The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (11 page)

     —The message is, never give up, I told her an hour later in my office, where I had persuaded her to join me for a cup of coffee before I launched myself once more into writing the talk I was about to give in Lyon. I’d been recounting the story of l’Hôpital des Incurables. —Believe me, we’ve come a long way from talking about incurability, I reassured her. —We simply don’t even accept it as a notion at the Clinique de l’Horizon. However desperate Louis’ situation looks, Madame Drax – can I call you Natalie? – we will try to get through to him. Track him down. Coax him out.

     Speech over, I smiled and let my eyes wander up to the phrenological map which hangs on the wall adjacent to us.
Memory, moral faculties, reasoning, mental energy, language, love
  ...

     —You think he’s hiding? she asked softly, her eyes drifting to my bonsai trees. —I didn’t think you saw it like that.

     —Some of them are hiding, I said. —Others are just ... lost. You have to prune the taproots as well as the branches, I told her. —It’s very delicate.

     —They’re beautiful, she said. —In a macabre sort of way.

     —It’s not macabre. It’s art more than horticulture. My wife calls them my geriatric babies. But they’re much easier than children.

     —And more rewarding? she smiled.

     —Sometimes.

     —You have children?

     —Two girls. Grown up.

     —Is a brain the same as a soul, Dr Dannachet? she asked suddenly. —I mean, if Louis’ brain is damaged, is he still Louis?

     —He’s still Louis, I said. —In some shape or form. You know, in some cannibal societies, they consumed the brains of their enemies. Literally swallowing the organ that – they thought – housed the soul. Our culture doesn’t believe in the soul. We talk about the mind as a social construct. Or as meat that thinks and tells stories, and invents things like the idea of ‘soul’, to comfort itself. We’ve ruled out magic.

     —I haven’t, she said, firmly. She took out an envelope from her handbag. —You asked me about what sort of boy Louis is. And then she spilled dozens of photographs across my desk. —Now you can see. I’ve got hundreds. I just brought a few.

     As I leafed through the pictures, she talked more about her son. His passions, his unusual mind, his interest in animal life, aeroplanes, various heroes. I was touched. You could see an alertness in the boy’s eyes, a hunger to know things. Most of the pictures showed Louis on his own; they must have been taken by her. But one in particular struck me, because it showed them together. He was just a baby, held swaddled in her arms. Her eyes looked sad and exhausted, and a little watchful, as though even then, she was having to protect her child from something no one else could see. So different, I thought, from the pictures of Sophie in our old albums: drained, too, but dizzy, euphoric, ecstatic, smouldering with pride. There was another one of Louis as a bigger boy, aged three, with his leg in plaster after a fall from a tree and a big smile for the camera.

     She left the most recent one until last. —I nearly didn’t have these developed, she said. —It was too painful. Pierre took them, on the day – She stopped. —In the Auvergne.

     And there was Louis sitting on a picnic rug with his mother. She sat behind him, her arms circling him. A birthday cake in the foreground. Nine candles. Happiness.

Natalie was explaining that Pierre’s job kept him from home a lot. It had been a lonely existence. She’d wanted to work – in Paris she had studied history of art and worked in galleries – but Louis needed so much attention.

     —He kept having illnesses and accidents. It was like there was a curse on him. They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place. But it kept striking Louis.

     —I’d be interested to hear more about these accidents, I told her, remembering Philippe’s epilepsy theory. —Has Noelle spoken to you about the background files? I want to have a look at everything, so I’ll need to know which hospitals treated Louis, with the names of the doctors, if you can remember them. Infuriating, that we still don’t have a centralised system in this country. It’s taking privacy too far.

     She looked uncomprehending for a moment, then rearranged her features. —Yes, of course. It’s in that moment that the thought struck me again: she knows he may die – just as I do, and just as Philippe did. At which point I distracted her – and myself, for I do not like to admit such ideas – by talking her through the medical procedures we planned to perform on Louis: physical intervention in the form of massages, water therapy, and general physiotherapy to keep the muscles from wasting. He’d have a twice-weekly session in the exercise room.

     —Everyone enjoys that part. It’s very sociable, you’ll see. The relatives – young siblings especially – do a lot of laughing. It seems to free everyone up. They can even begin to see the funny side. Quite remarkable.

     —Given that there isn’t one? she said with a small tight smile. I found myself flustered by her directness, her swings of mood.

     —I don’t believe in pessimism. (How many times have I used that phrase in the course of my career? I feel the cramping inadequacy of it every time). —I believe hope to be part of the process.

     —But I know just how bad it is, doctor. Now her voice was flat and weary, with no variation in tone or pitch. I could not imagine her laughing. It was as though what had happened to her had cauterised the muscles that express joy. —And whatever happens, I’ll be here for him. I’ll see it through. But I want you to tell me something. I know each patient’s different, depending on the injury and so on ... But what I want to know is – She paused to make sure she had my attention: in that moment her eyes seemed to awaken a little, and shine with something that might, finally, be hope. Or was it fear? —If he comes back, how likely is it that he’ll remember the accident?

     It was an absurd question, given the prognosis, but I tried to stay tactful.

     —What a patient does and doesn’t remember of their accident is usually the least of one’s worries, if they do come round, I told her. —You can never predict what state the memory will be in. In any case – look, I’ve heard what happened. I spoke to Philippe Meunier. And the detective.

     —And what did they say? she asked. There was a pause, during which I studied her face. There was a small muscle twitch, the same one I noticed before – but no expression of discomfort at the mention of Philippe.

     —Just – Well, what happened that day. The accident. I had no idea. And I really am sorry. But surely, given the story, it’s best that he doesn’t remember?

