The Penny Thief

by Christophe Paul

  “On the other hand, he has multiple traumas in the rest of his body: four broken ribs and displacement of the second cervical and fifth lumbar vertebrae, but his spine wasn’t affected. This afternoon, the osteopath will decide if we can proceed or if we should wait for surgery. It would be preferable not to operate until the TBI is resolved.”

  “OK, I’ll call the others. We’ll keep taking turns.”

  “Great, thank you. When you finish your calls, I’ll take you to see him.”

  “What should I do?”

  “There’s no silver bullet. Just hold his hand and talk to him about whatever you want. One more thing: at this stage, he might move his fingers or another part of his body. Don’t be alarmed—it’s entirely normal.”

  9

  The doorbell rang, followed by the sound of a bolt closing, the noise of keys falling on a tray, and a tired sigh.

  “You’re very late. How was your first day at work?”

  A weary Pierre-Gabriel appeared in the living room. Tash was slumped on a huge pale-green sofa in socks and a gray T-shirt. Her fancy orange reading glasses, which she bought at a pharmacy, were perched on her nose, and she was holding a fat book—her favorite kind.

  Émeraude, their cat, lifted her head slightly to see what was going on. Pierre-Gabriel was not especially affectionate toward the cat. He wouldn’t stroke her head when she came and purred at him, looking for love. He’d even given her a kick once or twice when he was in a rush and she got in his way. But the worst thing about Pierre-Gabriel was that whenever Tash had to travel for several days, the cat fasted because he forgot to feed her. The saving grace was that he always forgot to close the toilet lid, so at least Émeraude could drink water out of the toilet bowl. Since nothing special was going on, Émeraude curled back up into a ball next to Tash.

  “Anything wrong?” Tash asked after getting no answer to her first question. Knowing her father and Pierre-Gabriel, anything was possible.

  “It’s going to be complicated. The guy in the coma is a genius. He handled the entire national and international transactions system. He had machine language routines that helped in complex cases. He pieced together a highly sophisticated chain of tasks. It looks like a well-oiled Swiss clock. I don’t understand how your father allowed this to happen. I’m going to get a beer.”

  Tash stood up suddenly, and Émeraude fell to the floor, annoyed. “You said he had machine language routines to speed up complex tasks. That isn’t usually done in management projects. It’s too risky: there are few people who can do it, and even fewer who can maintain it,” she yelled so that he could hear her in the kitchen.

  “Well, that guy has them. And not just one, but many. Some of them have been in place since the late eighties,” answered Pierre-Gabriel as he opened the fridge.

  Tash grew visibly pale. Out of habit, she grabbed the chain around her neck that held a small, translucent green amulet surrounded by copper wire. She took the amulet out of her T-shirt and clasped it; she always did this when she wanted to cast away something unpleasant. This chain and amulet had not left her neck since she was fifteen.

  “What’s the name of the programmer in the coma?”

  Pierre-Gabriel took a sip of beer. “He’s the guy I was doing the systems internship with when I met you. He’s a genius, and if your father hadn’t pulled strings for me in another department, I could have learned a lot from him. I don’t understand how a guy with that IQ could have such a dull name: Pichon. Henri Pichon. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “It’s also unbelievable to see a descendent of French nobility, who usually pretends to be high-class, drinking beer straight from the can.”

  Pierre-Gabriel was disconcerted. Tash didn’t usually have mood swings.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Nothing, I’m sorry. I’m just reading a book that’s making me nervous.”

  “Well, read something else. What’s for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. I had a sausage sandwich with pickles and butter. I think there’s still a pizza in the freezer.”

  “I’ll go check,” said Pierre-Gabriel, and he headed back into the kitchen.

  10

  Henri Pichon was in a coma. Tash clasped her talisman harder.

  A strong, uncontrollable sob shook her whole body. She took a deep breath, wiped away the tears running down her cheeks, took another deep breath, and tried to control her emotions. She didn’t want to have to give any explanations. Explanations that went back to her adolescence, a girlie fantasy that left an imprint for life because that’s the way she wanted to preserve it.

  It happened seventeen years ago. She’d just turned fifteen, and that year she had to choose whether to focus on literature or science. One of her teachers had the idea to ask the students to complete an assignment about promising professions they might want to try. They would share their work in class, and maybe some undecided kids would figure out what they wanted to do with their lives.

  Whether it was because it was easy, she was curious, or she thought it would be fun, Tash chose IT and asked her father to allow her to spend the two-week Christmas break in his department.

  Jean-Philippe was unsure at first about involving his only daughter in his work, but seeing her insistence, he eventually caved and sent her to the computer room under the guidance of Henri Pichon. The guy was smart, and he was the youngest person on the payroll. At twenty-five, he’d been working for the company for seven years and did an excellent job. But the most important thing was his dedication—he was often seen on weekends finishing a job or taking a colleague’s shift, even if it meant he had to skip his usual workouts at the gym.

  The first week was wonderful, and she kept notes on everything. Henri explained every detail of the profession, illustrating them with practical examples. He explained not only his role but also the general context, system, management, communications, and the importance of organization and synchronization.

