She went to the kitchen. The fridge was almost empty; she had to go shopping tomorrow. Tash opened the pantry door and pulled out a can of sardines in tomato sauce. Two slices of bread had escaped Pierre-Gabriel’s merciless breakfast, and she made herself a delicious sandwich accompanied by a glass of fresh red Beaujolais. Then she pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the bar-tabac on the corner and lit one. It tasted absolutely terrible. She’d quit smoking five years ago, but today she needed it.
“Piece of shit,” she said, stubbing out the cigarette half-smoked and throwing the pack in the garbage.
She brushed her teeth until they were beyond polished. She had a true addiction to the delicious pleasure of the electric toothbrush bristles on her teeth and gums, and she found it hard to stop. Then she undressed and looked at herself in the mirror. She had lost the figure of a teenager in favor of a woman’s body, but she was still beautiful. No matter what she ate, she never put on a single ounce. She decided not to leave anything untidy, so she took out her epilator (the number one instrument of female torture) and attacked her legs. An hour later, she emerged from the bathroom a new and satisfied woman without a single stray hair, and her skin was soft and smooth after an exfoliating peel and two coats of moisturizer.
Tash slipped into her usual T-shirt and house socks to avoid suspicion, and because that’s what she liked. Then she slumped onto the couch with Émeraude, her novel, and her orange glasses. Her mind wandered elsewhere.
21
The lock on the door turned at a quarter to twelve, followed by the sound of keys crashing to the floor, “Damn keys” muttered between clenched teeth, keys flung angrily onto the tray, and then a long, exhausted sigh.
Pierre-Gabriel dragged his feet along the corridor and made his tired entrance into the living room.
“I’m exhausted. Pichon is giving me a real headache. Tomorrow I have to be back at the office first thing in the morning to keep working.”
“Good night, honey, and don’t even mention it. Let me guess, something happened to the cell tower and you didn’t have a signal in La Défense? That’s the obvious reason not to call me to cancel our dinner date tonight to celebrate your new job and your first promotion. My ankle? Much better, thanks for asking.”
Tash still hadn’t finished talking, but she was already regretting it. What was the point of attacking Pierre-Gabriel with so much venom, especially since she’d been better off alone tonight? She didn’t feel like going out to celebrate something she didn’t care about. She much preferred his not being there.
Pierre-Gabriel realized he’d really stuck his foot in it. He decided to make amends and not fall for the provocation, because if his wife had really wanted to go out for dinner or talk to him, she would have called as she usually did.
“Tash, I’m sorry—it just slipped my mind. I was concentrating so hard on Pichon’s programs that time flew by. I realized how late it was when the security guard asked how long I was going to stay, because of the alarms. And it was already quarter after eleven. I came straight home. I’m glad your ankle is better. Have you had dinner?”
“Yes. A sardine sandwich with mayonnaise, pickles, and cranberry chutney.”
Pierre-Gabriel looked disgusted. “I don’t even want to think about what you’ll be eating when you’re pregnant and start having cravings.”
Tash gave him an angry look, raising her eyebrows and opening her eyes wide. She wasn’t sure what she found more worrying, that Pierre-Gabriel was still surprised about her eating habits or that he brought up the subject of pregnancy.
She closed the subject. “There’s no more bread or sardines. Look in the freezer—I think there’s another four seasons pizza.”
“Don’t they sell other kinds? We’ll have to shop elsewhere,” he said heading toward the kitchen, dragging his feet to make it clear how tired he was.
“I like them,” said Tash to herself quietly, going back to her book.
The rest of the night was more pleasant. Pierre-Gabriel came back freshly showered and relaxed with the pizza and two beers, plus a glass for Tash. After flipping through channels for a long time, he found an interesting movie that kept them together on the sofa, Émeraude curled on Tash’s lap, until two in the morning. They finally went to bed, each of them on their own side without further ado. Tash was in the fetal position, hugging her pillow with the sheets pulled up to her ears, and Pierre-Gabriel lay on his back with his left leg outside the bedding.
