‘A trip to Paris is a big thank you for an uncomfortable sofa.’
‘You’re wrong.’
She laughed.
‘You’ve got my phone number,’ I went on. ‘Call me when you arrive and I’ll meet you.’
‘I’m not coming. We don’t know one another.’
‘I know myself. I mean what I say.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Arlanda, waiting for my flight. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more lonely in my life. I can’t imagine what it will be like when I’m dead.’
‘What do you mean?’ she said again.
‘That death seems to be a very lonely place, and an equally lonely state.’
‘I’ve got work to do. I can’t just swan off to Paris.’
‘Write about Paris. Write about the arsonist who’s on the run, looking for his daughter.’
‘Have you managed to get hold of her?’
‘No. I’m getting more and more worried.’
She didn’t say anything for a long time; life seemed to stop. Lisa Modin was present but silent. I was waiting for her to say that she loved me. I didn’t love her, I just had an overpowering need for a woman, any woman, and I was ready to say anything in order to persuade her.
When I was younger, a woman I had dumped accused me of being like a spider, catching my prey then watching it struggle. I never ate my victims, I just scuttled away to spin a new web.
‘Are you coming or not?’ I asked when the silence began to feel uncomfortable.
‘Not.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘What exactly are you expecting?’
‘Nothing. Company, that’s all.’
‘This conversation is making me uneasy.’
‘That wasn’t my intention.’
‘I’ll text you the address of the hotel.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I can’t talk any more right now.’
‘Why not?’
She ended the call, and neither of us rang back.
The plane was indeed two hours late by the time we took off. When Paris finally lay glittering below us, we had to wait in a holding pattern before we were allowed to land. I stayed in my seat, observing my fellow passengers as they grabbed their outdoor clothing and hand luggage. It was as if they had all lost vital time and were now pushing and shoving to get off the plane as quickly as possible. I watched the whole thing with growing astonishment. A flock of people, desperate to flee. But from what? Cramped seats, fear of flying or their own lives? Had I been like them once upon a time, a person who regarded time as a game where winning or losing was all that mattered? I knew I had, but now that time really was an issue for me, the important thing was to be careful with whatever I had left.
I was the last person to disembark. One of the stewardesses was yawning so widely that I could almost hear her jaw crack. It reminded me of an occasion when I had arrived in Paris by train, having developed severe toothache the previous night in Hamburg. It was a very cold winter and I had stayed put on the train when it stopped at the Gare du Nord until a sour-faced conductor flung open the door of my compartment and ordered me to get off. I was sixteen years old at the time, escaping from a muddled decision to leave school.
The airport, with its many escalators, reminded me of a factory I had visited with my father when he was running the canteen there for a brief period. We arrived early in the morning, just before the first shift was due to clock on. I had the same feeling now as I approached passport control and customs. I was waved through without anyone asking for my passport or ID; no one was interested in my suitcase either.
The night was chilly as I emerged through the glass doors, looking for the airport bus. However, I immediately changed my mind. Why go to my hotel and sit around in reception until late afternoon, when my room would be available? I went back inside the terminal building and found some empty plastic chairs. I lay down, using my suitcase as a pillow, and soon fell asleep. Unfortunately I woke up every time someone came near me. I had learned the art of dropping off for just a few minutes at a time during the years I spent on call at various hospitals.
It was just after seven o’clock when I sat up. My body was frozen stiff. I had a cup of coffee and a croissant in a cafe that had just opened. The black woman who served me had a noticeable scar down one cheek and part of her ear on the same side was also missing. I wondered which African civil war with its concomitant slaughterhouse she had managed to escape from. Liberia? Rwanda? I smiled at her to show that I understood, but she looked tired; perhaps she was also someone who could no longer trust people.
I sensed so many of the dead behind her. Family, friends, strangers who had not managed to get away, unlike her.
By quarter to eight the airport was beginning to fill up. I went outside and got on a bus showing the Opéra as its final destination. Half the seats were occupied by a large number of Chinese men and women who belonged to a tour group. The group leader moved up and down the aisle, chatting to them. I found a seat right at the back, wondering if I ought to mention that my shirt was made in China.
A black family with an enormous amount of luggage were the last to board before the bus set off with a jolt. The journey into the city centre was drawn out and tedious, with frequent delays. The view from the window was the same as the view in so many other countries. The densely packed traffic induced in me a feeling of despair about the world into which I had been born and in which I happened to live. What were these people, many of them alone in their cars, thinking? Were they thinking at all?
I carried on staring out of the window but decided to ignore the traffic and turn my attention instead to how I was going to track down Louise. My French was far from perfect, but I could usually make myself understood and grasp what others were saying to me.
I got off at the Opéra, which looked almost exactly the same as it had fifty years ago when I saw it for the first time. I had intended to walk to Montparnasse, but after a glance at the Metro map I realised the distance was too great. As a young man I had happily walked from the city centre to the outskirts to visit a flea market, or simply in order to get to know different areas, but now it was too far. I made my way underground and found the line which would take me to Montparnasse, with one change at Châtelet. I remembered that the line going east from Châtelet used to have the most up-to-date trains. Those new trains had rubber wheels that hissed instead of scraping and squealing. I couldn’t get a seat and was squashed up against several women talking to each other in low, intense voices.
By the time I emerged it had started to drizzle, but I knew where I was going. Rue d’Odessa was quite close by, and it took me ten minutes to get to my hotel, during which time I kept having to duck to avoid open umbrellas that threatened to poke me in the eye. It was ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be allowed access to my room for several hours. The brass nameplate did indeed show three stars. The building dated from the end of the nineteenth century and the stone was somewhat crumbling, as if the place was slowly but imperceptibly falling down. The main door was up a short flight of steps, and an African girl was busy cleaning the glass with the name of the hotel etched upon it. She smiled and opened the door for me.
The compact reception area, adorned with brown wallpaper and wooden panelling, smelled of lavender. A thick, worn rug covered the floor. It was dark red, with a motif of smiling mermaids woven into it. A man was standing behind the counter, looking at me with what I perceived to be an odd expression. Then I realised he had a glass eye, just like Oslovski.
I produced my credit card and my temporary passport, and told him in halting French that I had a room booked. He immediately found my name on his computer screen and said that a different card had been used to secure the booking. I explained that this was my wife’s card, but that I wanted him to use the one I had just handed over.