“Don’t worry, I’m nothing if not persistent. Do you need any help getting home on Wednesday? Depending on what time you’re discharged, I might be able to drive you—let me know, you’ve got my mobile number.”
“A police escort back to my apartment after an unexplained six-week absence?… I have to say I’m tempted, if only to see the look on my neighbours’ faces…”
“I can even crank up the lights and sirens as we pull up in front of the building if you like.”
“Now that would be asking too much. No, don’t worry about it, I’ll take a taxi.”
I give him back the Ken Follett and offer to lend him an Umberto Eco he hasn’t read yet.
I say:
“The kid gave back the keys.”
“Oh? So, is he going to crash at your place? What did he say?”
“Absolutely nothing, he left them in an envelope at reception.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“It’s probably for the best, you know. I mean, it was nice of you to offer but… well, a bit risky. You don’t owe the boy anything.”
“Except my life. Though, given how much of it is left, I suppose it’s not a great debt.”
Maxime laughs, the idiot.
He gestures to a plastic bag he put on the table opposite my bed when he came in.
“You have a DVD player I assume?”
“Of course! Incredible as it might seem, such cutting-edge technology has made it all the way to people like me.”
“I brought you a few films, you can give them back when we go for dinner, or whenever. You’ll see, they’re amazing!”
In return I promise to lend him a collection of classic American movies from the ’40s, which he could watch with subtitles if absolutely necessary.
He takes his leave, we say our goodbyes.
The tray arrives with lunch, braised chicory and ham, green beans, plain yoghurt.
At last, being in hospital has made me feel young again: if I closed my eyes, I might think I was in summer camp.
“SO, YOU’RE ABANDONING US?”
“Yes, I’m leaving at two o’clock. In your case, of course, parting is such sweet sorrow, my aurora borealis!”
“You think I believe that? Go on, you’ll be much better off at home.”
Myriam dips into the box of chocolates I had Maxime buy for her. Yummm, she says, blissfully content, her eyes closed, then winks and proffers the box towards me, as though she were suggesting a quickie.
Might as well face facts, most women don’t need us: a box of chocolates is a more than adequate substitute for an orgasm.
I take a chocolate. She approves of my choice as an informed amateur.
“Thank you, I mean that. It’s very sweet. It’s not every day we get gifts from patients, you know. Is someone coming to pick you up later?”
“No, I’ll take a taxi.”
“You did remember to make an appointment to see your physio, didn’t you?”
I inform her that I have a schedule as packed as a junior minister: physio, swimming, out-patient appointments with the consultant, follow-up X-rays three months from now…
“I’m going to miss you, I don’t get many like you in this place. Come here, give me a kiss!”
She warps her arms around me and plants a warm, sincere smacker on my cheek, I feel suddenly touched. Just my luck—I’m starting to get soppy.
We are born a reed, we become an oak, we end up balsa wood.
THE PHONE RINGS. It is Maxime.
“Ah, I was afraid you might have left already. Sorry I didn’t have time to swing by the hospital, but I just wanted to let you know I’ve concluded that little investigation.”
“Really? Already?”
“You’ve either got what it takes to be an exceptional cop, or you haven’t…”
“So?”
“So, his name is Delaroche, he is based at 38 rue des Grèves which, as you said, isn’t far from your place. He managed to save the cat, but when you didn’t come back to collect it, he gave it to a local refuge. ‘Little Kitties’ on the boulevard Magenta. The cat is still there, if you want it.”
“Are you kidding? Weeks, I’ve spent in hospital being poked and prodded and fed plain yoghurt, I’m going to need a walking stick for months, not to mention the hours of physio… Given what he’s cost me, I’m not going to let that furbag go to someone else.”
“Wait, we’re not done yet, you’re going to get a bill from the vet, he managed to wheedle your address out of me. Given the fee, I’m hoping for your sake that it’s a pedigree.”
