The Other Story

by Tatiana de Rosnay

  Lionel Duhamel passed away in 2007, at seventy-seven years old. He did not witness his grandson triumphantly metamorphosing from Nicolas Duhamel to Nicolas Kolt. He had been hospitalized in 2004, when it became evident to his daughter, Elvire, that he could not longer reside in the boulevard Saint-Germain apartment, where he had been living alone since his wife Nina’s death in 2000. His mind was slipping. He left the gas on, could not remember his name, and could not find his way home. He became aggressive with his family, his neighbors, with the young nurses who came to care for him daily. The doctors diagnosed Alzheimer’s. He had not wanted to leave his apartment, but he had not been given a choice. The hospital was situated near the rue de Vaugirard, not very far from the rue Pernety. Nicolas had not been to visit his grandfather for a long while. This had become an ordeal. Most of the times, Lionel was medicated, sedated, and bland, and the visit went well. But the atmosphere of the hospital, its stench, the vision of the demented elderly patients who were confined there, was always unbearable.

  On that October evening in 2006, which was to alter many aspects of his life, Nicolas bought a bunch of flowers near the metro station on the rue Raymond Losserand and walked to the hospital. It was growing dark and the air was heavy with a bitter humidity. It was rush hour and cars slowly drove along the streets, sending noxious fumes into the air. The hospital was glaringly lit up and overheated. Nicolas took off his coat as he came through the door. Lionel Duhamel lived on the last floor, the closed one, the one for the crazy old people. Most of the patients wore magnetic bracelets on their wrists. If they wandered beyond the entrance, a blaring alarm would go off. Nicolas always kept his eyes down when he entered the ward. He could not get used to what he was confronted with each time he came: the rows of wheelchairs, the wizened, wrinkled faces, the distorted smiles, the lolling of tired heads. Some patients sat there half-asleep, drool running from dry, cracked lips. Some stood up, resting on canes or walkers, staring into nothingness, twitching, scratching. Others shuffled by with zombielike gaits, nursing an arm, one shoulder higher than the other, one foot dragging behind, cackling, moaning, or singing. He sometimes heard screeches and howls from a far-off room and the calming, pacifying tones of a doctor or a nurse. The most terrifying patients were the ones who looked normal, sitting in front of a game of chess or solitaire, groomed and presentable, no stains on their clothes, no trembling hands, no sign of dementia. They spoke well; their speech was not slurred. They resembled any well-to-do grandparents, happy to be visited. They ogled him as he walked by, and he had learned not to look back at them, because if he did, their madness lashed out at him through their glittery eyes, blazing after him like a trail of fire. He had learned to keep away from them. Once, a respectable-looking granny had grabbed him by the crotch, silently and savagely, with a salacious smirk, flaunting a yellowed-tip tongue at him.

  The nurses attended to them all with a patience he found heroic. They were insulted, ignored, jeered at, hit, all day long. How could they do this job? Looking after old people was not much fun, he imagined, but demented old people surely made it even worse. When Nicolas arrived that evening, the dinner had been served and was being cleared away. The air was stuffy and fetid, a lifeless mixture of dreary hospital food, probably cabbage, and the ammonia-tinted whiff of detergent, no fresh air, just the reek of old age and neglect, of forlorn old skins that had the aspect of dried-up parchments stitched with stringy white hair. The wheelchairs had been placed in front of the strident TV. Half of the patients in front of it were asleep. Why was dinner served so early in hospitals? Didn’t it make the night even longer, even more unbearable? Did these people know that when they left this place, it would be in a coffin?

  Lionel Duhamel, wearing a bathrobe, was sitting in an armchair near his bed, staring down at his feet. He did not move when Nicolas entered. Nicolas had already seen him in this state. He sat down on the edge of the narrow bed and waited for the old man to acknowledge his presence. Lionel Duhamel had never liked mingling with the “old fools,” as he called them. He had his meals in his room, and he watched his own television. The room isn’t too bad, thought Nicolas. But it still seemed bare, despite his grandfather’s having lived here for the past couple of years. Pale lime walls, a pack of cards, a comb, and some magazines. And to think his grandfather had lived in a large apartment full of books, paintings, ornate furniture, a grand piano, majestic tapestries, exotic carpets. What had happened to all those things, wondered Nicolas as Lionel at last looked his way with watery oyster-colored eyes that blinked at him a few times.

  “Théodore,” said Lionel Duhamel. “How nice to see you.”

  Nicolas was used to this, as well. But the first time had been a shock.

  “Hello,” he replied, smiling back. “Some flowers for you.”

