The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (22 page)

     I’m right-handed. But I’d been holding the pen in my left. No wonder the script I’d produced looked so extraordinary. I didn’t bother watching the other tape. I knew what it would show.

     I stood up and felt the blood rush to my head. Swaying as I moved, I reached the bathroom just in time to vomit into the toilet. I cleaned up quickly, brushed my teeth, splashed my face with cold water, my heart banging.

     Then I called the girls’ apartment in Montpellier. The phone rang for a long time with no answer. Then, just as I was about to hang up, Melanie answered sleepily. When she knew it was me, she launched into a tirade. Maman was in quite a state, she said, and was even thinking of looking for a job in Montpellier. She hoped I was pleased with myself. Was this some kind of midlife crisis or what?

     —Can I talk to her? It’s important.

     —It’s one o’clock in the morning, Papa. Anyway, she doesn’t want to.

     —There’s something I need to tell her, I said. —I might be in trouble. At the clinic.

     —What kind of trouble? Is it to do with this Drax woman you’re obsessed with?

     —No. It’s to do with her son. The boy. Look, I’m sorry I disturbed you,
chérie
. Tell Maman I rang, and – well, give her my love.

     —Your
love
? We’re all furious with you, Papa. I could her voice wobble. —Furious, and disappointed, and upset, and–

     —I know, I said. —You’ll have to bear with me. Life’s a mess at the moment. I’m trying to find a way out. Please, Melanie–

     She hung up. I poured myself another drink and switched on the radio news. Eight forest fires had swept different parts of Provence. Two were still raging out of control, of which the larger was only ten kilometres away, just west of Cannes.

     Everything can change just like that, I thought. A landscape, a marriage, a life.

I didn’t know exactly how to proceed. I knew nothing about graphology. It had never seemed like an accurate science to me. Was it possible that the police graphologist could make a connection between the lopsided, drunken-looking handwriting on the two letters written by my sleepwalking, left-handed self, and the everyday handwriting on the sample Noelle had supplied? I had no idea. But I had to assume it was a possibility – and that therefore the time I had bought myself by taking the CCTV tapes was limited.

     The next morning, before I took the train up to Lyon, I checked an address and phone number. I took the tapes with me, the crumpled prescription, and a photocopy of the letter I’d received.

     I found it hard to concentrate on my talk on Awareness Accretion at the symposium that afternoon, held in the Sofitel overlooking the Rhône. It didn’t go well. There had been a mix-up with my slides, and several were in the wrong order. Normally I rise to the challenge of giving presentations, and often enjoy myself to an almost ludicrous degree. Not this time. It was an ordeal. I stumbled a few times, and at one point dropped a page. Throughout, I felt I was watching myself from a far distance, far but not far enough to be oblivious to the weakness of my performance. For such a well-attended meeting, the applause at the end was decidedly muted. I didn’t cope with the questions afterwards well either. I repeated myself or strayed off the point. My mind was elsewhere.

     Afterwards I looked out for Philippe Meunier. I’d assumed he would be there, assumed I would have had the chance to ask him more about the Drax case. But he wasn’t anywhere to be seen, and when I checked the register, his name did not appear. Frustrated, and hoping that perhaps he would show up anyway, I loitered in the bar, until I was accosted by a woman with whom I’d had a brief affair in my student days. She told me enthusiastically about her career developments and her recent, second marriage to a paediatrician with whom she was very happy. They had five kids between them and were taking them on holiday to California. But I found it hard to concentrate on what she was saying and her dangly earrings annoyed me. She seemed flashy and superficial. I missed Natalie, I realised. I missed her sorrowful face. When I thought of her, my heart twisted with a strange mixture of happiness and pain. Then I remembered the phone call I had tried to make to Sophie last night. I stood up, and felt myself swaying slightly on the plush carpet of the bar. What did I want?

     —And how’s your marriage? Charlotte asked, as though reading my mind.

     —Great, I said vaguely.

     Charlotte smiled as though waiting for more, but I didn’t feel like elaborating any further on the lie, and nor did I feel like confiding the real truth, so I excused myself. I had no desire to go to the conference dinner. I had too much on my mind.

     By seven o’clock I was in Gratte-Ciel, going up the creaky, claustrophobic lift of an ancient apartment block in the rue Malesherbes. I waited a while and had almost given up when the door opened a crack and a man loomed above me in the murk of the hallway. It was clear that Marcel Perez no longer expected any visitors, least of all strangers who took it upon themselves to arrive unannounced. I hadn’t anticipated that he would be taller than me, but he was. He was younger, too; in his early forties.

     —I’m Dr Dannachet, I told him. —I’m looking after Louis Drax. May I talk to you?

     Marcel Perez’s strangely boyish face clouded. He had dark greasy hair which fell in a flop across his forehead. There were circles under his eyes, and three days’ worth of stubble. He hesitated, just long enough for me to show him the bottle of Pernod I’d bought at the local Casino on my way here. —I bought this for you. Perhaps we could have a drink together?

     It worked. I stepped in and followed him through to the small kitchen, where he opened the bottle in silence and poured two glasses, then gestured me to the lounge, where I took one of the two armchairs. So this is where Louis had come for his sessions. It didn’t look inspiring. There was evidence of the day’s activities that had preceded our aperitif: a bottle of Pernod (I had guessed well) and a half-empty tumbler.

     —Sit down, he said, standing the bottle on the table next to an armchair. —Please.

     Briefly, I told him what there was to tell about Louis, and said that the prognosis was bad. In short, I didn’t expect Louis to emerge from his coma.

     —Poor boy, he murmured, then quickly looked away.

     —I hear you stopped practising.

     —Yes, he said heavily. —I stopped practising.

