanding, or perhaps no understanding at all. I had either been taken for a fool, or, more likely had made a fool of myself. The same mischance that had attended all my meetings with Sarah attended me still. After a while it was almost with relief that I knew that Sarah was not coming, that she would never come. My conscience, through no will or intention of my own, was made clear. All I had to do was to expunge the memory of this visit and return to my real life. I could pass it off: there were one or two people in Paris whom I could see, to give myself an alibi. One rather important client, for whom I had successfully completed some business the previous year, had told me to contact him if I were ever in Paris. He lived in Neuilly, kept a flat in London; all I had to do was telephone him, make enquiries as to the outcome of his transaction. Solicitors do not normally chase their clients, but I hoped that he would take my attentions in the right spirit. It was tenuous, but it would have to do. I would not go back to the rue de Rennes; indeed I would never set foot there again. I did not want to see Berthe Rigaud, or Sarah. I told myself that I should never see her
again, and that this suited me very well. I did not know how I could face her. She had reduced me once again to confusion. I could only hope that others would not see my confusion stamped permanently on my face.

There was no need now to hurry. I could stay in Paris for at least another day. I could have my nostalgic walk, though I recognised that the time for nostalgia was past. I would telephone Neuilly, perhaps suggest lunch, and spend a few necessary hours recovering. I was a solicitor, the least romantic species on earth. After a decent and no doubt painful interval I would return to my original status, that of respected citizen and married man. My path in life had been traced for me before I had ever known Sarah, and no doubt it suited me well enough. If I had felt the need to turn aside from it, events had proved to me that I was unsuited for adventure. My recent behaviour filled me with a kind of amazement, as if it had been the fugue of a madman. I felt cold, old. I wondered at what time I could reasonably take another bath, so as not to wake the couple next door.

Still dominated by time, I calculated that if I left the hotel at six I could walk for an hour before looking for a café in which to eat breakfast. In my damp raincoat I wandered aimlessly, before returning to the Place de l’Alma and waiting for the day properly to begin. The murmur of traffic grew louder as I sat down and ordered coffee, the panorama of the city coming to life in the wide open space before me. Beyond the bridge lay the Paris I had known and loved, and perhaps should never see again with that life of the heart that had once attended me every morning of my life. I was conscious of a feeling of shame that I had behaved in so uncharacteristic a fashion. I tried to expunge the previous night from my memory, consigning it to that detritus that exists at the back of every mind, so that eventually the process of living in the present will be sufficient to obliterate it, confining it to
dreams from which one awakes with relief. I did not think of Sarah at all; she had if anything only confirmed her absence from my life. My task now was to justify my presence in Paris, to legitimise my absence from London. I telephoned Neuilly, but only got an answering machine. I left a message that I would ring later, then, slightly crestfallen, got to my feet and began my day of absence.