Part 3 (2/2)

'We've sold thirty copies,' Laurent murmured to him.

Pichier nodded.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said to a new customer as she approached. 'h.e.l.lo ... Nathalie,' he added with a friendly smile, looking at her neckline.

'How do you know my name?' exclaimed the customer.

Pichier smiled, pleased with the effect he had produced. 'You're wearing it round your neck,' he said, narrowing his eyes.

She put her hand up to a gold pendant. 'You read hieroglyphics?' she said admiringly.

'I wrote Tears of Sand,' responded Pichier, laying his hand on a copy. 'There's a lot about Egypt in it. I learnt as I was doing research for the book.'

'I'll be right back,' said Laurent quickly and he made his way through the customers to the internal door of the bookshop that led to the lobby of the apartment building. He took the stairs four at a time up to his flat, opened the door, turned the light on, quickly grabbed the keys from the card table, and looked breathlessly at the fob with the hieroglyphics. Now he understood: it had never been meant for keys, it was a pendant just like the customer's; it was simply that she had attached it to her key ring. He left the apartment, slamming the door behind him and rushed back down the stairs.

The customer was having two books signed: Tears of Sand for her husband and the latest novel for herself. Pichier was polis.h.i.+ng off the dedication as Laurent approached. He had to wait while the customer related a colourful family anecdote, something that had happened to her great-grandmother during the Great War which was very like an episode in the novel. At last she said goodbye to the author and Laurent slipped in front of the next customer.

'Can I just interrupt a moment,' he said to Pichier. 'Do you know what this says?' And he laid the bunch of keys on the cover of one of the books.

Pichier picked it up, adjusted his gla.s.ses and looked closely at the Egyptian characters. 'Yes ...' he murmured. 'It says Laure ...' Then he turned the little rectangle over. '...Va ... Vala ... Valadier.'

Laure Valadier.

Silence is golden. The phrase inscribed above the entrance of the ateliers and gold-plated by Alfred Gardhier (18781949) himself had taken on a new significance for William. It had been four days now, and Laure had still not woken up. No matter what Professor Baulieu said to rea.s.sure him the brain scan had not shown any damage the fact that she was still in a coma surely did not bode well. He picked up the leaf with the flat of his knife, placed it on the calfskin cus.h.i.+on and blew very gently; it unfurled into a perfect rectangle. With the sharp edge of the knife, he divided it in two, rubbed the sable brush against his cheek and picked up the first half in one smooth movement. The static electricity lifted the leaf above the layer of wetted Armenian bole covering the woodwork. With a flick of the wrist he dropped it into place. In a fraction of a second, the gold leaf moulded perfectly to the contours of the wood, blending in with the seventy-five others he had already positioned that day. Two more and the restoration of the pier gla.s.s bearing the coat of arms of the Counts of Rivaille would be all but complete. The only thing left was to burnish the surface with an agate stone until the gold shone as it had in its glory days.

For the last four days Laure's seat in the workshop had been vacant. When she had not arrived on Thursday morning, he had known something was wrong. At eleven o'clock he left her a message. At midday he left another. At one o'clock he rang her landline. After lunch, during which Laure's absence was the main subject of conversation with Agathe, Pierre, Franois, Jeanne and Amandine the other gilders who had completed their apprentices.h.i.+ps he agreed with Sebastien Gardhier (the fourth generation to run the family business) that it would be sensible if he went round to see her.

'It's William again. I've left work. I'll just go home and pick up Belphegor's keys and then I'm coming round' was the last message he had left on Laure's mobile. This was how they referred to the spare set of keys to her apartment; William only used them to go in and feed the cat when she was away.

When he had rung the bell twice and no one had come to the door, he made up his mind to let himself in. As soon as the door opened, the cat slipped out onto the landing, as he had a habit of doing. He looked at William, arched his back and started moving crabwise, his ears pointing backwards. 'He does that when he's scared it's an attacking position.' Laure's words came into his head, and if the cat was scared it must mean something had happened.

'Laure?' he called out. 'Are you home?'

As soon as he stepped inside, he had a strong sense of deja vu. The scene in front of him was merging with one he had seen before, as he suddenly remembered the afternoon he had let himself into his grandmother's house when she had not come to the door. That afternoon, ten years ago, when she had not responded to him asking if she was there, as he was doing now. He had gone round opening doors and found every room empty until he reached the kitchen. She was lying on the tiled floor. Lifeless.