“He’s pure-blood alley of good sewer stock, I’ll have you know. You’ll see for yourself when you pick me up to take me to the restaurant.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him! What’s his name, Kitty? Precious? Smokey?”
“Dishrag.”
“Not bad, not bad. I named my dog Toerag. Right, got to go, I’ve got work.”
“And I should go downstairs and wait for my taxi.”
I SNAP SHUT the suitcase, take a last look at the room.
Can’t say I haven’t met anyone.
A fourteen-year old mother, a rent boy studying for a degree, a sentimental cop in search of a father, a churlish consultant, a philosophical nurse, an optimistic physiotherapist, a depressive neurologist, an overworked urologist, day nurses, night nurses, harried nurses’ aides and unhurried orderlies, a student nurse.
Like a poem by Prévert.
THE WEATHER IS SHIT, the taxi smells of wet dog and the lobby of my building is cold as the grave.
As I struggle to climb the stairs, I realize there is probably nothing to eat in the house, and I don’t have the energy to totter as far as the corner shop on my crutches. Third floor, no lift, one gammy leg, I can tell this isn’t going to be fun.
The apartment is in darkness, the curtains are drawn. Camille must have closed them when he came to visit, or maybe it was my brother. I usually leave them open.
I lurch as far as the kitchen. I’m thirsty. A little beer?
As I expected, the fridge is full of cold air whistling through the empty shelves. Two mouldering tomatoes, half a chicken desiccated as a mummy, some rancid butter, a few yoghurts past their sell-by date and three cans of beer.
The cupboards are not much more welcoming: crackers, coffee, pasta, lentils, Dishrag’s cans of sardines, two stock cubes fighting a duel, a bottle of ketchup and a packet of crisps. Enough to withstand a siege for at least a week. All I’m missing is a phial of arsenic, or a tin of rat poison.
I go into the living room and throw open the curtains.
On the table, there is a bottle of decent white wine. Under the bottle is a page from a loose-leaf binder. A laconic message:
You pay for the paint, I’ll decorate the room. What do you say to white?
Camille.
White? Don’t mind if I do.
I’ll pour myself a little glass.
About the Author
Born in Bordeaux in 1957, MARIE-SABINE ROGER has been writing books for both adults and children since 1989. Get Well Soon won the Prix des lecteurs de l’Express in 2012. The international bestseller Soft in the Head, which was made into a 2010 film, My Afternoons with Margueritte, directed by Jean Becker and starring Gérard Depardieu, is also available from Pushkin Press.
PUSHKIN PRESS
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Our books represent exciting, high-quality writing from around the world: we publish some of the twentieth century’s most widely acclaimed, brilliant authors such as Stefan Zweig, Marcel Aymé, Teffi, Antal Szerb, Gaito Gazdanov and Yasushi Inoue, as well as compelling and award-winning contemporary writers, including Andrés Neuman, Edith Pearlman, Eka Kurniawan and Ayelet Gundar-Goshen.
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SUMMER BEFORE THE DARK
VOLKER WEIDERMANN
‘For such a slim book to convey with such poignancy the extinction of a generation of “Great Europeans” is a triumph’ Sunday Telegraph
MESSAGES FROM A LOST WORLD
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘At a time of monetary crisis and political disorder… Zweig’s celebration of the brotherhood of peoples reminds us that there is another way’ The Nation
BINOCULAR VISION
EDITH PEARLMAN
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IN THE BEGINNING WAS THE SEA
TOMÁS GONZÁLEZ
‘Smoothly intriguing narrative, with its touches of sinister, Patricia Highsmith-like menace’ Irish Times
BEWARE OF PITY
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘Zweig’s fictional masterpiece’ Guardian
THE ENCOUNTER
PETRU POPESCU
‘A book that suggests new ways of looking at the world and our place within it’ Sunday Telegraph
WAKE UP, SIR!
