Camille (12 page)

The conversation is academic since the cameras only cover the front entrance and there is little chance that this man – if he exists – came in that way. He is no fool. If he exists. And indeed, there is nothing on the footage during the period when he would have been in the hospital. Camille checks and double-checks. The head of security is hopping from one foot to the other, puffing and panting to signal his frustration. Camille peers at the screen, staring at the steady stream of ambulances, emergency vehicles and private cars, the people trudging in and out, the injured, the healthy, walking, running. Nothing of any relevance strikes him.

He gets up and leaves the security room, then comes back, presses the
EJECT
button on the machine, takes the D.V.D. and leaves.

“Do you take me for an idiot?” the security guard roars. “Where’s my warrant?”

Camille gives a shrug that says: We’ll deal with that later.

Back out in the car park, Camille surveys the area. If it were me, he thinks, I’d go around the side, use the emergency exit. He studies the fire-door closely. He takes out his glasses. There is no sign of forced entry.

When you go outside for a cigarette, who takes over?

It is the obvious question. Camille goes back into the reception area and, at the far end, he discovers the narrow corridor behind the desk that leads to the emergency exit.

Ophélia smiles, showing her yellow teeth.

“Listen, honey, they don’t provide maternity cover in this place, so they’re hardly likely to cover for cigarette breaks!”

Was he here?

As he walks back to the car, Camille listens to his voicemail messages.

“Commissaire Michard! [Her voice is grating.] Call me back. Doesn’t matter what time it is. I need to know where things stand. And I’ll have that report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, yes?”

Camille feels alone. Terribly alone.

*

11.00 p.m.

Night time in a hospital is unlike anywhere else. Silence itself seems suspended. Stretchers and trolleys continue to rattle along the corridors, there are distant cries, intermittent voices, the sound of running footsteps, the bleeping of alarms.

Anne manages to drift off, but her sleep is fitful, filled with pain and blood, she feels the tiled floor of the Galerie Monier beneath her hands, feels with eerie exactness the glass rain down on her; she sees herself crashing into the shop window, hears the gunshots behind her. Her breath now comes in halting gasps. The little nurse with the ring through her bottom lip is reluctant to wake her. But there is no need, since every time this loop of dream plays out, Anne wakes with a scream, jolting upright in bed. She can see the man, towering over her, pulling a balaclava over his face and then a close-up of the shotgun butt about to shatter her cheekbone.

In her sleep, Anne brings her fingers up to touch her face, she strokes the sutures, then her lips, feels for her teeth and finds bare gums and jagged stumps.

He wanted to kill her.

He will come back. He wants to kill her.

Day 2

6.00 a.m.

Not a wink of sleep. When it comes to Camille’s emotions, Doudouche has a sixth sense.

Last night, Camille went back to the station to sort out all the things he had not had the chance to deal with during the day; when he came home exhausted and dossed down fully dressed on the sofa, Doudouche crept up beside him and there they lay, motionless, all night. Camille did not feed her, but she did not mewl, she knows when he is anxious. She purrs. Camille knows by heart every nuanced register of her purring.

Not long ago, nights such as this – sleepless, tense, anxious, desolate – were spent for Irène. With Irène. Camille would think about their life together, go over every painful image. He could think of nothing more important than the death of Irène.

Camille is not sure whether what has pained him most today has been his fears for Anne, the sight of her ravaged face, her terrible suffering or the realisation that gradually, over the days and weeks, she has come to occupy his every thought. There is a sort of crassness about moving on from one woman to another, he feels like the victim of a cliché. He had never even thought about making a new life for himself, and yet a new life has appeared almost in spite of him. Yet for all that, the harrowing images of Irène still continue to haunt him and probably always will. They are immune to everything, to passing time, to encounters with other women. Or rather, encounter; there has only been one woman.

