‘Will I be able to get into the room at two o’clock?’ I asked.
The receptionist wore a name badge announcing that he was Monsieur Pierre. His expression was friendly as he said, ‘You can go up now. We had a guest who left very early, poor man — at half past four.’
He nodded in the direction of the black girl who was still polishing the glass door.
‘Rachel has already cleaned your room.’
He took down an old, heavy key with the number 213, pointed towards the lift and bade me welcome.
My room overlooked a courtyard at the back. Just as in the reception area, everything was in shades of brown, and once again there was the scent of lavender. The place wasn’t large, but Rachel had done her job well. I took off my shoes, folded back the bedspread and lay down. I gazed up at the ceiling, where a network of thin black cracks extended across a white background.
The ceiling was like a fog that was beginning to lift.
I took out my phone and tried Louise’s number once again. Still no answer, still no possibility of leaving a message.
I thought about the ruins of my house. About the tent out on the skerry, used by some unknown person.
And now room 213.
I remembered what Louise had told me about the Japanese garden known as the Ocean of Emptiness.
Suddenly there was just one thought in my head. I didn’t want to die of a heart attack or a stroke in this hotel room. Not before I had found my daughter. I sat up; I had to start searching for her. I went over to the window; it was raining harder now.
I caught a glimpse of a rat disappearing among the rubbish bins.
I left the room. The lift was busy and didn’t arrive even though I pressed the button several times. I met Rachel on the stairs, carrying a pile of clean sheets. She smiled at me again, and I thanked her for cleaning my room so well. I gave her a five-euro note and carried on down the stairs.
When I glanced over my shoulder, she was standing there watching me.
Chapter 15
In reception I asked Monsieur Pierre if I could borrow the Paris telephone directories. He immediately offered to look up the number I wanted on his computer, but I declined; I didn’t want to tell him that I was going to make a list of all the prisons and police stations in the city.
He gave me the heavy directories; I also asked him for a pen and some paper, then settled down in the closed bar. I spent almost an hour jotting down addresses and phone numbers. I also found the name of the prison where I had spent an afternoon, a night and several hours the following morning in the spring of 1968.
I had realised that my visit coincided with the student riots only when I was looking for cheap accommodation around the Latin Quarter. I ended up right in the middle of utter chaos — burning cars, tear gas, riot police, a boiling sea of people. Of course I was aware of the student movement in Europe, but I had never been a part of it. I had just started training to be a doctor and never joined in the political discussions over lunch or at break time. I distrusted those who became doctors in order to travel to poor countries. I wanted to be a doctor so that I could earn a good salary and have the freedom to choose where I worked. The thought of going off to Africa or Asia was complete anathema to me. I regarded my colleagues who were contemplating such a course of action as naive; I had no doubt that they would change their minds or regret their decision. Today I think I was probably wrong.
I had gone to Paris for a week because my exams were over. I went alone, looking forward to strolling along the boulevards. I had no plans other than to immerse myself in the anonymity of the city.
I found a small, shabby boarding house not far from the Sorbonne, then went out for something to eat. There were no demonstrations, no burning cars, no ranks of riot police. I turned into a side street where I knew there were a number of restaurants. It was a very short street, and in seconds two police cars arrived and blocked off both ends. A large number of officers poured out and arrested everyone in sight. There was no explanation; I was simply thrown in the back of a dark blue police van with barred windows and driven away. We were an odd mixture of men and women, French workers, students and foreign tourists. Nobody knew what was going on. One of the women started to cry. I don’t remember whether I was afraid or merely surprised. However, I do recall that I was very hungry.
I didn’t get any food until the following day. We were delivered to the police station on the Île de la Cité and bundled into a gigantic windowless cellar. I counted over two hundred people sitting on the stone floor or on the benches lining the whitewashed walls. I could see no connection between the members of this disparate group. Some of the women might have been prostitutes, judging by their clothing, but most were perfectly ordinary people. No doubt many of them were just as hungry as I was.
Our passports or ID documents were taken away, but no one would tell us why we had been arrested. During the night a rumour spread, alleging that it had nothing to do with the student protests. Apparently some hitchhikers had murdered a driver somewhere between Rouen and Paris. I looked around the enormous prison cell and couldn’t see anyone that looked like a hitchhiking killer.
In the morning I was taken to an interview room, where I explained that I was a medical student, that I had a week off and was staying in a boarding house in Paris. The officer sighed, returned my passport and suggested that I should avoid open areas for the rest of my visit. As I was hungry and tired after a sleepless night on the concrete floor, I immediately replied, ‘I’m on the side of the students, of course.’
I went straight to a cafe and ordered coffee and sandwiches. I spent the rest of the week sticking close to the walls of buildings whenever I ventured out, and I felt a surge of anxiety every time I saw a police car.
I gave the directories back to Monsieur Pierre and left the hotel, taking care not to leave any fingerprints on the newly polished glass doors.
The sun was shining through a thin mist. I was struck by the fact that the people I saw, with very few exceptions, were younger than me. It had never been more noticeable. I was part of a marginal group on my way out of this life. Every person who passed me drove the point home as they hurried towards destinations of which I knew nothing.
When I was young I was one of those people who used to run up the escalator. I was always in a rush, even if I wasn’t actually going anywhere in particular. One desolate Midsummer’s Eve in Stockholm I went to visit the Museum of Modern Art in Skeppsholmen. Afterwards I followed an attractive woman, who must have been ten years older than me, taking care to keep my distance. My only aim was to watch her walking in front of me. We had reached Norrmalmstorg when she suddenly stopped, turned and smiled. I caught up with her and she asked what I wanted.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I guess we’re just going in the same direction.’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘We’re not. And you are going to stay here and stop following me, otherwise I won’t be smiling.’
I watched her turn into Biblioteksgatan. At that moment I wasn’t the oldest person on the street.
The memory of that long night in the prison cell had made me hungry. I strolled down the street and couldn’t help calling in at La Coupole, even though I suspected that particular restaurant charged an arm and a leg because of its reputation. To my surprise it wasn’t too busy. I was immediately shown to a table for one overlooking the pavement cafe.