'Laure?' he shouted, opening the door to her bedroom and then the study, the bathroom, the toilet and finally, at the end of the corridor, the kitchen. This time the apartment really was empty, and William sat himself down on the sofa in the sitting room. He concentrated on his breathing; his chest felt tight and wheezy and the telltale itch was creeping up his back. He took out his inhaler, held it to his mouth and pressed twice. Belphegor slid between William's legs, brus.h.i.+ng him with his tail.

'Where is Laure? Do you know?' asked William. But the animal remained silent.

Having stroked the cat and established that nothing in the flat appeared untoward, William made one last call to Laure's mobile and got her voicemail again. He left a brief message before closing the door behind him and heading back downstairs. On the face of it, no, nothing untoward, but something must have happened, something big, for her to have failed to turn up for work and not be answering her phone. If he hadn't heard from her by the end of the day, he would call the police. When he reached the lobby, he saw that a white envelope had been pushed under the main door. He was sure it had not been there when he arrived. He leant down and read the delicate handwriting: Mademoiselle Laure Valadier and family.

Hotel Paris Bellevue ***

Madame, Monsieur, Should you require any information about Laure Valadier, who stayed with us on the night of 15 January and was taken ill, please contact reception.

Kind regards, The management That evening, they had let him see her through a window. She was lying in a room shared with several others. The patient next to her was hooked up to a ventilator. Laure seemed just to be asleep with a drip in her arm. When he returned the next day he was allowed to sit at her bedside. Her face was relaxed, her eyelids closed. Her breathing was barely perceptible, in and out at regular intervals. The hushed room was bathed in weak artificial light. There were six beds he now counted, and the men and women lying in them were all deep in the kind of sleep that goes on for days, weeks, years, or even until the end of their lives, leaving loved ones to wonder: was he aware he was dying, or was he already long gone? The only sound was the quiet pumping of the ventilator by the neighbouring bed, which went on continuously as if it had a life of its own which would never end. The human race could die out, mortal bodies turn to dust, and this pump would go on gently rising and falling until the end of time.

'It's William,' he finally murmured. 'I'm here. Apparently people in comas can still hear. I don't know if that's true. Don't worry, I'm looking after Belphegor. He's eating his Virbac biscuits, the duck ones. Amandine and Pierre took over your work today; they'll finish restoring the Virgin Mary for you.'

He placed his hand over hers. It didn't move.

'I have to go to Berlin soon to do the ceiling for the German guy Schmidt or Schmirt, is it? you know, the gold mouldings.'

I'm scared of storms.

'I'll think of a plan for the cat. I'll think of something, don't worry.'

I'm scared of zoos. I'm scared because the animals are in cages.

'You have to wake up. You have to come back, Laure.'

I'm scared of boats.

'All this for a bag. I told you not to buy it, it was too nice.'

I'm scared when I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here.

I'm scared when I don't know where I am, and I don't know where I am. I don't know 'when' I am.

I'm scared when William talks to me and I can't say anything back.

The days had pa.s.sed between visits to Laure in the morning and Belphegor at night. Professor Baulieu had taken him into his office.

'Your sister ... She is your sister, isn't she?'

The doctor had a sweep of white hair, a rather round face and kind, laughing eyes. The ability to keep a degree of detachment and a sense of humour must be essential in this job, William thought to himself.

'What do you think?' he replied, smiling ruefully.

'I think ... you're not her brother,' the doctor said with a knowing smile. 'But that's really neither here nor there. What matters is that you're here, which is great, and you're the only one able to speak for her.'

William replied as best he could to the doctor's questions. Yes, he was effectively Laure's next of kin; she had lost her husband and parents and had no children only a sister who lived a long way away, in Moscow, from whom she heard only once or twice a year.

'She has a lot of friends, though,' William began explaining.

'Including you,' the doctor cut in, 'the best of them, the only one who's here. You must talk to her when you come. That's very important. She can hear you.'

'I do talk to her.'

'That's good,' the doctor said, nodding approvingly. 'Right, let me tell you where we are. Laure is in a mild form of coma caused by the head injury and the subdural haematoma that developed during the night. This sometimes happens to people involved in car crashes they go home feeling a bit dazed and collapse an hour later. The signs are encouraging. I see no cause for concern she should wake up within days. It seems she was mugged,' he said, consulting the notes on his desk.

'She had her bag stolen. I guess she must have tried to fight back,' replied William.

The doctor shook his head with a sigh. 'All for a handful of euros, and I've seen far worse,' he muttered.

William went on to answer a series of questions about Laure: Was he aware of any previous operations? Was she on any medication? Had she ever been involved in an accident? Any drug or alcohol addictions? If at all possible, he should also get hold of her social security number and a few other bits of paperwork. William said yes, he could supply that information the ateliers would provide the necessary doc.u.ments.

<script>