by Inès Bayard
A woman sitting near her complains of a stomachache. “I think I’m getting my period. It’s always like this.” The woman’s friend takes a small red-and-white sachet from her bag and tells her to take the medication to ease the pain. She rips the sachet open and pours the contents into her glass. The powder dissolves in the water, forming little white bubbles on the surface. The woman feels better already. Thomas will feel even better. The woman smiles as she drinks the strange-colored mixture and then thuds the glass down on the table. Laurent always puts his glass down like that, as if rapping the table with his fist. Their destinies are becoming clear. Marie thinks about the fates of her loved ones, and doesn’t fight off the terrible thoughts coming into her mind. She just accepts that this is the logical conclusion to the story.
She’ll never go back to the bank. For this afternoon, Marie claims she doesn’t feel so well, she has a slight fever. Her director gives her permission to go home. As she leaves the premises on the place de la République for the last time she feels a huge wave of relief. The long years spent in this organization never afforded her any real recognition. She just contributed to the smooth running of it all. She’s already stopped thinking about it. The future no longer exists. Plans, stress about the days ahead, arranging vacations, afternoons at Bois-le-Roi, potential arguments—none of it matters anymore. The Métro doors close with a long bing sound. The carriages reek of filth and piss. She won’t smell this anymore. A man stares at Marie from the opposite platform. He doesn’t know where she’s heading or what she’s going to do in a few hours’ time. He doesn’t recognize her suffering or her satisfaction. It’s a premeditated act.
This morning Marie hunted down some prescriptions Paul had given her to help her with stress and exhaustion after Thomas was born. Two boxes of Zopiclone to help her sleep, two boxes of Lexomil to calm her nerves, along with some milder drugs that never had any effect. Marie didn’t like taking these drugs. They often put her in an unpleasant state, a combination of well-being and profound anxiety. She experienced both emotions at the same time: a feeling that she was perfectly attuned to her situation while being aware of the completely artificial effects that tranquilizers have on depressive patients. Three or four of the prescriptions hadn’t been stamped by pharmacies but were old and no longer valid. It took Marie only a few hours to falsify the dates with the help of a digital retouching program. Laurent was always pretty much against her taking these drugs and she didn’t have the strength to insist, so she’d just stowed the prescriptions among her things until the day came when they’d be useful.
The Fifteenth Arrondissement is a neutral neighborhood. There’s no one out walking through the Boucicaut area. When she comes out of the Métro, Marie heads down the wide avenue Félix-Faure. The change of environment throws her, but the first pharmacy she comes to gives her confidence: it’s big and full of people. She has no trouble obtaining the drugs. In the rush and stress of the store no one notices the falsified date on the prescription. After a few words of advice about how frequently to take the medication and the fatal consequences of combining it with alcohol, the two little boxes of tranquilizers are carefully packed into a bag for her. She crosses to the other side of the street where there’s a second pharmacy. Three boxes of sleeping pills are handed over. It’s quite the medical treasure hunt. Not one of the pharmacists notices the date stamps. She can reuse her prescriptions twice. Back on the Métro, sitting on a fold-down seat, she has the equivalent of ten boxes of drugs in all varieties.
She stops at Saint-Lazare station to go to the large home improvements and gardening store that she located on the Internet. It’s two in the afternoon. The huge space is dotted with customers wandering up and down the wide aisles. Sales staff hurry busily here and there. Marie doesn’t want to waste any time. “Hello. I need some antifreeze for car radiators.” Third aisle on the left. The product is in her basket. A fair-haired young man is giving a customer advice about the merits of a set of plastic washers for bathrooms. Marie waits for him to finish before approaching: “Hi, I’m looking for rat poison.” She can feel the excitement and anxiety at the sound of her own words. He stares at her for a moment. Marie is unsettled by this brief silence. Can he tell what she’s planning? “What sort of rodent is it for? And do you live in a house or an apartment?” The questions surprise her. She hasn’t met any obstacles so far. She explains that it’s not for her but her parents. They have a large house in the country and they’ve found about a dozen rats among their things in the attic. The salesman smiles at her, nods politely and takes her to the right department to hand her the product. He gives her some information about the danger of ingesting rat poison. She thanks him warmly for all his recommendations and goes off to the checkout counter to pay.
* * *
—
It’s now three in the afternoon. Marie is just relieved. She spills her day’s shopping onto the table. She’s going to cook for the whole rest of the afternoon: osso buco for the main course followed by chocolate mousse, and stewed apple for Thomas. She’ll have time to get it all ready before Laurent comes home. She’s stopped feeling anxious now. Last night she trawled through dozens of Internet sites to research the effects of each combination. She read hundreds of warnings about toxic products. The antifreeze and the rat poison will be the most effective in view of Thomas’s body weight. With Laurent it will be a more complex undertaking. He’s bigger and heavier. The sleeping pills will have an immediate effect but the poison is bound to take longer. Marie is banking on the absence of medical treatment for several hours after the poison is ingested, to help her achieve her aim.
She inherited a marble pestle and mortar from her grandmother. She’s never used it for fear of damaging it. Each sheet contains fourteen pills. She still has several unopened boxes left. Sleeping pills, tranquilizers, a variety of antihistamines, a few drops of antifreeze, and some grains of rat poison. The bowl is overflowing with a pasty powder. Marie saves two whole sheets for herself and then starts dicing the vegetables for the osso buco. It’s a slightly sweet dish, ideal for diluting the taste of antifreeze and the cocktail of pills so Laurent doesn’t notice them. Thomas will die very quickly. A few spoonfuls of stewed apple. The sound of the knife on the wooden chopping board reverberates around the room. Alone at the center of this drama, she knows she’s making the right decision. Marie has rested her mother’s recipe book facing her to be sure she doesn’t forget a single step. The tomatoes are reducing slowly in a pan. The butter is starting to brown the pieces of meat in the large cast-iron casserole dish she so loves using. It’s not a crime to take back what you yourself have brought into the world. Marie now has the opportunity to correct what she still sees as her own mistake. Soon this little family will no longer exist. Laurent will never have to suffer the truth. She’s taking life back from life and no one will judge her.
