“Matron, the door’s obviously been forced,” Dr. Lambert said. “Let’s make sure security’s on the way.”
“Of course, Doctor,” she said, her tone completely altered.
“I heard him bashing things,” said Mimi, “I turned on my Books on Tape, hit the wall, then yelled. I must have scared him away.”
“But I want it known this woman was in residence without my knowledge, much less my authority or consent,” said the matron. “Someone’s got to pay for the damages. I won’t take the blame. Why should my competence be put in question?”
“Please understand, this TGV accident threw everything into chaos . . . a huge overload of cases, not enough beds,” he said, trying to soothe her. “We’ve bent the rules a bit, but no one will point any fingers, I assure you.”
Aimée couldn’t believe his reaction. “I’d call this a police matter. Don’t you have security cameras here?”
“At the hospital entrance, so I’m told,” Mimi said. “Not here. Look, Aimée’s been attacked. Why blame her!”
But the matron must have already bustled out of the room.
“Where are my things?” Aimée asked. What if the attacker got her laptop and phone! “I have to check. Please help me.”
“Someone’s got to clean you up,” he said, “again!”
Her fingers throbbed where she had scraped them. She prayed she could still use a keyboard.
Dr. Lambert called for a nurse to medicate and bandage her hands. Then he left the room, but Aimée heard him talking with the matron in the hallway and greeting security when it arrived.
As soon as the nurse arrived, Aimée had her search the room. “Tell me what you find.”
“Well, the mattress is turned over, sheets and pillows everywhere, chairs upside down.”
“Please look in the closet.”
“Leather jacket, shoes all tumbled about. A mess.”
“Can you look in the drawer?”
“There’s a laptop computer,” said the nurse.
Thank God.
“Tubes of Ultralash mascara, a Chanel red lipstick, lipliner, powder, and perfume bottle on the floor. A black silk teddy mixed up with what looks like red and white wires.”
Her phone-line splicer cables. “What about my cell phone?”
“No sign,” the nurse said. “Not even under the bed.”
Great. Now they could get to her another way. Nothing remained private anymore. France Télécom held a wealth of information, if one knew how to crack the database. She’d done it often enough herself.
Still, she’d had Josiane’s phone in her pajama pocket. That at least was safe. And she guessed that the assailant had wanted it. That’s what this was about. And he’d find out soon enough he’d taken the wrong one.
She called the Commissariat and asked for Sergeant Bellan.
“Not here. What’s this about?”
By the time she recounted the circumstances and been transferred to the correct department, her lip trembled nonstop. She was afraid her words were no longer clear enough to be understood.
“We’ll send someone over,” a policewoman said. “but it could take a while. A big rig overturned on the Périphérique and it’s a mess.”
She asked the nurse to help her cancel her cell phone service.
“I’m sorry this happened, but you can’t stay here,” Dr. Lambert was saying. “Normally it wouldn’t matter. But with the property damage and matron upset . . .”
“I don’t care if she is. I’ve called the flics.”
She felt a finger on her lips. Nice and warm. His?
“I understand. Our reaction may seem callous but I’ll try and explain. The Ministry of Health’s threatened to close some hospitals. Our funding’s under review, so we all feel stretched right now. Services are tight, and the proposal to expand the day clinic’s outreach for the quartier’s underserved residents is crucial. We’d rather not make waves right now.” She felt Dr. Lambert’s arm around her shoulder.
“I think the attacker came back looking for . . .”
“Accommodating you here was my idea,” Dr. Lambert interrupted. “A bad one. But from now on, we’ll keep you safe. Forgive me, but you need to be checked often. The timing’s critical . . . we must monitor you closely until we know the extent of your vision loss.”
Despite his irritating stupidity, she liked how his warm hand felt on her shoulder, his lingering Vetiver scent, even his starched cardboardlike lab coat. How smart would it be to jeopardize any chance of regaining her vision?
And then she remembered. “But Doctor, I forgot. For an instant I could see. I saw gray fog, streetlights shining, and cars. It was so wonderful.”
Silence. “Just don’t hope for too much. Be thankful for what little you get.”
“But I saw again! Even if just for a few seconds . . . so it means I’m getting better . . . non? ”
“Often that happens . . . a gray cottony film or fog?” She nodded.
“That could be flottes, random detached tissue. Or it could be due to the easing of the pressure. Whether full vision will return permanently . . . that’s a hard call.”
Crushed, she turned away. She didn’t want him to see her in tears. Or shaking from fear. She had to find her phone, get out of here, find a place to stay.
“We’ll locate a bed for you in the hospital. It might be in the hallway but . . .”
“In case you forgot, if the attacker found me here, he’d find me there. No thanks, I’ll stay with friends.”
But who? René’s tiny studio brimmed with computers. Too small. Especially for her and Miles Davis. And too far away, as well. Martine’s boyfriend’s place, in the ultra bourgeois 16th arrondissement, wouldn’t be comfortable, now that all his children were living with them.
Live in her office? She’d done it before, but it wouldn’t be safe to stay there.
Martine’s cousin’s Bastille apartment was nearby, but having only been there once, she’d have to become better at navigating before she could get there, much less live in a strange place.
Outside she heard the bleating siren of a police van. She imagined the white police car, the flashing blue lights and red arrows striping the side. Was she nostalgic for the flics now? Pathetic.
“It’s imperative that you stay nearby,” Dr. Lambert said. “The way things look right now, it’s difficult to schedule another MRI, which you need. I’ll have to try to fit you in when there’s an opening. Can you pay rent?”
“If need be. Why?”
She heard him tapping on a cell phone. Then his voice.
“Madame Danoux, ça va? Still need a boarder? Bon . . . one of my patients. . . . You are a lifesaver, merci!”
* * *
AIMÉE, HER laptop and bag hanging heavily from her shoulder, walked with Chantal to the rear entrance of the rési-dence. They caught a taxi which dropped them off on rue Charenton, just a block away. But she’d had the taxi circle the area several times until she felt safe. Chantal helped her count out the francs for the fare. Each bill was folded differently, so she could distinguish its denomination.
“You’ve got more to learn, Aimée,” Chantal said. “We’ve got to get your orientation scheduled. But luckily you didn’t end up on the cobblestones. Things could have been a lot worse, eh?”
True. But her lip hadn’t stopped trembling. Thank God Chantal couldn’t see that.
“Chin up.” And with that Chantal left her on the second floor landing of a building that smelt of old cooking oil and musty corners.
“Crap!” seethed a soprano voice.