The Ninth Life of Louis Drax (9 page)

     But it stirred up an impulse that would not leave me, however blurred the memories became – a curiosity to re-visit that country beyond maps whose contours I had once traced in my sleep, in my restless quest for ‘it’. Like anyone who becomes fascinated by the psychiatric side of neurology, I studied under Professor Flanque at the Institut. But ultimately it was the fully unconscious state, rather than the malfunctions of the conscious one, that held the most enduring appeal for me, and so when I left Paris, I decided to specialise in coma. Which is how I ended up in Provence. Apart from Philippe Meunier, who also went into neurology, my contemporaries – the surgeons particularly – have a theory that it’s a thankless task, caring for these devastated people. They see what I do as being only a step away from pathology: ministering to humans who are no more than the husks of men and women, living corpses. But they couldn’t be more wrong. Even damaged brains can make connections. The mind is more than the sum of its parts.

     As soon as I had taken my leave of Madame Drax, I went back to my office. Passing through the small annexe where Noelle works, I caught myself unawares in the small mirror she keeps on the wall, and was vaguely shocked by how severe, how dogmatic my face looked, framed by hair that thinned at the temples. How set in its ways. My eyes, deep-set, suddenly looked sunken. Did I still have what you could call handsomeness, or had age done for me?

     I will be dead one day, I thought suddenly. Dead and gone.

     One of the four bonsai trees a patient, Lavinia Gradin, had given me – my favourite, the cherry – was looking in need of a trim, so I began pruning it with my little secateurs while I rang Philippe Meunier in Vichy. Philippe had just returned, according to his secretary, from a short convalescent break.

     —Back on your feet? I asked when she put me through. —What did you have?

     —What did Michelle tell you? he snapped. He sounded even brusquer than usual, and I felt a nudge of the usual animosity.

     —That you were off sick, I said. I hoped he couldn’t hear the sound of snipping.

     —Just needed to recharge the batteries, he said. —A post-viral thing.

     He clearly didn’t want to talk about it. Doctors can be cagey when it comes to their own health. Frankly, we hate to succumb to anything. Illness always feels like a defeat of sorts.

     —The case of Louis Drax, I said, inspecting a small, shiny, perfect leaf.

     —He arrived OK then? asked Philippe heavily. —All in order, I trust?

     He sounded more than usually annoyed that I was bothering him.

     —No problem. He’s settled in the ward.

     There was a short silence, in which I contemplated my artistry. I remember feeling a certain dismay when Lavinia Gradin first gave me the trees, as a thank-you gift after her emergence from six years in a coma. Wasn’t it, I asked her, a bit like being presented with a pet? But she just smiled and told me to wait. They’re like coma patients, she said. They take a lot of time and nothing happens fast but then when they blossom–

     She was right: their restrained aesthetic slowly grew on me. But it’s a strange passion to have, as Sophie often reminds me. She calls them my
geriatric babies
.

     —So how’s he doing? asked Philippe bluntly.

     —Fantastically active. Jumping up and down all over the place and singing the Marseillaise.

     There was another silence, of a different shape, from Philippe’s end of the phone.

     —Well, what d’you expect? I asked. I found it nettling that Philippe couldn’t take a joke. Does something happen when a man hits fifty? —You sent him to me, what more is there to say?

     More silence.

     —Actually the reason I called is I’m a little intrigued as to the genesis of his condition. This fall he had.

     —Charvillefort hasn’t briefed you?

     —Who’s he?

     —She. The detective working on the Drax case. Stephanie Charvillefort.

     —Not yet. She’s called, I believe.

     —Well, don’t you read the papers? Family Picnic Turns to Tragedy? It even made
Le Monde
, I think. It was on TV too.

     Annoyingly, Philippe had now gained the upper hand; disconcerted, I put down my secateurs and reached for pen and paper.

     —I must have missed it, I said. —Tell me.

     —Well, he muttered. —It’s one hundred per cent awful. Detective Charvillefort can fill you in on the details better than I can. But the bottom line is, it seems Louis’ fall wasn’t an accident. Even though he was a kid who had a lot of accidents. Due to undiagnosed epilepsy, I suspect, but who knows. Anyway according to the mother, he didn’t fall into the ravine. He was pushed.