  When Tash arrived in the morning, he interrupted the work he’d started hours earlier and dedicated himself entirely to her, and they ate together at a brasserie or had a sandwich at Henri’s desk. When she left, he would work for a few more hours to make sure he kept up with his duties.

  She had a fresh and joyful spontaneity reflected in her big sea-blue eyes, which gleamed like the moonlit ocean, framed by windswept brown hair. She always wore faded jeans with a T-shirt and a thick cable-knit sweater in the same off-white as the sneakers she never tied properly. And for a purse, she threw on a military shoulder bag she’d unearthed at the Marché aux Puces flea market. Henri felt very at ease with her; he went to work in old jeans and equally old sneakers. He put in a lot of time at the gym but never competed in sports because of his work schedule. Tash asked him a lot about his training. She played on the high school basketball team, and even though she wasn’t tall, she made up for it with her agility and skill.

  One day when they were leaving the elevators in the black skyscraper to go for a late lunch—they’d worked past two that afternoon—Tash saw her father heading outside from the immense hall. She ran to say hello—they normally didn’t see each other at work because they came in at different times, and she commuted by subway while he came with his driver. But when she reached the exit, she stopped on a hunch and stood away from the door, hiding behind the reflections of the glass and looking out without being seen.

  Henri caught up with her and followed her tense gaze. Jean-Philippe was standing in the esplanade of the tower, where cars with drivers were waiting for their bosses. He was accompanied by a spectacular woman with a strong chin and a chiseled body. She was wearing a pencil skirt, a pearl-gray blazer, and high heels with black tights, and she had exaggerated blond hair and golden skin.

  “That’s Morgane Duchène, the risks director—they must be on their way to a meeting. Let’s go, I’m hungry.”

  Bu
t Tash didn’t move. She kept looking at the couple, praying for a sign that her intuition was wrong. But this type of intuition is rarely wrong.

  The driver opened the door. Jean-Philippe held out his hand politely to help the woman get in, and then he sat next to her.

  “They’re just going to a meeting; it’s quite normal,” Henri said.

  But the blonde had the upper hand, and Tash was unable or unwilling to move. As they sat in the car, Morgane gave Jean-Philippe a long kiss.

  “Shit!” was the only thing Tash was able to say, tightening her fists, furious and powerless.

  “I’m sorry you had to witness that,” said Henri, taking her by the shoulders.

  “Take me away from here,” she said, on the edge of an abyss.

  Henri called his uncle and took the afternoon off to bring Tash to a small café. She held on stoically, barely opening her mouth. Henri tried to change the subject until she couldn’t take it any longer and burst into tears.

  When she finally calmed down a little, she said, “You knew about it, right? Don’t try to cover for him. You don’t owe my father anything.”

  “Yes, he’s been with her for some time, and it’s common knowledge at the office.”

  “Son of a bitch! Always full of high-and-mighty principles, rules and good manners, saying what’s right and what’s wrong. Poor Mom. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”

  After saying this she started crying again, but more calmly. Then she smiled slightly, remembering something. “Yesterday when I got home, I found a message from my best friend. I called her, and she said she saw my boyfriend making out with another girl. It’s like I’ve been jinxed.”

  Henri sat closer to her. Tash thought he was going to give her a hug to comfort her, but instead he carefully unclasped a gold chain he was wearing around his neck with a small translucent pendant bound by copper wire. Then he put it on her, scooping up her hair to fasten it behind her neck.

  “It’s a talisman my mother gave me when I was little and we were having problems at home. When things take a bad turn, hold it in your hand and wish very hard for everything to be OK. It doesn’t always get resolved in the way you’d like, but you’ll see that there’s always an alternative. I don’t need it anymore,” he said, closing her hand around the talisman.

  Tash shut her eyes and wished very hard for everything to be all right. She felt Henri close to her and recognized a feeling that been growing over the course of the week. When she opened her eyes, Henri was smiling at her. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him the most passionate kiss he’d ever been given.

  Henri pushed her away gently. “Tash, wait.”

  Tash stepped back, and everything was very clear to her, and she listened.

  “Tash, you’re fifteen and I’m twenty-five, and right now you are emotional and sensitive.”

  “I’m fifteen years old, and I’m already a woman in every sense of the word, and I know exactly how I feel. Or you—”

  “Please, Tash, don’t make it harder for me. You’re wonderful and very beautiful, and you understand me. I feel comfortable with you in a way I’ve never felt with another girl, but you’re fifteen years old, and you have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “Said the grandpa,” she joked.

  “I propose a deal: let’s wait a few years and see what happens.”

  The next week was intense for both of them, and they came very close to breaking the deal several times. The following months were hard for Tash because of her parents’ divorce. Nobody knows when her mother, Natasha Maillard Kuznetsova, found out about her husband’s affair; but when she asked for the divorce, it was through her lawyer, and everything was tied up and prepared. Jean-Philippe received the request in his office, along with four suitcases full of his belongings.

  The talisman had its own ways of resolving problems.