The osso buco needs to simmer on very low heat for another hour. Marie has gone to pick up Thomas early from the day nursery. Laurent isn’t home yet. All the mixtures are ready. She just needs to do everything in the right order. Thomas will be the first to go. His little body won’t tolerate the combination in his stomach for more than three minutes. Marie thinks that it would be a serious mistake to give him his stewed apple before serving Laurent his food. The drugs will take longer to work on Laurent and he’s bound to notice anything suspect in his son’s behavior instantly. The scheme would fail. For Thomas’s main couse, she’s planned chicken and spinach—with no poison. He mustn’t eat too much or he won’t be hungry when it comes to dessert. The numbers are lining up, the proportions becoming clear, everything’s calculated, measured, and quantified in her mind. Marie has always been methodical and thorough. When she threw herself into a project, she put infinite care into fine-tuning the tiniest details that no one else had even thought of.
Laurent calls. He tells her not to wait for him for dinner, he’s very behind with his work. Marie tries to disguise her panic wh
ile still being firm with her husband: “Come on, I cooked for hours to make a nice meal for the three of us. I need this special time now. Thomas and I will wait for you till midnight if need be. But come home early for once. Please…” Marie knows the arguments that will persuade Laurent: abandoning his family, guilt for not spending enough time with his son, the dish that his wife lovingly prepared. Family forever.
Laurent was half lying to his wife. He’s planning to have a drink with Julia after work. He needs to relax away from Marie and Thomas before getting the news from the lab or from Paul. His fears about the results of the test have been needling him for three days. He needs some courage to go home and sit with his family while he waits for the outcome of his own life as a man and a father.
Paul messages him to say he’ll stop off at the lab at the end of the day to pick up the results in person and will let him know right away. Laurent feels relieved. He decides to go home early, maybe make the most of the last period of calm.
* * *
—
Marie is wearing the dress Laurent bought her for her last birthday. She had seen it in the window of a department store when they were strolling along the boulevard Haussmann with Thomas. It was a very cold day. Snow had cloaked the tops of cars and left a thick blackish slush on the sidewalks for people to squelch through. She remembers how happy she was when she opened the big gift-wrapped parcel. This gorgeous dress that he remembered for her. Marie couldn’t bear to have all her memories wiped out, soiled, punctured by the appalling truth. She finds the thought of death more bearable. With this combination of drugs and poison, he’ll go to sleep painlessly. He won’t touch her again. It will be like a long family nap, so they can forget everything and meet up again somewhere else, somewhere far from excruciating reality.
It’s six thirty when Marie hears the first sound in the lock. He’s really made an effort. He’s come home very early today to make the most of this family meal. The routine is still the same. The keys put on the small sideboard, the door still half open, the shoes on the floor, the coat hung on the hook on the right, the door slamming, Marie’s name called toward the kitchen. It’s the last time.
“Dinnertime!”
Today seemed to go on forever. As he closes the door to his office, Paul remembers his last conversation with his closest friend, Laurent. This evening, whatever the verdict, it will be up to him to tell Laurent the results of his paternity test. Interns are still running down corridors, laden with files. Salpêtrière hospital is one of the few places that never sleeps, open twenty-four hours a day, home to thousands of people every day: from medical students to the seriously ill, from specialists to mere observers, from doctors to researchers, all of them spread through the vast buildings on its campus. Paul remembers that at the start of his career he took months to identify the different floors in the gynecology department. Now, though, he feels at home here. He could make the trip to the lab for Laurent’s results with his eyes closed.
“Hi there, Guy, I need the results for test number 89097034.” The fifty-something secretary types on his computer keyboard to find out where the results are. They’re not here. The department has decided to transfer part of the laboratory into an annex, outside the gynecology department. Paul is irritated. He doesn’t understand why doctors are always last to be given practical information.
It’s eight forty-five. Paul has to retrace his steps and come out of the building to make his way to the west wing. He knows Laurent is waiting anxiously for these results. He’s already annoyed with himself for being slightly late and thinks he should let him know by text. He searches his pockets and realizes he left his cell phone on his desk. He quickens his step along the hospital’s corridors, not even taking the trouble to greet coworkers along the way. A young woman hands him the results of the test at last. He knows there’s no possible room for doubt. He doesn’t open it immediately, choosing instead to pick up his phone so he can call Laurent as soon as possible.
It’s nine fifteen. The clocks in the hallway show the exact time, down to the last second. Paul is sweating. Anxious to know the verdict, he can feel his heart thudding in his chest. His heartbeat accelerates, his blood pressure rises, his hands are growing clammy and cold as they clutch that envelope. When he finally reaches his office, Paul grabs his phone. Laurent has called twice but left no message. Once at eight thirty and then again at eight forty-five.
Paul sits at his desk for a moment. He opens the envelope and unfolds the two sheets of paper. He doesn’t take long to find his friend’s phone number. He and Laurent call each other a lot. He calls him back. It rings several times with no reply. Paul tries again three times. Three calls go unanswered. He decides to leave a message: “Laurent, it’s Paul. So I have the results. There’s no doubt about it, the test is ninety-nine percent positive. You’re definitely Thomas’s father.”