Camille was able to accept Anne since she insisted that she was only passing through. Like him, she has her dead to mourn; she is not looking to plan a future. And yet, without intending to, she has become a permanent part of his life. And in the age-old distinction between the one who loves and the one who is loved, Camille does not know which he is.

They met in spring. Early March. It had been four years since he lost Irène, two years since he re-emerged from grief, insensible but alive. An existence stripped of all risk, all desire that is the lot of men condemned to solitude. It is not easy for a man like Camille to meet women, but he no longer cared, he did not miss it.

To meet anybody is something of a miracle.

Anne is not given to anger, once and only once in her life did she throw a tantrum in a restaurant (she swore as much to him, hand on heart). It so happened that Camille was having dinner two tables away at Chez Fernand when a heated argument turned into a row. Insults are hurled, plates smashed, dishes overturned, cutlery is strewn across the floor, customers get to their feet and demand their coats, the police are called and all the while the owner, Fernand, is shouting at the top of his voice, calculating the damage in astronomical figures. Anne suddenly stops screaming and, surveying the destruction, she bursts out laughing.

She glances over at Camille.

He closes his eyes for a split second, takes a breath, slowly gets to his feet and shows his warrant card.

He introduces himself. Commandant Verhœven,
brigade criminelle
.

He seems to have appeared from nowhere. Anne stops laughing and looks at him worriedly.

“Lucky you were here!” roars the owner, then hesitates. “
Brigade criminelle
, you said?”

Camille nods wearily. He grabs the
patron
by the arm and takes him aside.

Two minutes later, he leaves the restaurant accompanied by Anne, who is unsure whether to be amused, relieved, grateful or worried. She is free and, like most people, does not know what to do with her freedom. Camille is aware that, like any woman, at this moment she is wondering about the nature of the debt she has taken on. And how she might repay it.

“What did you say to him?” she says.

“I told him I was arresting you.”

This is a lie. In fact, Camille threatened to have the place raided every week until the restaurant was left with no customers. A blatant abuse of authority. He feels a little ashamed, but then again a restaurant should be able to serve decent profiteroles!

Anne knows it is a lie, but she finds it funny.

As they reach the corner of the street and a police car screeches past on its way to Chez Fernand, she gives Camille her most devastating smile – her cheeks dimple, there are delicate laughter lines around her green eyes . . . Suddenly, the thought that she feels she owes him something begins to weigh on Camille.

“Are you taking the
métro
?” he says as they reach the station.

Anne thinks for a moment.

“I’ll probably take a taxi.”

This sounds good to Camille, although regardless of what she chose he would have taken the alternative. He gives her a little wave and trips down the stairs with affected composure, though actually he goes as fast as he can. He disappears.

They slept together the following night.

When Camille left the
brigade
at the end of his shift, Anne was waiting outside on the pavement. He pretended not to notice her and walked on towards the
métro
, but when he turned, she was still serenely standing there. The ploy made him smile. He was cornered.

They had dinner. An utterly routine evening. Indeed it would have been disappointing, but the lingering uncertainty about the debt she owes makes for a charged and gloomy atmosphere. As for the rest, what do a middle-aged man and a woman say when they first meet? They try to play down their failures without suppressing them altogether, allude to their wounds without revealing them, saying more than is necessary. Camille told Anne the essential in a few short words, about his mother, Maud . . .

“I thought as much . . .” Anne said, and seeing Camille’s quizzical gaze she added, “I’ve seen some of her paintings.” She hesitated. “Montreal?”

Camille was surprised she knew his mother’s work.

Anne talked about her life in Lyons, about her divorce, about how she had left everything behind and it was clear just from looking at her that it was far from over. Camille would have liked to know more about this man, this husband, this relationship. The boundless curiosity men have for the innermost lives of women.

He asked if she would like to slap the restaurant manager now, or wait until after he had paid. Anne’s bright, girlish laugh changed everything.

Camille, who had not been with a woman for longer than he could remember, did not have to do anything. Anne lay on top of him and after that it all followed naturally, not a word was said. It was both infinitely sad and extraordinarily happy. It was love.