     My throat suddenly went unbearably dry, and there followed a little pause, which Philippe did not seem anxious to fill. —As in? I asked, finally, almost against my will.

     —By his father.

     —
His own father?

     —Yes. So there you have it.

     Words deserted me at this point. They seemed to have deserted Philippe too, because we didn’t speak for a moment. I fiddled with my pen and looked at the spiky pods on my horse-chestnut bonsai which stands next to the maple. In autumn they burst open and spill glossy chestnuts, small as beads. Next to it, on the other side, my willow.

     —So where’s this father now? I asked finally.

     Philippe sighed heavily, as though re-shouldering a burden. —On the run, apparently. There was a man-hunt, but last time I heard, he still hadn’t been found. I don’t know what the latest is. When Natalie Drax was here, she was terrified he was going to come after her. She even got herself an Alsatian.

     Poor woman, I thought. Philippe must have read my thoughts.

     —So how’s she doing now? His voice was still oddly tight. (Might it have been more than a virus? Marital problems? Something disciplinary to do with Louis’ ‘death’?)

     —As you’d expect, I suppose. A little tense, but – well. Dignified is the word I might go for. She’s taken a house in the village.

     —Did she mention Vichy at all? he asked.

     —Not as such. Should she have?

     —No of course not, said Philippe. —I just wondered.

     We talked for a few moments about the prognosis, which we agreed was poor.

     —She’s in denial, he said.

     —Yes, that’s the impression I got too. Well, perhaps not all that surprising, given his history of ... I trailed off.

     —Resurrection? We both laughed, a little nervously. —Is she on something? I asked, picturing her desolate, empty face, framed by hair like pale fire.

     —I suggested she take something for stress, said Philippe. —She was in a bad way when Louis first came to us. A bit delusional. The whole case is so freakish. The way he came back from the dead like that. It’s the only case I’ve ever come across. Didn’t do me or the hospital any good, I can tell you. One of the trickiest episodes we’ve had. Required some pretty fancy footwork.

     He’d felt that Natalie needed psychiatric help, he said. But she had refused counselling on the grounds that she wanted to be at Louis’ side in case he should emerge from his coma. Then he paused, and although I’d just noticed that both the maple and the willow needed a drink, something told me to wait before reaching for the watering can. Sure enough, when Philippe spoke again, it was in quite a different tone.

     —But in fact, Pascal, there’s something else. You know how, well. Doctors are faced with dilemmas all the time. His voice was lowered, cagey, rushed. —We’ve all had them. But sometimes the dilemmas – well, they’re not the kind you read about in the literature. Not the kind you find easy to discuss.

     —
Dilemmas
, I repeated slowly. Outside, a ragged string of gulls wheeled in the sky, carving a broken white spiral.

     —About the best course of action. I’m not just talking about the patients, I’m talking about their loved ones, the relatives and friends who  ...

     There was something odd in his voice, something that sounded a little like panic. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by the suspicion that Philippe had fallen for Natalie Drax, and that she had not returned his interest. That things had gone wrong between them on a personal level. That he had been forced to choose between her and something else. Was that the dilemma he had faced? As Sophie has often remarked, with an unmistakable note of warning in her voice, men our age are always behaving like fools around younger women. I felt sorry for him.

     —Philippe, I ventured. —Look, is there something you need to tell me about Madame Drax? Something I should know when dealing with this case? I’m feeling a bit in the dark here. She’s – well, she’s an attractive woman–

     —Do you think so? he barked. —Do you find her attractive?

     This was suddenly getting a little too personal.

     —Back off, Philippe! I said, forcing a laugh. —Come on, this is the kind of thing we used to joke about.

     It’s true. We had shared many a drunken evening together in the old days, when we were students and friends. But now, all of a sudden, those days seemed a long way off.

     —No, you back off, Pascal, he said. —I mean it. Don’t get too involved. Keep them both at arm’s length. Take my advice on this one. See Louis Drax as just another case. But keep an eye on him.