     —Yes, she said. —Exactly. I don’t want him to. I’d rather his whole memory was wiped than to have him relive that. I’m a prime suspect, you know. Did they tell you that? Can you imagine how that feels?

     —No. But it’s their procedure. You mustn’t take it personally. Do you still ... I was about to ask about her husband, but she interrupted, agitated.

     —I saw Louis fall. I saw his face just as he – She stopped and breathed in deeply, determined to finish. —He didn’t fall straight down. He kept hitting the cliff-face and bouncing off it until – It seemed to go on for ever.

     Natalie Drax sighed and tilted her whole face to me. Huge tears welled in her hazel eyes, and I couldn’t help myself: I stood up and walked around my desk to where she was sitting, and spread my arms wide in an offer of embrace.

     She didn’t hesitate. She stood up, took a step towards me and collapsed against my chest. I shut my eyes and felt the relief wash over us both. She hugged me desperately, like a child clinging to its parent. I felt immense pity. And then – to my horror – the sudden, unmistakable nudge of sexual arousal. Followed by shame and anxiety, and the realisation that things were taking a wrong turn. In that moment as I held her against my confused heart, and felt the answering beat of hers, I became acutely conscious of the fine line that exists between doctorly compassion and unprofessional behaviour. And I knew that, for the first time in my career, I had crossed it.

     What I didn’t know then was that there was no going back.

I am not a secretive man by nature, so I am bad at hiding things. And Sophie is a sharp little person who misses nothing. It may have been, once upon a time, one of the reasons I fell in love with her, but with the steady curdling of our marriage, it’s become problematic – to me, at least – that I am so transparent to her.

     —Tell me about that new patient you were expecting, she says at breakfast the next morning. We are eating outside on the balcony. It’s oppressively hot, but the sky is overcast and a net of clouds hangs low on the horizon. As usual, she has a huge pile of books towering next to her, threatening to topple. Kierkegaard, John le Carré, Márquez, a volume of Proust, the new Alexandre Jardin, and
L’Internet et Vous
. She is an omnivore.

     —He’s called Louis Drax. He’s nine years old and in PVS. Can you get me a book called
Les Animaux: leur vie extraordinaire
? It’s one of his favourites, apparently; I’d like to read it to him.

     —Is his mother with him? asks Sophie, pouring coffee.

     —Madame Drax? Yes, of course she’s here. She’s his mother.

     —Needy? She narrows her eyes, and I raise mine heavenward in annoyance.

     —Moderately.

     —Husband? she interrogates, adding sugar for herself and milk for me.

     —Not here.

     —Why not?

     —Because he’s on the run from the law.

     Satisfyingly, that seems to throw her. She fingers the Proust and looks across at the pine forest as though in search of her next question. I drink my coffee peacefully, until a seagull flaps on to the balcony in search of crumbs: I scoot it away with my newspaper.

     —Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what he’s done?

     Unhurried, I take another two sips. —It seems he tried to kill his son by flinging him off a cliff, I say.

     There. That’s wiped the smile off her face. But not for long; she always bounces back speedily from small shocks.

     —In the Auvergne? Think I read about it. There was a man-hunt.

     —Which is still going on. We’ve had to step up security.

     —So, she says, reaching for a croissant. —She’s a tragic single woman.

     At which point I sigh, fold my newspaper, and get up.

     —She simply needs my help, I snap.

     —Otherwise known as your saviour complex.

     That last remark –
saviour complex
– riled me horribly. Many times I had inwardly fumed at the idea – implicit in that phrase – that compassion is a form of weakness or perversion. Surely it’s the opposite? What kind of person can resist offering succour, when someone is silently begging for it?

     But Sophie didn’t bring up the subject of our wedding anniversary again and later on even said, in an almost conciliatory way, that she’d get me a copy of
Les Animaux: leur vie extraordinaire
if she had one in the library. She’s always approved of the fact that I read to my patients, and made sure that the ward was well stocked with audio books. Meanwhile I noticed that she had arranged her flowers – a huge bouquet of zinnias – very beautifully on the hall table, in our largest vase.

The next day the air felt hot but lightweight and strangely electric. The gulls seemed to sense it too, because their cries were shriller, somehow, more raucous than usual, drowning the sound of the cars on the
route nationale
in the valley below. As I walked to work through the olive groves, I felt a vague sense of excitement. I worked intensively all morning on my paper for Lyon, and then joined Guy Vaudin in the canteen for lunch. He was becoming increasingly preoccupied by the possibility of having to evacuate the building, and was keen to explain his finalised flow chart before he met the Fire Chief again to discuss logistics. But despite his claim to be exasperated, I could see that part of him – the part that made him happy administering a place like this – was excited by the planning aspect. He fixed me with his blue stare under wiry eyebrows.

     —This Drax case, he said. —Having to lay on extra security’s the last thing we need. What did you make of the detective?

     —She smokes too much. If the forest fires don’t set this place alight, she will.

     Guy smiled. —She seemed very young, he said, then lowered his voice conspiratorily. —I got the feeling she was a lesbian. They quite often are, you know.

     I couldn’t help smiling.

     Staff, patients and visitors all eat well at the clinic; by the time I had finished off a terrine of smoked salmon, followed by a mushroom risotto and some plum
clafoutis
, I was ready to settle into my high-backed swivel chair next to Louis’ bed and indulge in some conversation. I always relish the tranquillity of such moments. Stroking the boy’s cool forehead, it struck me, not for the first time, that my comatose people have a calming effect on me. That they are as much my therapy as I am theirs. If something warned me that being with Louis was another way of being with his mother, I shut it out.