They made no plans to see each other again. And yet from time to time, they did. As though touching only with their fingertips. Anne is a financial consultant, she spends most of her time visiting travel agencies, overseeing management structures, accounts, all those things of which Camille understands nothing. She is rarely in Paris more than two days a week. Her regular absences and her comings and goings lent a chaotic confusion to their encounters, as though they were constantly meeting by chance. From the beginning they did not understand the nature of their relationship. They met, they went out, they had dinner, they went to bed together, and steadily it grew.

Camille racks his brain, trying to recall the moment he first realised how much it took over in his life. He cannot remember.

All he knows is that with Anne’s arrival, the white-hot memory of Irène’s death has receded. He wonders whether some new being capable of living without Irène has finally appeared within him. Forgetting is inexorable. But to forget is not to heal.

Today he is devastated by what has happened to Anne. He feels responsible. Not for what has happened – there is nothing he can do about that – but for what is yet to happen, since that will depend on him, on his strength, his determination, his skill. It is overwhelming.

Doudouche has stopped purring, she is finally asleep. Camille slips off the sofa and the cat whimpers resentfully and turns onto her side. He pads over to the desk and picks up one of the Irène sketchpads. There once were countless notebooks, but this is all that remains. The others he destroyed one night when anger and despair got the better of him. The pad is filled with sketches of Irène: sitting at a table raising her glass and smiling, drawings of Irène here and there, sleeping, pensive. Camille puts the book down again. The past four years without her have been the most gruelling, the most miserable of his life and yet he cannot help but think they have been the most interesting, the most emotional. He has not left his past behind. It is the past that has become more . . . he struggles for a word. Subdued? More bearable? More muted? Like the remainder in a Euclidean division he never did, Anne is utterly unlike Irène, they are different galaxies light-years apart, converging on a single point. What distinguishes them is that Anne is still here while Irène has left.

Camille remembers Anne almost leaving him, but she came back. It is August. Standing by the window with her arms folded, naked, thoughtful, she says, “It’s over, Camille,” without turning to look at him. Then she dresses without a word. In a novel, this would take a minute; in real life it takes an age for a naked woman to get dressed. Camille sits, motionless; he looks like a man suddenly overtaken by a storm, resigned to his fate.

And she leaves.

Camille does nothing to stop her; he understands. Her leaving is not a tragedy, it is a fathomless gulf, a dull, gnawing pain. He is sorry that she is leaving, but he accepts it because he always felt it was inevitable. He is long accustomed to feeling unworthy. For a long time he sits there, frozen, then finally he lies back on the sofa. It is close to midnight.

He will never know what happens in that moment.

It has been more than an hour since Anne left, but suddenly he gets to his feet, goes to the door and, driven by some inexplicable conviction, he opens it. Anne is sitting at the top of the stairs, her back to him, her arms wrapped around her knees.

After a few seconds, she gets up, steps around him and goes into the apartment, lies down on the bed fully dressed and turns her face to the wall.

She is crying. It is something Camille remembers from his time with Irène.

*

6.45 a.m.

From the outside, the building does not look too bad, but inside the extent of the dilapidation is clear. A bank of battered aluminium letterboxes has been half corroded by neglect. On the last box in the row, the label reads “6th Floor: Anne Forestier” in her spidery scrawl; at the right-hand edge where she ran out of space, the E and R are so close together they are all but illegible.

Camille ignores the tiny lift.

It is not yet seven o’clock when he taps lightly on the door to the apartment opposite Anne’s.

The door immediately opens, as though the neighbour were expecting him. Madame Roman, who owns Anne’s apartment, recognises Camille. It is one of the advantages of his height; people do not forget him. He delivers the lie.

“Anne has been called away urgently . . . [He feigns the benevolent smile of a patient, long-suffering friend in search of an ally.] She had to leave quickly and she forgot half the things she needed, obviously.”