13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [53]
He will get to his building. He will enter. He will go up the stairs. He will quietly bypass the door to his own apartment, the door behind which his wife and his sons wait idly for him, secure in the knowledge that he will be there shortly. He will go one floor up. He is fairly sure that Louise will be alone, because her husband works later than he does. He knows he will do this. He already has a story ready for his wife to explain his delay. He will say that the metro broke down and he had to wait for a whole hour for the train to start up again, trapped in the tunnel dark and wishing only to go home.
He is neither happy nor sad over his impending marital betrayal and his clever, ready little lie. He is driven by something he cannot understand—some unknown thing inside him pushes him on and he yields. It must be that whatever is to follow is already written.
Paris
May 13th
Dear Sir,
Early this morning, on the birthday of the dead woman who has been haunting me, I fold a hand-painted white silk handkerchief into my breast pocket. I check an address on a calling card, this one:
I find this address on my map. I am going to go. I am going to find out what is really there, now. Today—happy birthday, Louise. Down into the metro I go, with the card tucked behind the handkerchief in my breast pocket, next to my beating heart.
The squeals of the train in the tunnel sound almost melodious today. I hum along with them as I would a song. The stop I am going to is called Pyramides. When I emerge back above ground, I can see the opera house down the avenue. I immediately find the street I am looking for, and it is bizarre how quickly the noise from the avenue fades away once I get to number 13. I pause in front of a red door, its paint peeling and revealing previous layers of color: black, green. I have to go in. It’s too late now to turn back.
The entryway is chilly, and to my right is a hive of mailboxes. Someone is playing the piano in one of the upper stories; the music echoes down the courtyard. The melody sounds quite familiar, but I cannot place it—then I notice the small metal placard on one of the mailboxes, the type set white on navy blue, in all capitals.
LANGLAIS
the type spells,
and for a moment I am quite certain that I am going to run out of the building, screaming.35
Everything is just like what I have seen in my waking dreams. A man issues from the staircase, a fellow with dark receding hair carrying a caramel-colored satchel, presumably heading to work. He is wearing a high rounded collar such as were popular during the 1920s. He smiles at me as he passes as if he knows me, a crooked half smile that shows off his startlingly beautiful mouth, ripe with pinkness. Stunned, I turn to watch him go. I follow him into the street, but he pays me no attention. I want to shout after him, but I notice the street is different from before. The parked cars have disappeared. The storefronts are different, and the few people walking there are dressed like—
Oh, it is so much colder than mere seconds ago, like a November morning.
I shout, “Xavier!” but he does not turn around, as if he doesn’t hear me. Or perhaps that is not his name after all. I turn to look at the door I have just exited, and it is green, freshly painted. I am going to faint. But not in the street. I scramble back inside the building, where the piano music has stopped. The mailboxes are now on the left, and not a single one is labeled Langlais, or Brunet. The front door is once again red, peeling. Oh, but there is a familiar name on one of the mailboxes: the inhabitant of the third floor is named Josianne Noireau.
Her! Of course I knew she had something to do with this.