Tash’s phone vibrated twice and played the truncated melody for a text message. She woke up with a start, grabbed the phone from the nightstand, and anxiously read the message: “He’s waking up. Marcel.” She had to make a huge effort not to shout with joy. She read the message again and again and felt the heat of emotion on her face, tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks.
Pierre-Gabriel stirred by her side. She quickly deleted the message and put the phone back in its place.
“What was it?”
“An advertisement to change my data plan.”
“At five thirty in the morning?” he blurted out, looking at the luxury sports watch on his wrist. “That should be forbidden.”
“Mmmh,” answered Tash, who didn’t want to have to come up with explanations.
Pierre-Gabriel fell back asleep in seconds, but Tash couldn’t stop thinking. The message was clear. “He’s waking up,” meant that Henri had shown signs of coming out of the coma. He’d opened his eyes or made some movement, but the specifics didn’t matter—she wanted to be there, to see him and be seen by him. She wanted to know whether he remembered anything, whether he remembered her, his messages on the financial routines, what had happened seventeen years ago.
Her mind raced, and she felt dizzy, drunk, euphoric, anxious—contradictory sensations that she couldn’t let go or make sense of.
How was she going to manage to sleep now? She hoped Pierre-Gabriel wouldn’t change his mind and would go to work as planned. There were still three or four hours before she would be left alone so that she could sneak out to the hospital. They were going to be the longest hours of her life.
22
When she went into the corridor leading to the ICU, Tash saw Valérie and Yvette facing the double doors and the doctor disappearing on the other side.
“Shit!” she mumbled through clenched teeth, seeing she’d missed him by just a few seconds.
Pierre-Gabriel had gotten up relatively early and shot out the door, while she pretended to laze around like she usually did on Saturday mornings.
It wasn’t the right time to make him anxious. Everything had to look like it was running its normal course.
Pierre-Gabriel closed the door very carefully so that he wouldn’t wake her up. After his blunder the previous night, he had to do something to earn her forgiveness. He decided to go get breakfast. There was nothing left at home—not even butter, sardines in tomato sauce, or four seasons pizza—although he preferred to think that it was unlikely Tash would go for that first thing in the morning. Only unlikely.
He needed time. It wasn’t the right moment to make her anxious—everything had to run its course.
When she heard the door shut, Tash leapt out of bed and got in the shower.
Ten minutes later, she was balancing precariously in the middle of the hallway putting on a shoe with one hand while reaching for her coat on the door hook with the other. That was the moment Pierre-Gabriel put the key in the lock.
The door opened very slowly and quietly. He wanted to surprise Tash, to make her realize that he did think about her. It was important that she was still asleep so that he could make breakfast before waking her. Peace at home was well worth sacrificing a few minutes on the Pichon case.
He came in and closed the door carefully. The hallway was in the dim light of daybreak. He didn’t remember turning off the light; it must have been a reflex. He tripped on Tash’s
shoe. She’d always been sloppy and chaotic, but she was getting worse. When he got rich, it would be different. He went toward the living room, also in half-light, and straight through to the kitchen.
Tash held in a sigh of nervous relief. She’d taken off all her clothes and hidden them under the sofa cushions, including the lonely shoe. She was naked in the corner of the living room, praying for Pierre-Gabriel not to come in. She wouldn’t have known what to say, but whatever she said would probably be more believable with her in this state than dressed and ready to go out ten minutes after he’d left her fast asleep.
“Why the hell would he come back? What could he have left behind?” she wondered, peering through the gap in the door. She heard him move around in the kitchen and dared to cross the hallway into the living room. She grabbed a little mirror and a makeup wipe as she went by the bathroom, then jumped into bed. In the safety of the sheets, she removed her makeup as best she could and hid the corpus delicti under the pillow.
