before getting tangled up in one of his depressing explanations.” David then understands that the apparent disorder of the corkboard, that shelf of various scraps of paper, seemingly through pure accident, is the result of a meticulous staging. What was that earlier about an entente cordiale?
Furious, vexed, he turns his back to the desk, to the corkboard and its multicolored patchwork, then takes off in big strides toward the hallway plunged into darkness. The entire apartment suddenly feels like a trap, filled with snares, as if Prote, the great chess player, had anticipated the every move of his American tenant. David briefly considers leaving to take refuge in a nearby hotel, but despite his mounting unease, the temptation to stay and continue his exploration is too strong, no matter the cost to his pride.
For example, that large armoire, which seems to be installed purposefully in the middle of the hallway to keep people from moving. Hideous opulent-looking piece of furniture, also in dark wood, covered in overly ornate spirals and slightly ajar as if purposefully to provoke curiosity. But before taking a closer look, David goes back to the bar in the living room, opens the glass doors, takes out a bottle of port, and serves himself a large glass. He then notices the label depicts a man wearing a large cape and a big black hat that plunges his face into shadow, like Aristide Bruant. The brand is Sandeman, like “l’homme au sable.” The translator drains his glass in one go and turns back to the armoire obstructing the hallway. He pushes opens the heavy doors, then examines what’s inside by the dim light of the only weak light bulb illuminating the hallway.
For just a moment, David raises his eyes towards the glimmering filament and, fascinated, discovers something he did not notice during his recent tour of the apartment, under Prote’s guidance: opposite the sinister armoire, the entire wall is covered in a fresco painted in a trompe l’oeil style, divided in two equal parts by a horizontal line at eye level. Beneath the horizon, the green, immobile waves of a marine landscape unfurl toward the ground; above and up to the ceiling stretches a stormy sky where a single bird is flying, perhaps a seagull or an albatross, which seems to be moving away as fast as it can. And in the middle of the hallway, just opposite him, right next to a tower covered in foliage, a dislocated puppet with a black braid protruding diagonally toward the lower left corner of the fresco seems to be flying toward the clouds or falling toward the sea. Suddenly dizzy, David turns back toward the gaping doors of the armoire.
In the shadows of the nearly empty shelves, he thinks he hears Prote’s voice:
“Easter is quickly approaching. I rather like that primarily Anglo-Saxon tradition of hiding painted eggs in the corners of an apartment or of a garden to excite the curiosity of children. I know you’re there. Now keep searching. There are still several eggs for you to discover.”
David takes a step forward, then opens the wooden panels. Their interior is entirely covered in smooth purple velvet. An altarpiece, he thinks, it looks like an altarpiece. Ties striped with somber colors and patterns are lined up on the left panel, bowties are hanging from a horizontal string pinned up on the right side. These two parentheses, striped on the left, sprinkled with multicolored polka dots to the right, encase a few dark wooden shelves, which at first glance are nearly empty.
A model Super Constellation sits in the middle of the top shelf. David picks up the thin fuselage carefully, squeezing the plastic tube interspersed with windows, just as at low tide one might catch a crab between the rocks: you have to close your thumb and index finger in a horseshoe shape just behind the pinchers to evade the crustacean’s hostility. The wings of the model come a bit unstuck, David handles it with caution. Like a connoisseur, he admires the silhouette of the machine, then, from front to back, the oval shape of the nose, the contours of the cabin, the roundness of the windows, the curve of the fragile wings, the ovular twin tail. Easter eggs. Hiding places. When he points the Super Constellation to the ground, a small hard object clinks around inside the long slender tube. Then David points the plane’s nose toward the ceiling, as if to make it take off at a twenty-degree angle, and the same invisible object rolls inside again, this time toward the tailplane. A hidden treasure? A chocolate egg several decades old? A clue of more things to discover? No. To chase away the thought, he blows on the model, which is immediately surrounded by a halo of thick dust, as if the 50s long-haul plane had crossed a thick layer of clouds above the Atlantic and was about to be swallowed up by those of the opposite wall. While sneezing, he thinks of Doris, who, at this hour, must be somewhere between New York and Paris, aboard a much less enticing plane.
David sets the plane back on its tiny wooden runway, then next to the model he notices a worn but lavish hat, at the bottom of which he reads the initials M.-E. P., stitched on the midnight blue silk lining.
He decides to explore the other shelves. At the very bottom of the armoire, pairs of shoes shine softly, arranged as though at a starting line. David imagines them dashing into the hallway and running through the apartment, moved by a hundred invisible men desperately searching for the exit or for their bandages. Incidentally, on the shelf immediately above the shoes, the presence of several Velpeau bandages lends itself to that fantasy.
Higher up, on the next shelf, David finds a large painted egg, which sends a shiver down his spine, constricts his stomach. The egg is covered in a continuous pattern, an uneven border strip on a violet background tracing a labyrinth of black and crimson curls. The egg seems to be made for his palm and as, astonished, he separates the two strictly identical halves, David is surprised to find on the inside another egg identical to the first, apart from its size. Separating this one into two halves that are also interchangeable, he notices at the bottom of a half-shell a shiny silver key, which he pockets without hesitating, his heart racing.
On the second to last shelf, just below the dusty Super Constellation, David discovers a small crown of violets that has been withering for a long time and, attached to the shriveled and brittle stems by a thin metallic thread twisted around them several times, a note written in faded violet ink: “To my beloved Dolores, with all the love from the lover of words. For your hundredth. Maurice.”
David places this token of affection back on the shelf, then goes to the living room to serve himself another glass of port. He feels like he’s jumped seventy years into the past, to the strange summer solstice evoked by that love letter and by the article he just read from Paris-Soir. Ubiquity. Like father, like son. Same tricks. Same fondness for manipulation. Back in front of the armoire with the open panels covered in things he never wears—ties and bow ties—in the middle of that sparse display case, next to the crown of violets that’s been withering for several decades, David notices a book with the title Fragments épars. Since these two words mean nothing to him, he sets the book back down right away and then notices a musty odor, a cave-like humidity. He moves closer to the armoire, almost steps inside, feeling vaguely ridiculous; he examines the bottom, riddled with large dark cracks, where these deleterious emanations seem to be coming from.
He has an idea. Taking off his jacket, he tries to jiggle the shelves on their brackets. First he puts the objects on the ground, then he takes down the shelves one after another and leans them against the wall. Excited, he finds himself in front of a large white perforated panel that resists his pressure. In the shadow of the armoire, a gleaming keyhole catches his eye. David thinks immediately of the silver key that he recently pocketed. He takes it, slides it into the small opening, watches it go in without much effort. Then, like a door, the panel at the bottom of the armoire pivots on its hinges and opens onto a dark space. He needs a candle, a lamp, a lighter … David goes into the kitchen, opens cupboards and drawers, finally finds a flashlight that seems to be working. Just in case, he also grabs a few candles and matches, which he finds above the old-fashioned stove.
He goes back into the hallway, walks along the seaside fresco with the dislocated puppet, then turns to face the rigged armoire. The bottom is now wide open. Stepping over the impeccably arranged shoes (it is indeed a starting line, but David crosses it in the wrong direction, as if at the last minute he renounced the competition, preferring invisibility, solitude, and