  Lionel Duhamel gazed at the flowers blankly as if he had no idea what they were. Nicolas unwrapped them, threw the paper in the wastebasket, and went to fetch a tall plastic vase he knew was in the bathroom, as this was not the first time he’d brought flowers. Elvire had suggested laying off chocolate, as the old man had a tendency to wolf them down in one go, and spend the next day suffering from diarrhea. Nicolas arranged the flowers and took them back to the room, where the old man was still sitting, motionless.

  “They look nice, don’t they?” Nicolas asked.

  “Yes, they do,” said Lionel Duhamel. “Thank you, Théodore. Very kind of you. How are you doing at school?”

  “Very well,” said Nicolas.

  “I’m glad to hear it. Your mother will be pleased. And what about that geography lesson?”

  “I know it by heart.”

  “Excellent. Well, I must be getting ready. The baron is coming for dinner.”

  “Wonderful news,” said Nicolas. He found these conversations surrealistic, no matter how many times he’d had them.

  “But it is so much work when the baron comes.” Lionel Duhamel sighed. “I have to polish all the silver and get the crystal glasses out, and the tablecloth with his crest on it. The baron wants salmon and crab. So much to be done.”

  “Is that what he usually has?” asked Nicolas.

  “No! Of course not! I already told you! Before the elevator got stuck! Remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Nicolas. “I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  The old man was agitated now, his eyebrows meeting in a vee over his nose. He started to complain in a high-pitched whine that grated on Nicolas’s ears.

  “They came this morning, Théodore, again. No one saw them, only me. People are so stupid here. They steal things. As if I can’t see them. They have no idea. Goons! Complete idiots! Fools! They don’t know that the enemies spread a poisonous paste all over the windowpanes, so that if you touch it, you die. I tried to wash it off, and the stupid nurse got angry. Moronic fat cow!”

  Nicolas thought of the birth certificate in his pocket. He looked across at the grumbling old man, observed his shiny bald head, his plump, flabby pink face. For twenty-four years, he had considered this man his grandfather. His blood, his flesh. “Papi,” as he called him. Weekends with Papi, going to the theater and the Louvre with Papi, visiting Montmartre with Papi, and Versailles, as well. Learning about the Sun King with Papi. Papi knew so much. He knew all the right dates and where all the important battles had been fought and who had won them, and if a king had been a Capet or a Bourbon. It turned out that Papi was not his grandfather. Papi was not his flesh, not his blood. Papi had raised a fatherless boy and had given him his name, Duhamel. Papi knew all about Fiodor Koltchine. He was the only person in the world who could tell Nicolas anything about Fiodor Koltchine.

  Nicolas had not come unprepared. He reached for his wallet, took out the photo of Zinaïda and Fiodor dated 1961, the one from the navy blue box in his mother’s desk, and handed it to the old man. The doctors had never said not to talk about the past. They had never warned him or Elvire that it could be a bad idea. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was only hoping for an ans
wer, hoping that somewhere in that tired, old, confused brain, a light might switch on, a spark might fly.

  The minutes ticked by, and the old man said nothing, staring down at the photograph. A faint shout was heard from down the corridor, along with the metallic voices from the TV. The rubber wheels of a chair squealed past. A door slammed.

  Nicolas wondered whether he should speak. The old man seemed stricken. The photograph in his fingers trembled.

  “She never wanted you to know,” said Lionel Duhamel at last, very clearly. “She didn’t want anybody to know.”

  His voice sounded like his voice from “before,” his normal voice. His Papi voice, of the old days. Gone was the whining of a moment ago.

  Nicolas nodded, hardly daring to breathe. He was afraid of ruining the moment. So he remained silent, biting his lips. The shouting took up again down the corridor. He prayed it would not distract Lionel Duhamel.

  The old man said, with the same calm, dull voice, “That letter came, that summer. At the end of July. You read it, didn’t you, Théodore?”

  “Whose letter?” whispered Nicolas.

  “Alexeï,” said Lionel Duhamel tonelessly. “The letter Alexeï sent.”

  A long pause.

  “Who is Alexeï?” asked Nicolas gently.

  The photograph slipped to the floor and the old man started to bawl silently, mouth gaping open, tears splattering down his plump cheeks. His frame was racked with sobs. He began to moan loudly, holding his head between his hands, rocking back and forth. Nicolas sprang to his side, grasping his arms, trying to calm him.

  “Stop it!” spat the old man, furiously pushing him away. “Get away from me! Get away!”

  The gnarled hands clutched at his throat, and Nicolas was shocked at the vibrant strength left in those old bones. For a brief and horrible instant, he thought he was going to black out. His vision grew wobbly; he could hardly breathe. At last, he was able to shove himself away and dislodge the viselike grip around his neck. Lionel Duhamel wheezed and spluttered. His eyes were enormous, bloodshot, filled with hatred.

