suggested. The letters and figures seemed to float on the surface of the paper, to glow in the dusk. The great change the surprise visit had worked in him baffled Bilodo – thatemotion the young woman’s tear had stirred up, and that insane hope springing up all of a sudden just from the slip of paper she had left behind. Had he overlooked something terribly important, he wondered? Might there be a solution other than the ones he had considered until then, a better way to get out of the impasse he was in? Could there possibly be life after death or, better still,
before
?
He walked into the living room and froze, finding himself back in front of the slip knot hanging from the ceiling. He felt his stomach turn. The prospect of dying, which had seemed beneficial only a short while ago, now terrified him, and the thought of the act he had almost committed made him sick. Gripped by a violent wave of nausea, he ran to throw up in the bathroom.
When he finally stood up again, he felt literally drained and had to hold on to the sink so as not to collapse. He needed to freshen up. He ran the cold water, splashed his face numerous times. The wash made him feel a little better. He shook himself off, then cast a pessimistic glance in the mirror, just to see what zombie-like mug would be reflected there.
What he saw frightened him out of his wits. In the mirror loomed the bearded, dishevelled head of Gaston Grandpré.
22
Bilodo gazed in disbelief at the face that couldn’t be there, that
shouldn’t
be there in the mirror instead of his own because it belonged to a dead man. He tried to chase it away by blinking hard, then gave his head a stinging slap, but Grandpré remained stubbornly stuck in the glass, mimicking each of his gestures, watching him with a stupefaction no less than his own. Bilodo came to the obvious conclusion that he had gone mad. Soon after, certain facial details of the mirror’s occupant aroused his attention and led him to reconsider this perhaps too-hasty judgement. It wasn’t quite Grandpré. Those green eyes were Bilodo’s,
not
the deceased’s blue ones, as were those eyebrows – finer, less bushy than Grandpré’s – and that slightly flat nose, and the much less fleshy bottom lip… As he slowly recognised himself deep within the other man’s face, Bilodo acknowledged he wasn’t dreaming, and hadn’t slipped into psychosis, and that the guy opposite was really
him
, though altered in an almost unbelievable way.
Struggling to find a rational explanation, he understood that what he was observing in the glass was the result of a several months’ lapse in personal hygiene. He had been so wrapped up in his poetic adventure that he’d completely forgotten to look after himself, neglecting the most basic body care, not even bothering to look at himself in the mirror, so that it had finally come to this: to this visual shock, this decadent image of himself. But – Bilodo wondered – could chance alone account for the extraordinary resemblance to Grandpré? Wasn’t it due, rather, to an unconscious wish to identify with his predecessor? Perhaps Bilodo had been so eager to mistake himself for Grandpré he’d ended up looking like him to the point that one could be mistaken for the other. In any case, the illusion was startling: with his several months’ growth of beard and his shaggy mane that hadn’t seen a comb for just as long, andwrapped in Grandpré’s kimono, he bore a striking resemblance to the deceased. No wonder Tania seemed so surprised when she caught sight of him looking like this: for a moment she must have thought she was seeing Grandpré’s ghost.
Bilodo decided to tackle the thick beard covering his cheeks right away; he ran the hot water and got out his razor, but stopped in mid-gesture. An idea had just sprung into his mind: since Tania was fooled, even though she’d known the deceased well, and since Bilodo himself had been taken in for a short while, then why
before
?
He walked into the living room and froze, finding himself back in front of the slip knot hanging from the ceiling. He felt his stomach turn. The prospect of dying, which had seemed beneficial only a short while ago, now terrified him, and the thought of the act he had almost committed made him sick. Gripped by a violent wave of nausea, he ran to throw up in the bathroom.
When he finally stood up again, he felt literally drained and had to hold on to the sink so as not to collapse. He needed to freshen up. He ran the cold water, splashed his face numerous times. The wash made him feel a little better. He shook himself off, then cast a pessimistic glance in the mirror, just to see what zombie-like mug would be reflected there.
What he saw frightened him out of his wits. In the mirror loomed the bearded, dishevelled head of Gaston Grandpré.
22
Bilodo gazed in disbelief at the face that couldn’t be there, that
shouldn’t
be there in the mirror instead of his own because it belonged to a dead man. He tried to chase it away by blinking hard, then gave his head a stinging slap, but Grandpré remained stubbornly stuck in the glass, mimicking each of his gestures, watching him with a stupefaction no less than his own. Bilodo came to the obvious conclusion that he had gone mad. Soon after, certain facial details of the mirror’s occupant aroused his attention and led him to reconsider this perhaps too-hasty judgement. It wasn’t quite Grandpré. Those green eyes were Bilodo’s,
not
the deceased’s blue ones, as were those eyebrows – finer, less bushy than Grandpré’s – and that slightly flat nose, and the much less fleshy bottom lip… As he slowly recognised himself deep within the other man’s face, Bilodo acknowledged he wasn’t dreaming, and hadn’t slipped into psychosis, and that the guy opposite was really
him
, though altered in an almost unbelievable way.
Struggling to find a rational explanation, he understood that what he was observing in the glass was the result of a several months’ lapse in personal hygiene. He had been so wrapped up in his poetic adventure that he’d completely forgotten to look after himself, neglecting the most basic body care, not even bothering to look at himself in the mirror, so that it had finally come to this: to this visual shock, this decadent image of himself. But – Bilodo wondered – could chance alone account for the extraordinary resemblance to Grandpré? Wasn’t it due, rather, to an unconscious wish to identify with his predecessor? Perhaps Bilodo had been so eager to mistake himself for Grandpré he’d ended up looking like him to the point that one could be mistaken for the other. In any case, the illusion was startling: with his several months’ growth of beard and his shaggy mane that hadn’t seen a comb for just as long, andwrapped in Grandpré’s kimono, he bore a striking resemblance to the deceased. No wonder Tania seemed so surprised when she caught sight of him looking like this: for a moment she must have thought she was seeing Grandpré’s ghost.
Bilodo decided to tackle the thick beard covering his cheeks right away; he ran the hot water and got out his razor, but stopped in mid-gesture. An idea had just sprung into his mind: since Tania was fooled, even though she’d known the deceased well, and since Bilodo himself had been taken in for a short while, then why
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