After Tash had been listening to him for an eternal fifteen minutes, Pierre-Gabriel popped into the bedroom with a tray of delicious pastries, and the aroma of coffee with milk filled the room. He turned on the lamp on Tash’s nightstand, and as she pretended to wake up, he put his repentance for the previous day before her so that she could see his effort and good intentions.
“That was nice of you,” said Tash. (“You could have added a flower,” she thought, but she bit her tongue.)
She was turning into a true viper when it came to Pierre-Gabriel. She’d never been this way before. She had to make a decision, and if she found her husband’s presence so exasperating, she needed to do something about it. Acting this way was for cowards, and she wasn’t a coward. Also, Pierre-Gabriel was being really sweet—he’d even brought her favorite drink, freshly squeezed orange juice, with breakfast.
Her husband kneeled patiently by her side, waiting for her to sit up, which she did as soon as she brought her attention back to reality.
Pierre-Gabriel lovingly rested the tray on Tash’s lap, then went to get the other tray so that they could have breakfast together. He sat opposite her on the edge of the bed.
While they savored breakfast in silence, Tash looked at him slyly without knowing what to think. Something was up with Pierre-Gabriel. He’d never treated her this well, and his whole face was lit up with what looked like perfect happiness.
Suddenly a little lightbulb turned on: “Fuck, what if he’s falling in love with me? It isn’t possible. Not now, please.” And she turned it off.
Pierre-Gabriel couldn’t stop thinking about the hundreds of millions of euros awaiting him after he deciphered Pichon’s programs, and this feeling of well-being and fulfillment colored every one of his actions.
He had the feeling Tash was looking at him intensely, so he decided to distract her.
“That text last night was obnoxious, wasn’t it?”
“I know, they’re so annoying. But it’s my fault for keeping the phone by the bed.”
“If you want, I can email them and put them in their place,” said Pierre-Gabriel, gesturing toward the nightstand where her phone usually sat.
“Forget about it; I deleted the text as soon as I read it.”
Pierre-Gabriel was looking for something.
“What are you looking for?”
“I can’t see your cell phone—it’s not on the nightstand.”
“I took it away last night so it wouldn’t wake us up again.”
“Why didn’t you turn it off instead of getting up, wouldn’t that have been easier?”
“Yes, but I got up to pee and grabbed it to put it in my bag.”
Tash was surprised by how well she was improvising. She would have never imagined being so good at lying.
23
Yvette and Valérie came over to Tash as soon as they saw her, their smiles stretching from ear to ear.
“I wasn’t able to get here sooner,” said Tash as they approached.
“We thought so. I came on my scooter as soon as I got Marcel’s message—without running over anyone,” said Valérie, who was euphoric to know that Henri was back with them. She felt less guilty and had driven to get to the hospital as fast as possible.
Yvette had just arrived. She’d told Etienne the good news, and her son had gone to celebrate by buying croissants at Monsieur Bernard’s bakery, where they were luckily in stock.
Tash waited impatiently for the two of them to finish talking about how happy they were that Henri was waking up, then asked in a timid voice that she barely recognized, “And what about Henri, is he awake? What did the doctor say?”
Valérie spoke first to explain. “He has moments of lucidity. Marcel told me that at around five in the morning, as he was nodding off, Henri woke him up by squeezing the hand that he was holding. Marcel woke up with a start and looked at Henri, thinking it was only a reflex, but Henri was staring at him with a worried expression. Marcel pressed the emergency button immediately, and while the nurse was on her way, Marcel started to tell Henri what had happened, unsure if he was listening. Then the nurse came and Marcel had to leave the room. That’s when he texted us.”
Tash kept quiet, listening, hanging on her every word. Valérie continued. “The doctor on duty also came in, and they were with Henri for a long time. When they finally came out, Marcel could go back in, and Henri was sleeping peacefully again.”
“So he’s still not fully awake?”
“When I arrived and saw him, I was shocked by the change. He looks different, as if he’s rested. It’s not the same as when he was in a coma, and that’s not just my imagination.”