  Natasha Maillard Kuznetsova came from a Russian family that settled in the United States in the early twentieth century, a family of Russians with a fortune that made a fortune. Young Natasha inherited her first name from her mother, so they called her Tash at home.

  Staying in Paris was not included in the plans of the heartbroken Natasha Maillard Kuznetsova. She intended to take young Tash to the United States and snatch her away from her father as a punishment. Jean-Philippe didn’t put up a fight, largely because of his selfishness—he asked to see his daughter only fifteen days a year.

  Tash left in June after completing the academic year. She bid farewell to Henri, breaking the deal on the last Sunday morning of spring, now seventeen years ago. A morning she remembered like it was yesterday.

  After that Henri and Tash called each other occasionally, until time and distance eventually separated them.

  Tash studied IT in the United States and had returned to Paris ten years ago, when she came to see her father to talk about her future. She found out that Maurice Lambert had passed away and that Henri Pichon had just begun a relationship with a woman who was much younger than he was. She met an arrogant and dynamic programmer, Pierre-Gabriel de La Valette, who reminded her of someone, and life took her along a different path.

  She’d found out a few years ago that Odette Lambert, Henri’s aunt, had passed away and that Henri had moved back to Montmartre. But she was married, and perhaps Henri would not remember their past fondly. Perhaps it was best to leave things as they were.

  When Pierre-Gabriel returned from the kitchen with his dinner and another beer, this time in a glass, Tash was again slumped on the sofa with her orange glasses, her book, and Émeraude curled up beside her. She’d pulled her T-shirt almost down to her knees.

  Pierre-Gabriel noticed nothing different, and he sat as usual in his comfy armchair with his tray on his lap, picking up the TV remote to look for something interesting to pass the time until they went to bed.

  For a long time, Tash was the only one who sought intimacy in their relationship. Maybe even since they started dating. She seduced him, and she had recently started to wonder what he found most attractive in her: her gorgeous body and sincere spontaneity, or the professional connections her father could provide. The only times Pierre-Gabriel took any initiative with Tash was when she suspected he had a lover.

  Tash knew she was attractive—she could feel it on the subway, in the office, on the street, and at parties. She had brown hair; big, deep-blue eyes; and a slim body with attractive curves that allowed her to wear everything elegant. But this didn’t seem to be enough to awaken the passion inside of Pierre-Gabriel.

  At eleven, she decided to go to bed. She realized she was squeezing Henri’s amulet so hard that her nails were digging into her palm, and she wished for something with all her might.

  11

  Yvette, Etienne’s mother, entered the intensive care room at 6:00 a.m. to relieve Marcel.

  Valérie had called that morning to share the doctor’s opinions about Henri’s condition. Yvette had agreed to help immediately and felt responsible.

  Marcel thought the little one seemed visibly worried about what happened, not so much because of the accident but because of what followed: the image of Henri Pichon lying unconscious on the ground with his head bleeding, the arrival of the ambulance and the paramedics, the statement in the police car. Fortunately, the police had been very nice to the child, minimizing the severity of the situation and blaming it all on the pigeon. But what had really affected Marcel was how the baker told the story to anyone remotely interested, with his version of the facts blaming the poor child for the entire tragedy.

  “Good morning, Madame Yvette. Thank you for being on time. Did Etienne have a good night?” whispered Marcel to avoid bothering the rest of the ICU.

  “Better—fewer nightmares. I’ve sent him to school with his sister, and a neighbor from the building is going to take them. Everyone is being very nice to us, and they’ve told me not to worry abou
t my cleaning work. It doesn’t matter if I do it in the afternoons.”

  “Maybe taking him to see a psychologist might help?”

  “We actually have an appointment with one this afternoon. Did he have a good night?” she asked, changing the subject but not wanting to say Henri’s name or look toward the bed surrounded by curtains that separated him from the rest of the patients.

  “Very calm, except he shuddered and squeezed Valérie’s hand several times at around eleven, she told me.”

  “That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “The doctors aren’t sure. The nurse on duty came immediately, but Monsieur Henri was calm again. Apparently it’s very common in coma patients. Valérie thinks she saw his lips move, as if he were trying to say something, but because it’s so dimly lit in here, she’s not sure.”

  “How is the edema? Have they said anything?”

  “The doctor won’t be here until midmorning. I suppose they’ll have to run some kind of test to find out. I’d better get going. I need to go home and get ready for work.”

  “What a night you’ve had! You must be wiped out.”

  “I’m used to not sleeping much, and in the afternoons I’m free from three to seven, so I’ll get some rest then. I managed to take a little nap last night, too. I’ll come back later so Valérie can rest. I think she was going to work this morning.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” asked Yvette, unsure about the situation.

  “Nothing special. Just hold his hand and tell him things, whatever you can think of. The important thing is that he feels someone is by his side. I told him about yesterday’s soccer game and the horse races. Valérie brought a novel and has been reading it to him throughout the day.”

  Marcel squeezed Yvette’s shoulder, then glanced over to the bed and quietly left the room.

  Yvette dared to look at Henri at last. It was the first time she’d seen him since the ambulance took him away on Sunday.