JONATHAN AMES
‘The novel is extremely funny but it is also sad and poignant, and almost incredibly clever’ Guardian
THE WORLD OF YESTERDAY
STEFAN ZWEIG
‘The World of Yesterday is one of the greatest memoirs of the twentieth century, as perfect in its evocation of the world Zweig loved, as it is in its portrayal of how that world was destroyed’ David Hare
WAKING LIONS
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‘A literary thriller that is used as a vehicle to explore big moral issues. I loved everything about it’ Daily Mail
BONITA AVENUE
PETER BUWALDA
‘One wild ride: a swirling helix of a family saga… a new writer as toe-curling as early Roth, as roomy as Franzen and as caustic as Houellebecq’ Sunday Telegraph
JOURNEY BY MOONLIGHT
ANTAL SZERB
‘Just divine… makes you imagine the author has had private access to your own soul’ Nicholas Lezard, Guardian
BEFORE THE FEAST
SAŠA STANIŠIĆ
‘Exceptional… cleverly done, and so mesmerising from the off… thought-provoking and energetic’ Big Issue
A SIMPLE STORY
LEILA GUERRIERO
‘An epic of noble proportions… [Guerriero] is a mistress of the telling phrase or the revealing detail’ Spectator
FORTUNES OF FRANCE
ROBERT MERLE
1 The Brethren
2 City of Wisdom and Blood
3 Heretic Dawn
‘Swashbuckling historical fiction’ Guardian
TRAVELLER OF THE CENTURY
ANDRÉS NEUMAN
‘A beautiful, accomplished novel: as ambitious as it is generous, as moving as it is smart’ Juan Gabriel Vásquez, Guardian
ONE NIGHT, MARKOVITCH
AYELET GUNDAR-GOSHEN
‘Wry, ironically tinged and poignant… this is a fable for the twenty-first century’ Sunday Telegraph
KARATE CHOP & MINNA NEEDS REHEARSAL SPACE
DORTHE NORS
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RED LOVE: THE STORY OF AN EAST GERMAN FAMILY
MAXIM LEO
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SONG FOR AN APPROACHING STORM
PETER FRÖBERG IDLING
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THE RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY
PASI ILMARI JÄÄSKELÄINEN
‘Wonderfully knotty… a very grown-up fantasy masquerading as quirky fable. Unexpected, thrilling and absurd’ Sunday Telegraph
STAMMERED SONGBOOK: A MOTHER’S BOOK OF HOURS
ERWIN MORTIER
‘Mortier has a poet’s eye for vibrant detail and prose to match… If this is a book of fragmentation, it is also a son’s moving tribute’ Observer
BARCELONA SHADOWS
MARC PASTOR
‘As gruesome as it is gripping… the writing is extraordinarily vivid… Highly recommended’ Independent
THE LIBRARIAN
MIKHAIL ELIZAROV
‘A romping good tale… Pretty sensational’ Big Issue
WHILE THE GODS WERE SLEEPING
ERWIN MORTIER
‘A monumental, phenomenal book’ De Morgen
BUTTERFLIES IN NOVEMBER
AUÐUR AVA ÓLAFSDÓTTIR
‘A funny, moving and occasionally bizarre exploration of life’s upheavals and reversals’ Financial Times
BY BLOOD
ELLEN ULLMAN
‘Delicious and intriguing’ Daily Telegraph
THE LAST DAYS
LAURENT SEKSIK
‘Mesmerising… Seksik’s portrait of Zweig’s final months is dignified and tender’ Financial Times
TALKING TO OURSELVES
ANDRÉS NEUMAN
‘This is writing of a quality rarely encountered… when you read Neuman’s beautiful novel, you realise a very high bar has been set’ Guardian
Copyright
Pushkin Press
71–75 Shelton Street,
London WC2H 9JQ
Original text © Editions du Rouergue, 2012
Translation © Frank Wynne 2017
First published in French as Bon Rétablissement in 2012
This translation first published by Pushkin Press in 2017
ISBN 978 1 782272 89 2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission in writing from Pushkin Press
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