“It’s true,” Yvette seconded. “You can tell as soon as you walk in. I was also struck by the difference.”
“But you have to be patient. They’ve taken him away to run some tests, but he’ll be back in half an hour. We just spoke to the doctor. Henri is going to stay here a few more days for observation; that’s the protocol. They’re still not sure how he is because he’s only had two moments of lucidity: the first with Marcel, which lasted fifteen minutes, and the other one less than half an hour ago, coinciding with the day doctor’s visit. Had it been a little later, it would have been us. What a shame.”
“And what did the doctor say?”
“He says that when Henri wakes up—even if he doesn’t have severe aftereffects, which he shouldn’t—he’ll feel disoriented at least. It seems he doesn’t remember anything about the accident, and this is normal, too. The doctor also told us that when he’s awake, we shouldn’t overwhelm him with too much talking or too many questions. When you come out of a coma, you’re in a state of extreme fatigue, especially because you’ve lost a lot of weight. I think Henri lost more than twenty pounds. And he’ll keep losing more over the next few days. They’re not sure when he’ll be able to start eating on his own.”
The doors at the end of the corridor opened to reveal a white hospital bed: it was Henri’s bed, pushed by two nurses. Tash felt a sharp pain in her heart. She didn’t know if she was ready to see him. What if Henri didn’t recognize her? Or worse, what if she were out of sync with his memories?
Henri was asleep, which relieved Tash’s doubts. Or at least set them aside for now.
“Everything is fine, apart from temporary amnesia about the moment of the accident,” said the doctor, who’d just appeared.
“Did he say anything?” asked Tash.
“He hasn’t spoken. He only answered my questions by nodding. Does anyone know where the chain around his neck came from?”
“I gave it to him,” said Tash, sounding worried.
“Does it mean something important to him?”
“It’s part of his past.”
“It was a very good idea—he won’t let go of the amulet. We had to do the CT without taking it off.”
Tash got excited. She didn’t kn
ow whether Henri remembered her or the amulet, a gift from his mother to protect him in his childhood, but it was a positive sign.
“One more thing: it’s no longer necessary for you to be here twenty-four hours a day. You can relax the guard a little, and remember not to overwhelm him or make him anxious,” said the doctor, who smiled before leaving.
24
Tash was so focused on her thoughts that she was startled by her ringing cell phone. Émeraude fell on the floor, meowing in protest.
It was Pierre-Gabriel. She looked at the time: 9:11 p.m.
“Hi, Tash, are you at home?”
“Where else would I be?” she responded defensively.
“Buying four seasons pizzas and sardines in tomato sauce.”
It was clear he was joking to put her at ease. Tash relaxed and decided not to poison the situation as she’d been doing lately.
“I got home from shopping a while ago, and I brought back some pizzas—anchovies and four-cheese. Oh! I also found some with herring and onion from your beloved Brittany. Where are you, and why is it so noisy?”
“I’m outside. I’m going to get a bite to eat before I keep working, and it’s absolutely pouring. What is this, the universal deluge?”
“It’s a miserable day. I got soaked to the bone on my way back. What time will you be home?”
“I don’t know. Maybe late, but I might get fed up and leave it for tomorrow.”
“You should rest a little and continue tomorrow,” answered Tash with fake concern. What she was really interested in was being able to go out Sunday morning without having to explain.
“You’re right. When I get back to the office, I’ll decide what to do. Gotta go now—I’m just stepping into the café.”
Pierre-Gabriel put his phone away and went back to his post guarding access to the ICU pavilion at Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. It was pouring, and he’d taken refuge under a ledge. He knew from the doctor he’d spoken with earlier that the goody-two-shoes team of volunteers was feeling less guilty and planning to relax their guard. Henri Pichon had woken up. Pierre-Gabriel had to do something—he needed more time. A few more days, perhaps weeks.
The Penny Thief Page 6