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By Root 798 0

everything would be fine. But as the pain subsided, his feeling of helplessness grew. My body, he concluded, whether strong or infirm, is my house, and, like the house I actually live in, is the expression of my integrity. Without my body my integrity is an illusion. That it is here, that I reside in it, that I alone am master of it, is a vital part of being alive; just as the solidity of the ground beneath our feet is an important part of our being alive. He had never thought of it in this way, but now realized that he had felt this way all along. As a boy, during a vacation in Italy, he had experienced an earthquake and realized with dread that there was no depending on the ground on which we stand and walk so confidently. What was worse now than the pain and the horror of being so helpless when they had dragged him out of the car and beat him up was the realization that his body could be ravaged just like his house.

Once every movement no longer hurt and he could walk, bend over, and stretch, he felt anger and hatred. They’ve taken Françoise away, they’ve beaten me to a pulp, killed my cats, ransacked my house and my office. They used me, and anything I didn’t give them of my own free will they took anyway. If I let them do that, I’m not worth more than a stone or garden hose or cigarette butt. And if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’m going to beat the hell out of Bulnakov! I’ll blow him up in his car, him and those bastards who did this to me!

He pictured what he would do to them, and how. There was nothing original in his fantasies, just images of avenging heroes from the movies, but when the images ran out and he began to think more clearly, he realized how little he knew. How many people were working for Bulnakov? Where did Bulnakov live, what did he do all day?

On Monday morning Georg drove to Marseille by way of Cadenet. It was a detour, but it took him past Françoise’s place. He kept hoping for a sign, a hope he told himself was futile, and for which every disappointment was a confirmation. He no longer went to her apartment.

But her car was there: parked the way she always parked it on the other side of the narrow street, at an angle, only the left wheels on the asphalt, the right ones against the hedge. He pulled up outside the front gate, hurried up the stairs, ran over the gravel, and pressed down on the latch. She never locked the door when she was home. But today the door was locked, and when Georg stepped back confused, he saw that the curtains were still drawn. He knocked on the door, waited, and knocked again.

A truck honked its horn as it carefully edged past Georg’s car, which was blocking the road. Somebody called to him from a window in the villa, and he looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mademoiselle Kramsky. I see her car is here.”

“Mademoiselle Kramsky? She moved out. About a week ago. Ah, the car is back, is it? Well, it’s my car, not hers. She rented it from me until today.”

“But you said that it was a week ago that she …”

“One moment, I’ll be right down.”

Georg waited by the door. An elderly gentleman in a dressing gown came out.

“Good morning. You are a friend of Mademoiselle’s, I believe; I’ve seen you before. She rented the apartment and the car from me. She wanted to keep the car a little longer so she could go out driving for a few days.”

“Do you have her new address?”

“No.”

“Then where do you forward her mail?”

“Mail? She never got any.”

“I’m sorry to be so insistent, but this is really important. You can’t just rent a car like that without having an address.”

“That’s enough of that, young man. Mademoiselle Kramsky lived here quite a while, and I know whom I can trust. As you said yourself, the car is parked right outside. Good day!”

Georg walked slowly down the stairs and stopped in front of the gate. He took a deep breath. This time the disappointment was not just a confirmation, it hit him full force. His anger was back. He would go to Bulnakov’s office and confront him.

He parked his car near the statue of the drummer boy and walked up the rue d’Amazone.