  “Papi, it’s okay, relax,” Nicolas whispered soothingly, terrified that a doctor or a nurse might turn up because of the racket and tell him off, or, worse still, order him to leave. He found the photograph under the chair and slid it back into his wallet. He rushed into the bathroom, took some Kleenex, and dabbed the old pink face. “Calm down, Papi. Please calm down. Everything is fine, I promise, just relax.”

  Lionel Duhamel blew his nose, still quaking, but the tears had stopped. He asked for some water. Nicolas filled a paper cup. He watched the old man gulp it down.

  “Are you all right, Papi?” he asked, patting a sagging shoulder.

  The flabby pink face seemed to swell with fury.

  “Who are you? I’ve never seen you before!” hissed Lionel Duhamel, his eyes still huge, injected with red. “Get the fuck out of my room, or I’ll call the police. Get the fuck out!” Nicolas left as fast as he could, racing through the long, brightly lit corridors, past the wheelchairs and the TV, down three flights of stairs, out into the cold air, where he gasped with relief. He ran all the way to the rue Pernety. He got there breathless, dizzy, still reeling from the violence of the scene. His throat hurt and he had difficulty swallowing. Delphine was not home yet, and Gaïa was with her father for the evening. He fished around in his pockets for the keys. No keys. On his key ring, he had the rue Pernety key as well as the rue Rollin one, and also a spare set to his mother’s car, which she lent him from time to time. He must have dropped them on the way home or, worse still, left them in Lionel Duhamel’s room at the hospital. He tried calling the hospital, asked for the third-floor ward, but it was busy. He ran all the way back, cursing. There were no keys on the glistening sidewalk. When he got to the third floor, he was not allowed back in by a snappy nurse, who said visiting hours were over. She grabbed his arm, but he ignored her, pushing past, yelling that he had left his keys in his grandfather’s room.

  His grandfather had been put to bed and was fast asleep when he slid the door open and slithered into the room. He turned the bed light on, frightened that this might wake the old man up (how could he face those dreadful eyes one more time?), but Papi did not budge, snoring peacefully away, as if nothing had happened, as if he had not tried to strangle his grandson. There were no keys. Nicolas searched every inch of the room and bathroom, in vain. He looked into the wastebasket. It had been emptied. He saw himself unwrapping the flowers. His keys had been in his hand, for some reason, and he must have thrown them away with the paper. He left the room and went to find the snappy nurse. At first, she remained unhelpful. Then she began to be aware that Mr. Duhamel’s grandson was more than agreeable to look at. He had the loveliest smile, beautiful lips and teeth, gorgeous eyes, such an interesting color, the color of a misty morning. He was so tall, so dark, what a change from those decrepit gnomes she dealt with all day long. Of course she would show him the shaft in the cellar where the rubbish was emptied every evening. She said she hoped he would find his keys in that awful mess. She told him her name was Colette.

  Armed with gloves, Nicolas waded through a nightmarish man-size bin full of the waste produced by a geriatric hospital—stained cloths, used diapers, food-encrusted bibs, dirty napkins—his mouth and nose clenched against the horrific stench, fighting the urge to retch, until he found his keys miraculously stuck to the flowers’ wrapping paper.

  He thanked Colette, then walked home slowly in a daze, the stink of the bin on his clothes and hair. Delphine was still not there, but she had sent a text message saying she was on her way. He undressed and took a long, hot shower. When Delphine came back, he said nothing about his day and about what had happened with Lionel Duhamel. He couldn’t sleep that night. He went into the kitchen with the black-and-white photograph of Zinaïda and Fiodor, and his father’s birth certificate. He drank some water and sat down at the table. He sat there for a long time. The words came back to haunt him, like Lord McRashley’s silent army of bats. She never wanted you to know. She didn’t want anybody to know. That letter came, that summer. At the end of July. You read it, didn’t you, Théodore?… The letter Alexeï sent.

  NICOLAS STRIDES UP TO the room, the piece of paper Dagmar Hunoldt gave him still in his hand. What do those ridiculous sentences mean? He scrunches the scrap up into a tiny ball and shoves it into his pocket. How could she possibly not know who he is? And why had he been so meek? Sitting there sheeplike. He nearly kicks himself. The next time he sees her, he will just ignore her. It will be like looking through thin air. Yes, that’s it. Dagmar Hunoldt does not exist. She’ll have to come begging if she wants him to acknowledge her.

  When he enters the room, frowning, Malvina is on the bed, a tray on her lap. She looks beautiful, although her beauty is the last thing to touch him at the moment. She smiles at him.