     —You have to tell me more.

     He sighed. —Look, he had a fit, as you know, just a couple of days before I sent him to you. But for no apparent reason. No one was there when it happened. But there was something odd about it.

     —Epilepsy?

     —A possibility.

     —You mean there are others?

     —I don’t know. Ask Detective Charvillefort. I don’t know anything any more. There’s something strange about that boy. About the circumstances. Everything.

     —Philippe, just tell me–

     —No. Look, sorry Pascal – but I need to get back to a patient. Just – well, be careful. Detective Charvillefort will tell you more. Just watch the boy. I must go. Can’t wait.

     After his hurried goodbye, a mass of questions crowded my mind. I felt annoyed with myself for not having insisted on knowing more. But Philippe had been even more unforthcoming than usual. Perhaps he was glad to have washed his hands of the Drax case. It certainly seemed he was annoyed with me for causing it to resurface – however briefly – in his mind. Meanwhile, now that I knew something of Louis’ story, and what his mother had suffered, I couldn’t help being impressed by Natalie Drax’s ability to muster dignity in the worst of circumstances. I understood her tension, too. Might her husband reappear, down here in Provence? I knew nothing of police procedure, but I was suddenly very aware of the need to know more.

     —That detective from Vichy is arriving in half an hour, Noelle announced, handing me a piece of paper. —She’d like to speak to you and Dr Vaudin together in his office, about security. What’s he done, this Drax man?

     —The information I have is that he pushed his son into a ravine.

     —How disgusting, she said, wrinkling her nose, and writing down the name Pierre Drax in capital letters on her notepad. —What’s the matter with families these days?

     —Call Philippe’s secretary in Vichy, and see if she can provide some more background on these accidents Louis had. Whatever she has, from as far back as she can get. And tell Guy Vaudin I think Jacqueline should be at the meeting with Detective Charvillefort. It’s her ward as much as mine, and she’ll be briefing the nurses.

     Unhurried, Noelle got out her moisturiser and started treating her hands.

I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was to hear Louis’ story. He wasn’t the first victim of violence I’d treated. As often as not, it’s some kind of human tragedy – a fight, a car accident, a drunken mishap – that brings my patients to me with multiple contusion, cerebral oedema, skull fractures, brain haemorrhages. Laurent Gonzalez, Claire Favrot and Mathilde Mulhouse have been on the ward so long they now feel like old friends. Kevin Podensac – a blood clot, the result of a bungled suicide attempt – has been here two years. Others, like Henri Audobert, Yves Franklin, Kathy Dudognon, and my anorexic, Isabelle Masserot, are more recent.

     I realised that I had time, before my meeting with the detective, to introduce Louis to the others and socialise him a little. When I entered the ward I found Madame Favrot and Eric Masserot there, as well as Kevin’s cousin Lotte and my new physiotherapist, Karine. Natalie Drax, Jacqueline told me, had just left. After greeting them all, I sat in my swivel chair and shunted myself to the centre of the ward. Jacqueline perched herself on a trolley where she proceeded to apply lipstick and powder while I addressed my patients.

     —We’re delighted to have a new arrival among us, I announced. —Of course I hope that he won’t need to stay here long. But while he’s with us, I would like you all to make Louis Drax feel welcome.

     A couple of the relatives murmured to one another at this point. Louis Drax’s story would have spread quickly. They may even know more than I did. After introducing each of the patients by name, along with the relatives, I give Louis Drax my little speech about the clinic – which in a darker age was known as l’Hôpital des Incurables, a dustbin where society flung its most hopeless cases. The boy’s mouth is slightly open, and there’s a small trail of saliva emerging from one corner. I wipe it away. —In the old days, Louis, some people were institutionalised from birth. Those born with severe and unsightly physical defects, or abnormalities of the brain. There were also so-called hysterics, along with syphilitics, deaf-mutes and the criminally insane. Isabelle, our anorexic, twitches and turns, worrying at her feeding tube. Her father pats her hand. —Anyway, I’m thankful to say that times changed, and l’Hôpital des Incurables was eventually re-named. So welcome to the Clinique de l’Horizon, Louis.