moving smoothly forward, the airbags inflating like bubble gum and the metal shell lightly crumpling, as if rippled by a warm breeze.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Laurent gave up trying to shave. The electric razor, whose buzzing was the soundtrack to all his mornings, had made a tired groaning sound when he turned it on and had now stopped altogether, giving way to silence. He turned the razor off and on again, tapped the foil, unplugged it and plugged it back in again. Nothing. The Braun 860 with its three rotating blades had given up the ghost. Laurent was upset. He couldn’t bear to throw the razor away, at least not yet. He laid it down reverentially in the clam dish brought back from Greece ten years ago. His Gillette razor that he found mouldering in a drawer also turned out to be useless, because of a second setback. When he turned on the bath tap, he was greeted by a dull hiss. No water. The notice announcing that the water would be turned off had been up in the hallway of his building for a week, but he’d forgotten. Laurent looked in the mirror and saw a badly shaven man with strangely dishevelled hair after a restless night. There was just enough water in the kettle for one cup of coffee.
As he left the building he glanced over at the metal shutter of the shop. Shortly he would raise it by turning a key in the electronic panel, then nod a greeting to his neighbour Jean Martel (of Le Temps Perdu, antiques – bric-a-brac – bought and sold) enjoying a café crème on the terrace of the Jean Bart. He would also wave to the lady from the dry-cleaner’s (La Blanche Colombe – Specialist Dry-cleaning) who in turn would wave back through the window. Then after the shutter was up he would look over his own shop window as he always did with its ‘New fiction’, ‘Art books’, ‘Bestsellers’, alongside ‘Books we love’ and ‘Must reads’.
On the stroke of ten-thirty, Maryse would arrive, followed by Damien. The team complete, the day could begin. They would unpack the deliveries of books and help customers with their varied requests. ‘I’m looking for that novel about the Second World War. I can’t remember who it’s by or the name of the publisher.’ And then there would be the recommendations. ‘Madame Berthier, I really think you should try this. You were looking for something light to distract you. I guarantee you’ll love it.’ And the orders to put through. ‘Yes, hello, Le Cahier Rouge here. Could I order three copies of Don Juan, Molière, the Bibliolycée paperback edition?’ And the returns: ‘Hello, it’s Le Cahier Rouge. I’d like to return four copies of Tristesse d’été. It’s not selling and I’m changing my displays.’ There would be events to plan: ‘Laurent Letellier from Le Cahier Rouge here. Would it be possible to organise a signing with your author …?’
When he had bought it, the bookshop had been a moribund café, Le Celtique, run by an elderly couple. They were waiting to sell up so that they could return to the Auvergne and Laurent was their unexpected saviour. The café had the added advantage of coming with a flat. That, however, was a mixed blessing. It eliminated travelling, but it also meant that Laurent never left his place of work.
Laurent walked round the square and up Rue de la Pentille. He was carrying the latest novel by Frédéric Pichier, who was coming in for a signing the following week. Laurent planned to reread the notes he had jotted in the book over a double espresso sitting outside l’Espérance café, where he often ended up on his morning perambulations. The book told the story of a young farm worker during the Great War. It was the fourth book from the author, who had made his name with Tears of Sand, the story of a Napoleonic soldier falling in love with a young Egyptian girl during the French campaign in the Middle East. Pichier was adept at setting the sufferings of his characters against the backdrop of great historical events. Laurent couldn’t make up his mind whether Pichier was just a good storyteller or a real writer. There were arguments for both views. But in any case, the book was selling very well and the signing session would certainly be popular.
As he was walking along, Maryse sent him a text. Her train had been delayed and she might be late. ‘Keep me posted, Maryse,’ Laurent texted back before setting off along Rue Vivant-Denon. As he reached number 6, he checked to make sure his customer, Madame Merlier, had opened her blinds. The old lady, who looked remarkably like the actress Marguerite Moreno, was an avid reader and always rose early. She had remarked to Laurent one day, ‘If I haven’t opened my blinds, I’ll either be dead or well on the way.’ They had agreed that Laurent would call an ambulance if he ever saw the blinds down in daytime. But everything was fine at number 6; the blinds were open. Almost the only ones on the street in fact, apparently people were enjoying a lie-in. The area was deserted. He continued on his way down Rue du Passe-Musette. L’Espérance café was right at the end, on the corner between the boulevard and the weekend market. The bins had been put out in front of each courtyard door, some accompanied by pieces of old furniture awaiting the large waste collection. Laurent passed one of the bins, slowing down – it had taken a little time to register what he had seen – then turned back and retraced his steps.
There was a handbag on top of the bin. It was mauve leather and in very good condition. It had several compartments and zipped pockets, two broad handles, a shoulder strap and gold clasps. Instinctively Laurent glanced around him – an absurd thing to do; no woman was suddenly going to appear and come and claim her property. From the way the leather bulged it was obvious it wasn’t empty. Had it been damaged and empty the owner would have thrown it into the bin, and not left it on top. In any case, did women ever throw their handbags away? Laurent thought about the woman who had shared his life for twelve years. No, Claire had never thrown away any of her bags. She had several and changed them with the seasons. She never threw away shoes either; not even when the little straps on her court shoes wore out – she would have them mended at the cobbler’s. In fact, even when the shoes were beyond repair, Laurent had never seen a pair in the kitchen bin amongst the peelings. They just mysteriously disappeared. It was still possible that a woman might have thrown away her bag, despite these thoughts that took him back to his past. But on the other hand, the fact that the pristine bag was sitting on its own on top of the bin seemed to suggest something more sinister. A theft, for example.
Laurent lifted the bag. He half opened the main zip and saw that it did indeed contain many ‘personal effects’ as they were called. He was about to look through the bag when a young woman came out of a doorway, dragging a suitcase on wheels. She went past, then looked back at him. When her eye met Laurent’s, she speeded up imperceptibly, then disappeared round the corner. At that moment, Laurent realised how shady he looked – a man on his own, ill-shaven with unkempt hair, opening a woman’s handbag on top of a bin … He shut it hastily. What was the moral course of action now: to take it with him or to leave it where it was? Somewhere in the city, a woman had almost certainly been robbed of her bag and in all probability had given up hope of ever seeing it again. I’m the only one who knows where it is, he thought, and if I leave it here it will be destroyed by the refuse collectors or stolen all over again.
Laurent reached a decision: he picked it up and went off up the street. The police station was only ten minutes away. He would drop it off there, fill in a form or two, then come back and settle down in the café.
It was strange carrying the bag. Like walking a pet that had been given to you and which only followed you with great reluctance. Laurent held the gold strap like a lead, having wound it round his hand a bit so that the bag wouldn’t swing about and attract attention. He was carrying something that wasn’t his, that had no business being on his shoulder. Another woman had looked down at the bag then back up at Laurent.
As he made his way up the boulevard, his discomfort increased. He felt as if everyone he passed was covertly watching him, having instantly grasped what was wrong with the image: a man with a woman’s bag. A mauve one. He would never have imagined that walking about with it would be such an uncomfortable experience. Yet he remembered how sometimes Claire had given him her bag while she went back up to the flat to get her cigarettes or went to the loo in a café. So he had found himself on the street holding a woman’s handbag. He remembered that he had felt a sort of amused embarrassment but it had never lasted long. Claire would immediately reappear and
