‘Thanks for letting me know. Have the police been looking for me? Do people still think I set fire to my own house?’
‘I’ve no idea what people think.’
‘I’ll be back in a few days.’
‘I’ve never been to Paris. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve never been any further than Söderköping.’
‘Didn’t you go to the Canaries, years and years ago?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Send me another picture,’ I said finally. ‘If you’re still there.’
The picture arrived a couple of minutes later; the house was a ruin. The fire had died down, although I could still see smoke and glowing embers. The coastguard had rigged up bright floodlights, illuminating the remains of the house with a ghostly brilliance. It was just possible to make out the shadowy figures of those who had helped to put out the blaze.
I got out of bed and looked down at the courtyard. Leaves and rubbish were swirling around in the strong wind. There was no sign of the rat I had spotted the previous day.
Lisa was waiting in reception when I went downstairs at ten o’clock. She rose to her feet as soon as she saw me.
‘Let’s go out,’ she said. ‘I need some fresh air.’
She turned into Rue de Vaugirard without knowing what she was doing. I hadn’t told her that this had once been my street, the longest in Paris. We walked towards Porte de Versailles; after about half an hour, when the gusts of wind were making it hard to walk, she led me to a bistro that I recognised from the time when I used to live nearby.
I remembered an occasion when I had had some money and decided to treat myself to breakfast before I embarked on the long trek to the clarinet workshop in Jourdain. I had ordered a hot chocolate and a sandwich. The elderly man who served me, who was probably the owner of the bistro, had stopped dead and bent double, banging his head on the metal counter. Everyone could see that he had been stricken with severe pain of some kind. It was early in the morning, and the bistro was full of people eating and drinking before they went to work. A man in blue overalls was standing next to me with a glass of red wine; he knocked it back just as the man behind the counter collapsed.
I don’t know what happened next. I couldn’t cope with the groaning, so I emptied my cup, picked up my food, put the money in a little plastic dish and walked out.
I went back the next day — in fact I went there almost every day for a month — but I never saw the elderly man again.
One day, over a month after the incident, the waiters were wearing black armbands on their white shirtsleeves.
I had never been back since then. Until now. I recognised the colour of the walls, although the tables and chairs had been replaced. Of course I didn’t recognise any of the staff or customers. What was familiar, I realised, was the sound of glasses being dipped into the washing-up bowls.
Lisa led me to a corner table next to the window overlooking the pavement section, which was closed. The tables and chairs were piled up and chained together. I felt as if I were looking at animals in a stall, waiting for the winter.
‘I used to live near here,’ I said. ‘But you couldn’t possibly have known that.’
‘You must be wondering why I’ve come to Paris,’ Lisa said. ‘We don’t know one another. You’re here to look for your daughter. But why have I come? I’ve even lied to my editor about the reason for my trip.’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘That’s my business. It’s nothing to do with you.’
Her tone was sharp, and we didn’t say anything else for a while.
After we’d finished our drinks, we continued on our way. Rue de Vaugirard seemed endless, just as I remembered from when I had lived there. I recalled a Saturday afternoon when hordes of young people came pouring down the street. Later I found out they were on their way to a concert at Porte de Versailles where an English pop group that everyone was talking about was playing. They were called the Beatles. I knew nothing about their music; I lived in the world of jazz, although I did occasionally attend the organ recitals in the church at Saint-Germain.
This whole excursion seemed utterly pointless. I stopped.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Nowhere. Or to another cafe.’
‘Why have you come to Paris?’
‘Let’s keep walking,’ she replied.
We went into a bistro near Rue de Cadix; it wasn’t lunchtime yet, and there were very few customers. We sat right at the back. The waiter was old and walked with a limp. Lisa ordered a bottle of red wine; she chose the most expensive item on the grubby wine list. Her selection made me feel even more anxious. The waiter — who stank of sweaty armpits — brought the bottle and two glasses. Lisa noticed the smell too. She smiled at me.
‘I came because I was wondering what you really think.’
‘Think about what?’
‘I’ve noticed how you look at me, from that very first time when I wanted to hear about the fire. I wasn’t really surprised when you turned up asking to stay the night. You’re not the first man who’s stood there howling on my doorstep.’
‘I wasn’t howling. And what I told you was absolutely true.’
She frowned, as if my answer had annoyed her. When she spoke I realised she was angry.
‘You don’t have to lie to me.’
‘I haven’t lied to you.’
She pushed away her glass and leaned across the table.
‘You’ve lied to me,’ she insisted.
‘I haven’t.’
‘You have!’
This came out as a yell; she sounded like my daughter. In my peripheral vision I could see that the waiter had noticed what was going on, but he simply turned away and carried on wiping down tables.
That’s what the world is like, I thought vaguely to myself. People turning away everywhere you look.
I tried to remain calm, to pick up my glass without shaking. I swallowed the contents and got to my feet. I put some money on the table without saying a word, then walked out. I headed down the street as fast as I could; when I reached the Metro station at Porte de Versailles, I hurried underground and caught the train to Montparnasse.
I immediately regretted my actions. What had Lisa been trying to tell me? I sat in that rattling train carriage feeling totally exposed. She had seen inside my grubby old-man’s thoughts and decided to find out what I really wanted. Did I actually imagine that there could be any kind of romance between us? Didn’t I realise that she was offended now she had discovered what my motives were?
I carried on past Montparnasse and didn’t get off the train until we reached the Right Bank. I was in Châtelet once more. When I emerged into the daylight, it had started raining. I went into a newsagent’s and bought an umbrella.
I had just put it up when my phone rang. I stood outside a shoe shop under the projecting roof.
It was Olof Rutgersson. He immediately asked where I was.
‘Out in the rain,’ I replied. ‘With a newly purchased umbrella.’
‘I just wanted to let you know that Madame Riveri will be picking up your daughter at three o’clock this afternoon. I knew she was good, but even so I have to say this is sensationally fast. She must have had a very positive personal relationship with the judge in charge of the case. Your daughter will be released. Madame Riveri is going to call you to arrange a meeting place. For the exchange.’
‘The exchange?’
‘She hands over your daughter, you pay her for her work.’
‘Is Louise being deported?’
‘I don’t know, but if our esteemed Madame Riveri says she’s going to be released, then she’s going to be released. And that’s the most important thing.’