Woman in the Fifth

He put his fingertips together, taking this in. Then:

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Not for five years.’

‘Do you drink heavily?’

‘I have been … recently.’

‘Drugs?’

‘I take sleeping pills. Non-prescription ones. But they haven’t been working for the past few weeks. So …’

‘Chronic insomnia?’

‘Yes.’

He favored me with a small nod — a hint that he too knew the hell of unremitting sleeplessness. Then: ‘It is evident what has happened to you: a general breakdown. The body can only take so much … tristesse. Eventually, it reacts against such traumatisme by shutting down or giving in to an intense viral attack. The flu you are suffering is more severe than normal because you are in such a troubled state.’

‘What’s the cure?’

‘I can only treat the physiological disorders. And flu is one of those viruses that largely dictates its own narrative. I have prescribed several comprimes to deal with your aches, your fever, your dehydration, your nausea, your lack of sleep. But the virus will not leave your system until it is — shall we say — bored with you and wants to move on.’

‘How long could that take?’

‘Four, five days … at minimum.’

I shut my eyes. I couldn’t afford four or five more days at this hotel.

‘Even once it has gone, you will remain desperately weak for another few days. I would say you will be confined here for at least a week.’

He stood up.

‘I will return in seventy-two hours to see what improvement you have made and if you have commenced a recovery.’

Do we ever really recover from the worst that life can throw us?’

‘One last thing. A personal question, if I may be permitted. What brought you to Paris, alone, just after Christmas?’

‘I ran away.’

He thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘It often takes courage to run away.’

‘No, you’re wrong there,’ I said. ‘It takes no courage at all.’

Three

FIVE MINUTES AFTER the doctor left, the desk clerk came into the room. He was holding a piece of paper in one hand. With a flourish, he presented to me — as if it were a legal writ.

‘La facture du medecin.’ The doctor’s bill.

‘I’ll settle it later.’

‘He wants to be paid now.’

‘He’s coming back in three days. Can’t he wait … ?’

‘He should have been paid last night. But you were so ill, he decided to hold off until today.’

I looked at the bill. It was on hotel letterhead. It was also for an astonishing amount of money: two hundred and sixty-four euros.

‘You are joking,’ I said.

His face remained impassive.

‘It is the cost of his services — and of the medicine.’

‘The cost of his services? The bill’s been written up on your stationery.’

‘All medical bills are processed by us.’

‘And the doctor charges one hundred euros per house-call?’

‘The figure includes our administrative fee.’

‘Which is what?’

He looked right at me.

‘Fifty euros per visit.’

‘That’s robbery.’

‘All hotels have administrative charges.’

‘But not one hundred percent of the price.’

‘It is our policy.’

‘And you charged me one hundred percent markup on the prescriptions?’

‘Tout a fait. I had to send Adnan to the pharmacy to get them. This took an hour. Naturally, as he was not dealing with hotel business, his time must be compensated for …’

‘Not dealing with hotel business? I am a guest here. And don’t tell me you’re paying your night guy thirty-two euros an hour.’

He tried to conceal an amused smile. He failed.

‘The wages of our employees are not divulged to …’

I crumpled up the bill and threw it on the floor.

‘Well, I’m not paying it.’

‘Then you can leave the hotel now.’

‘You can’t make me leave.’

‘Au contraire, I can have you on the street in five minutes. There are two men in the basement — notre homme a tout faire and the chef — who would physically eject you from the hotel if I ordered them to do so.’

‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Is that supposed to frighten me?’ he asked. ‘The fact is, the police would side with the hotel, once I told them that the reason we were evicting you is because you made sexual advances to the chef. And the chef would confirm this to the police — because he is ignorant and because he is a strict Muslim whom I caught dans une situation embarrassante with notre homme a tout faire two months ago. So now he will do anything I say, as he fears exposure.’

‘You wouldn’t dare …’

‘Yes, I would. And the police wouldn’t just arrest you for lewd conduct, they’d also check into your background, and find out why you left your country in such a hurry.’

‘You know nothing about me,’ I said, sounding nervous.

‘Perhaps — but it is also clear that you are not in Paris for a mere holiday … that you ran away from something. The doctor told me you confessed that to him.’

‘I did nothing illegal.’

‘So you say.’

‘You are a shit,’ I said.

‘That is an interpretation,’ he said.

I shut my eyes. He held all the cards — and there was nothing I could do about it.

‘Give me my bag,’ I said.

He did as requested. I pulled out the wad of traveler’s checks.

‘It’s two hundred and sixty-four euros, right?’ I asked.

‘In dollars, the total is three hundred and forty-five.’

I grabbed a pen and signed the necessary number of checks, and threw them on the floor.

‘There,’ I said. ‘Get them yourself.’