would become the only way out. Perhaps itâs this image that heightens your nausea as you reach the island. Or hunger. You think back to your last meal. It was the day before, and besides, just two small tins of sardines eaten straight from the can, they donât really count. Thatâs bad, alcohol on an empty stomach, anyone could tell you so.
Then Julien slows down as well, looking around, seeking something or someone. And in fact there does seem to be a feminine form at the corner of police headquarters. Your husband hesitates long enough to confirm that this is indeed the person heâs been hurrying tojoin; his pace quickens as he heads for the woman who now moves away from the wall to meet him, and it just so happens to be Héloïse. Your stomach heaves.
And again that name is called out behind you. You pretend you donât hear, but it keeps coming back, three, ten, twenty times, the astonishment growing with each call, as if this name had to be endlessly repeated to make sure that it is indeed you at the end of the bridge, Ãlisabeth.
Veiled by the snow clinging to your lashes, your eyelids open with difficulty, but you still recognize Angèle arriving to your right. In a panic, you whip around only to run into Gabrielle and the inspector with his subordinate, closing on you fast while Julien and Héloïse finally notice your presence and he says Viviane, Viviane, what are you doing here?
You need to react, to fight, but suddenly something much more urgent happens. No matter how hard you concentrate, how deeply you breathe, air is no longer reaching your lungs. Declining to be sucked in, it simply ebbs away. You find it provoking that the mechanism is breaking down like this. You devote all your energy to forcing stubborn air into your pharynx but in vain, and you cannot remember having ever experienced anythingthis unpleasant. You look in supplication toward your husband but can no longer see him, then toward the inspector but cannot find him, either. You glimpse only car headlights on the ground and streetlights in the sky, which quickly meld together. You no longer know which is which, where up is or down, if itâs yourself out here, someone else, or if itâs simply a dreamâor if youâll ever wake up. You stop breathing altogether. You fall.
17
They take you to the oldest hospital in Paris, the Hôtel-Dieu, a stoneâs throw from the Palais de Justice. Your first days there go so badly that they ply you with pills, like the ones the doctor used to prescribe for you only much more effective ones. Soon you are basically a vegetable. Staring at the walls absorbs all your attention. You never tire of studying the variations in their angles when you tip your head to the right, the left, up, then down. A large smile graces your countenance; a dribble of saliva escapes your lips. It takes you several minutes to notice this, and another few to consider taking action, deciding whether itâs all right to let it run down to your chin. Sometimes you correct the situation with aquatic languor; sometimes you donât give a damn.
Now and then someone in a white coat appears to evaluate your condition, eventually wipe off your lips,and give you your medicine. After a few days (youâd be hard put to say how many) they decide to try diminishing the dosage, see how that works. Very bad idea. As soon as the last round has worn off, youâre so beside yourself that you frighten the chief physician, who says get her back on meds, sheâs not ready, not by a long shot. The inspector cooling his heels outside in the corridor goes back to the police station.
Still, in due course your body gets used to these substances circulating through your arteries, visiting your synapses to numb them nicely. A few objects now stand out from the walls. Which wonât get you very far because once anything sharp, pointed, or blunt has been eliminated, not much remains to provide
Then Julien slows down as well, looking around, seeking something or someone. And in fact there does seem to be a feminine form at the corner of police headquarters. Your husband hesitates long enough to confirm that this is indeed the person heâs been hurrying tojoin; his pace quickens as he heads for the woman who now moves away from the wall to meet him, and it just so happens to be Héloïse. Your stomach heaves.
And again that name is called out behind you. You pretend you donât hear, but it keeps coming back, three, ten, twenty times, the astonishment growing with each call, as if this name had to be endlessly repeated to make sure that it is indeed you at the end of the bridge, Ãlisabeth.
Veiled by the snow clinging to your lashes, your eyelids open with difficulty, but you still recognize Angèle arriving to your right. In a panic, you whip around only to run into Gabrielle and the inspector with his subordinate, closing on you fast while Julien and Héloïse finally notice your presence and he says Viviane, Viviane, what are you doing here?
You need to react, to fight, but suddenly something much more urgent happens. No matter how hard you concentrate, how deeply you breathe, air is no longer reaching your lungs. Declining to be sucked in, it simply ebbs away. You find it provoking that the mechanism is breaking down like this. You devote all your energy to forcing stubborn air into your pharynx but in vain, and you cannot remember having ever experienced anythingthis unpleasant. You look in supplication toward your husband but can no longer see him, then toward the inspector but cannot find him, either. You glimpse only car headlights on the ground and streetlights in the sky, which quickly meld together. You no longer know which is which, where up is or down, if itâs yourself out here, someone else, or if itâs simply a dreamâor if youâll ever wake up. You stop breathing altogether. You fall.
17
They take you to the oldest hospital in Paris, the Hôtel-Dieu, a stoneâs throw from the Palais de Justice. Your first days there go so badly that they ply you with pills, like the ones the doctor used to prescribe for you only much more effective ones. Soon you are basically a vegetable. Staring at the walls absorbs all your attention. You never tire of studying the variations in their angles when you tip your head to the right, the left, up, then down. A large smile graces your countenance; a dribble of saliva escapes your lips. It takes you several minutes to notice this, and another few to consider taking action, deciding whether itâs all right to let it run down to your chin. Sometimes you correct the situation with aquatic languor; sometimes you donât give a damn.
Now and then someone in a white coat appears to evaluate your condition, eventually wipe off your lips,and give you your medicine. After a few days (youâd be hard put to say how many) they decide to try diminishing the dosage, see how that works. Very bad idea. As soon as the last round has worn off, youâre so beside yourself that you frighten the chief physician, who says get her back on meds, sheâs not ready, not by a long shot. The inspector cooling his heels outside in the corridor goes back to the police station.
Still, in due course your body gets used to these substances circulating through your arteries, visiting your synapses to numb them nicely. A few objects now stand out from the walls. Which wonât get you very far because once anything sharp, pointed, or blunt has been eliminated, not much remains to provide
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