Murder in the Bastille

even his starched cardboardlike lab coat. How smart would it be to jeopardize any chance of regaining her vision?

And then she remembered. “But Doctor, I forgot. For an instant I could see. I saw gray fog, streetlights shining, and cars. It was so wonderful.”

Silence. “Just don’t hope for too much. Be thankful for what little you get.”

“But I saw again! Even if just for a few seconds . . . so it means I’m getting better . . . non? ”

“Often that happens . . . a gray cottony film or fog?” She nodded.

“That could be flottes, random detached tissue. Or it could be due to the easing of the pressure. Whether full vision will return permanently . . . that’s a hard call.”

Crushed, she turned away. She didn’t want him to see her in tears. Or shaking from fear. She had to find her phone, get out of here, find a place to stay.

“We’ll locate a bed for you in the hospital. It might be in the hallway but . . .”

“In case you forgot, if the attacker found me here, he’d find me there. No thanks, I’ll stay with friends.”

But who? Rene’s tiny studio brimmed with computers. Too small. Especially for her and Miles Davis. And too far away, as well. Martine’s boyfriend’s place, in the ultra bourgeois 16th arrondissement, wouldn’t be comfortable, now that all his children were living with them.

Live in her office? She’d done it before, but it wouldn’t be safe to stay there.

Martine’s cousin’s Bastille apartment was nearby, but having only been there once, she’d have to become better at navigating before she could get there, much less live in a strange place.

Outside she heard the bleating siren of a police van. She imagined the white police car, the flashing blue lights and red arrows striping the side. Was she nostalgic for the flics now? Pathetic.

“It’s imperative that you stay nearby,” Dr. Lambert said. “The way things look right now, it’s difficult to schedule another MRI, which you need. I’ll have to try to fit you in when there’s an opening. Can you pay rent?”

“If need be. Why?”

She heard him tapping on a cell phone. Then his voice.

“Madame Danoux, ca va? Still need a boarder? Bon . . . one of my patients. . . . You are a lifesaver, merci!”

* * *

AIMEE, HER laptop and bag hanging heavily from her shoulder, walked with Chantal to the rear entrance of the resi-dence. They caught a taxi which dropped them off on rue Charenton, just a block away. But she’d had the taxi circle the area several times until she felt safe. Chantal helped her count out the francs for the fare. Each bill was folded differently, so she could distinguish its denomination.

“You’ve got more to learn, Aimee,” Chantal said. “We’ve got to get your orientation scheduled. But luckily you didn’t end up on the cobblestones. Things could have been a lot worse, eh?”

True. But her lip hadn’t stopped trembling. Thank God Chantal couldn’t see that.

“Chin up.” And with that Chantal left her on the second floor landing of a building that smelt of old cooking oil and musty corners.

“Crap!” seethed a soprano voice.

“But Madame Danoux, you mustn’t sell the lace panels,” said a middle-aged woman’s voice. “Such intricate work, remnants of a past time. Nostalgia passes over me when I think . . .”

“Nostalgia for what?” Madame Danoux’s voice interrupted. “Nostalgia is when you want things to stay as they were. I know so many people who stay in the same place. And I think, my God, look at them! They’re dead before they die. Living is risking.”

A complete contrast to Mimi, Aimee thought. She had lifted her bandaged hand to knock when the half-ajar door swung open.

“Who’s there?”

The woman must be looking Aimee over, deciding whether to let her in . . . despite Dr. Lambert’s introduction.

Aimee took a deep breath, wishing she could see who and where she was. “Aimee Leduc, Dr. Lambert’s patient.”

Aimee wondered if her hair stuck out, if her black boots were scuffed, if the seam of her leather miniskirt was misaligned, or if the bag of salvaged belongings on her arm bulged open. “May I come in?”

“We’ll talk later, Madame Danoux,” said the middle-aged woman. A chair scraped over wood. Footsteps clicked away.

“Of course, I need a tenant,” Madame Danoux said, her words measured and careful. “Such a saint, that man, Doctor Lambert. I help him whenever he asks. You know, he saved my husband’s eyesight after that amateur botched a simple cataract operation.”

Unsure, Aimee remained in the doorway. Where was that chair . . . was there a rug to trip on . . . tables to run into?

“Thank you, if you could tell me . . .”

“Come inside, make yourself comfortable,” Madame Danoux said, her voice edging away. “I’ll just see to some tea. You take tea, of course . . . I require it for my throat, must have it.”

And then she’d gone. For a moment, Aimee wondered if the woman knew she couldn’t see. . . . Wouldn’t she have guessed from the doctor’s call?

She reached behind her, closed the heavy door, then played back in her mind the conversation she’d overheard, the chair scraping and the direction in which Madame Danoux’s voice disappeared.

Cautiously Aimee edged forward, her arm outstretched. Dr. Lambert had given her a cane but she refused to use it. A lingering scent of roses wafted from her right; dribbling hot air warmed her wrist. She figured the purring cat signaled a chair by a window with a southern exposure, still containing the heat of the day.

Hammering came from below, the whine of a saw and then a soaring contralto voice.

“No, no, no! The emphasis falls on the half-note!” A piano key was pounded repeatedly. “Zut! Go home and practice. That’s all for today.”

Then she heard the flipping of a radio channel, quick and impatient, then what sounded like a grainy radio interview. The tinny sound came from the AM radio:

“Joining us this evening on Talk to the People is Michel Albin, sociologist and author of The New Violence: France in the 90’s.”

Just what she wanted to hear, a paperback sociologist spouting his theory and hawking his book!

“Monsieur Albin, since the early nineties the crime rate has soared. What’s happened?” “Let’s give it a historical perspective,” Albin said. “The fifties and sixties were a time of social reform and recovery from the war. The seventies were political, going into the eighties brought drugs and drug trafficking. Digicode security replaced front doorbells and concierges and Parisiens pushed minorities into the suburbs. We’re living with the results today.” “But monsieur, violence isn’t a new phenomenon.” “Violence constantly evolves, mirroring Society and depending on the period.”

The windows slammed shut. “Blah, blah, blah, talk is cheap. That and six francs gets you an espresso,” said Madame Danoux. “We need him to tell us the country’s going to the dogs? Have some tea and I’ll show you to your room.”

“Merci, madame,” Aimee said. “Picture the face of a clock. Can you tell me at what time the tea cup is?”

“Three o’clock,” she said. “Sad, to lose your sight so young. Need treatment, do you?”

Aimee nodded. Sad wasn’t the half of it. She’d been attacked now for the second time. What would the radio sociologist theorize about that?

Somehow, she’d fathom a way out of her predicament. But right now, she didn’t know how.