     —Because of Louis? Something about his defeated manner – or perhaps the drink – allowed me to be direct. The man was a wreck.

     —No. Because of his mother. She came and saw me after the accident, he said, looking me in the eye in a way that I found unnerving. He took a huge gulp of Pernod and coughed. I watched his Adam’s apple struggling. —She said she didn’t want it happening to anyone else.

     I noticed a pair of binoculars on the window-ledge. On the bookshelves there were books on primitive art and the lives of artists, a few classics – Flaubert featured heavily. A whole shelf was given over to psychology books. But there was an asceticism about the apartment: no art on the walls, and barely anything decorative, except for a pile of seashells.

     —Look, I told Detective Charvillefort everything there was to tell, he said. —I answered all her questions.

     Despite the fact he was more than half-drunk, I couldn’t help noticing that Perez, like Detective Charvillefort, was watching me with a professional interest. I smiled, and drank another slug of Pernod. It was quickly going to my head, but I needed to stay on top of things. I hadn’t eaten. I needed to slow down.

     —So will you answer mine? I asked him.

     —I want to help Louis, he said. —If I can help Louis ... He trailed off, but he still held my gaze. He was trying to work something out. —Natalie said I should have seen it coming.

     —And do you agree?

     —Not in the way you think. I admit I got things wrong. I misread the signs. I told Charvillefort that.

     —About Pierre Drax, you mean?

     —About everything, he said. —About more than you’d know. But in my own defence–

     —I’m not blaming you, I said quickly. —That’s not what I came for. I don’t know if anyone could have prevented what happened. But go ahead.

     —The fact is, I was working in the dark. There were things Natalie Drax should have told me. I asked plenty of questions about Louis before he first came to me, but there were some crucial things she didn’t tell me. If I’d known then what I learned later, I’d have listened differently to Louis. Every now and then he’d tell me that Pierre wasn’t his real father. I just assumed it was a fantasy. But as it turns out, he was telling the truth. He didn’t know it was a fact, but he’d overheard bits and pieces, and picked up the vibrations. He had a kind of intuition. He was quite preoccupied with rape, too.

     He stopped and looked at me intently, to see if I knew. I nodded slowly.

     —So he’d guessed more than anyone realised, Perez finished. —He was a bright kid. If I’d known he’d guessed a thing like that ... If I’d
known
a thing like that, so much would have fallen into place. But I had no idea until afterwards.

     —Did you like him? I asked softly. —I never met him. What was he like?

     —Extremely, extravagantly disturbed. He’d tell stories. I never got to the bottom of how much of it was real, or exaggerated, and how much he simply made up to entertain himself and to keep me away from the things that were really bothering him.

     —But did you like him?

     —I wasn’t paid to like him. I found him intriguing and infuriating at the same time. He’d attack me sometimes, smash things up. After we’d finished seeing each other he wrote me a letter.

     —A letter?

     Something tilted inside me.

     —He was fond of writing letters. Perez stood up heavily and went to a desk in the corner of the room. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a folded piece of paper. —But this is the only one he ever sent me. This is a copy. The police kept the original.

     I saw that it was classical child’s writing: neat, careful, praiseworthy.

     —It came with some hamster droppings, he smiled, ruefully. —Which was a very Louis touch. I showed it to Detective Charvillefort.

You are a big fat liar, Fat Perez. You told her you didn’t want to see me any more. You told her I was too much for you. That’s what she told me. Plus you said nothing would leave the room and that wasn’t true either. So you suck. I hope you die soon or catch a gross disease
.

   
Louis Drax

     The anger in it shocked me. Who the hell was this boy? What had been done to him to prompt this level of rage? And by whom?

     Perez was wiping his eyes on his sleeve; when he saw I had seen, he shrugged and looked away.

     —I got letter from Louis too, I said slowly. My mouth felt dry. —That’s why I came here. I didn’t just want to ask you questions. I’ve come to ask for your help.

     He turned to me sharply, looking pained. —You got a letter? But he’s in a coma.

     I pulled out the photocopied letter and the prescription and showed him. I waited while he read them both.

     —So, he said looking up. —I don’t get this. You’d better talk.

     —I used to sleepwalk when I was a child and adolescent. I haven’t done it in years. But recently, when Louis arrived, I started to do it again. But I didn’t really walk anywhere. I wrote things. I wrote this letter – and another one, to Natalie – and this prescription. I wrote them in my sleep, and I have a tape that shows me doing it.

     He nodded slowly, keeping his eyes on my face. I could see the thoughts tumbling over themselves, sense a mounting excitement.

     —
Insulin. Chloroform. Arsenic. Sarin gas. Lupin seeds
, he murmured, reading the prescription aloud. Then he banged the table so hard our glasses shook. —It’s Louis. There’s no question. He was into all sorts of facts. Medical anomalies, poisons. It fits. It’s him. It’s extraordinary. The letter too. It’s him.

     Relief swamped me. —I thought I might be going crazy, I confessed.

     He nodded. —Of course you did. And you haven’t told the detective because you think she won’t believe it’s really Louis.

     It was said matter-of-factly, without accusation.

     —Yes.

     —Understandable, he said. —But we need to think beyond that.

     We talked for a long time. His sudden excitement infected me. I’d been scared of what was happening, baffled and anxious – unable, perhaps, to look past the threat to my own reputation. But now I began to see it from another perspective. It was an opportunity. It signalled hope for Louis – and perhaps redemption for the man who believed he had sent him to his near-death. Although half-drunk, Marcel Perez was quicker and sharper than I had given him credit for.

     —You’re his conduit, he said. —His way of communicating. He spotted something in you. He needs to tell you something. This is just the beginning of what he has to say. This letter, he said firmly, —is also very typical Louis. A disturbed child with an Oedipus complex. And by the way, he’s left-handed.