“She’s fine. I’m sure of it,” I too-quickly answered. Léa gave me one of those “I don’t believe you” looks that eleven-year-olds are particularly good at.
The evening didn’t improve, with Michèle pestering me about writing the book with her. She had made one of the most miraculous recoveries I have ever seen. We went upstairs just before eleven, and I checked on Erwan, who was fast asleep. This time I left his bedroom door, and mine, open. I wasn’t taking any chances. And now for my dream, Justin. A warning here. I’ve never been one to recount my dreams. I had a friend in university who, every morning, as we groggily sat around our kitchen table, would come charging into the kitchen and tell us his dream, in every boring detail. We were sure his dreams were made up, as they miraculously always involved one or two of his favorite actors—he was their chum, and they did all kinds of fun things together—and the dream ended happily. That’s not how dreams work, at least not mine.
As I crawled into bed, I realized that I had forgotten to call Guillaume Matton. I wrote myself a reminder on a Post-it and stuck it to the lamp beside my bed. I’d call him first thing in the morning. The wind had picked up, and I closed the windows, preferring a stuffy room to the howling and groaning wind. The shutters lightly banged against the stone walls, even though they were latched. Sleep didn’t come straightaway, as I was overexcited from the day’s events. And so I lay there, hypersensitive to the noises and my bodily sensations. At times like this I become a hypochondriac. I counted my heartbeats, partly to try to fall asleep but mostly because I was convinced they were irregular and I was dying. My head began pounding: an aneurysm, obviously. My stomach turned, and I imagined a tumor. What I was doing was fighting sleep, because whenever I closed my eyes, I saw a sea—not the blue-green Mediterranean but a dark, gray, turbulent sea. As the hours passed, exhaustion took over, and I must have fallen asleep. And this is what I dreamed:
I walked along an expanse of beach, not sandy, like the Atlantic beaches here, but rocky, as they are in Provence. I was barefoot, and the stones hurt my feet, but I kept walking. I looked back now and again, and the Bastide Blanche was there, on a hill overlooking the sea, its shutters closed. Lifeless. The scene before me was bleak: sea and sky the same misty gray, the waves turbulent, the wind howling. Nothing on the horizon, no sign of life, and I had stared at the sea for some time when a bobbing black image appeared; a moment more, and it was Agathe. She wasn’t swimming but trying to climb over the waves. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it was her. And I could sense her anxiety, and fear, as she tried to jump over each wave and get closer to me. She was crying, and her sobs rang out over the beach. As she got closer I could sense her panic, as she kept looking over her shoulder. Behind her, another bobbing mass appeared, in a sort of bright-red cloak; it was chasing her. I tried to run into the water, but the waves held me back—pushed me back, even. Nor could I call out; I was suddenly mute. The howling continued, as did the crying, and then Agathe suddenly disappeared, as did her pursuer. I awoke and sat up, out of breath.
I fell back to sleep as the sun was coming up, and must have slept for a few dreamless hours, for when I went downstairs it was already after eleven, and Michèle and Erwan were sitting at the kitchen table in silence. Erwan was holding his head in his two hands, and Michèle was looking out the window, lost in thought. When I walked in, Michèle turned her head to look at me. “Well,” she said, “glad someone could sleep.”
I rubbed my eyes, walked over to the espresso machine, and switched it on. “I finally fell asleep early this morning,” I said.
Erwan looked up. “So it kept you up too?”
“What kept me up?” I asked. “I first fell asleep after three, but had a terrible dream.”
“Did you hear crying in your dream?” Michèle asked.
I nodded, my mouth dry.
“That wasn’t a dream,” Erwan said. “We heard the crying too. A woman crying.”
“It sounded like more than one to me,” Michèle countered.
Erwan said, “Possibly—”
“The howling wind.” I suggested.
Michèle laughed. “I’m almost seventy years of age, and I think I know the difference.”
My cell phone began to ring. I walked over to where I’d set it down, next to the espresso machine, and picked it up. It was Guillaume Matton.
“Matton,” I said, taking the phone into the larger salon. “I’ve been trying to call you.”
“I thought you may have,” he replied. “Yesterday I took the Métro for the first time in years, and got pickpocketed. They stole my cell phone, but not my wallet, thankfully. That was in my briefcase.”
“Bad luck,” I said. I almost added that I didn’t miss the hustle, bustle, and violence of the city, but more things had been happening down here than I imagined happened in Matton’s secure and boring 8th arrondissement.
“I thought I should let you know that I now have a new phone, same number,” Matton said. “And if you could pass the news on to Sandrine; she may have been trying to call me as well.”
“I wanted to talk to you about her,” I said.
“About Hervé Pioger?” Matton asked. “I told the judge that as far as I know, they don’t see each other anymore. But she may still be sweet on him.”
“Well, they can’t see each other as he’s in detention right now,” I replied. “Kidnapping.” Matton whistled, and I told him about Erwan’s capture and rescue. “The problem is,” I
