Free The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain

life’ was Hugo’s brilliant summing up – fourteen out of twenty – ‘Good comprehension of the text, but your analysis is underdeveloped and watch your spelling, Hugo.’ Some pupils, mainly girls, had read The Sky is our Frame . Djamila had even asked him to sign her copy and asked him lots of pertinent questions about the structure of the book, which had both touched him and made him feel optimistic.
    The author signed and smiled politely at his readers, drinking down several vins chauds. Laurent went over to ask if everything was all right.
    ‘Yes, excellent,’ replied Pichier.
    ‘We’ve sold thirty copies,’ Laurent murmured to him.
    Pichier nodded.
    ‘Hello,’ he said to a new customer as she approached. ‘Hello … Nathalie,’ he added with a friendly smile, looking at her neckline.
    ‘How do you know my name?’ exclaimed the customer.
    Pichier smiled, pleased with the effect he had produced.‘You’re wearing it round your neck,’ he said, narrowing his eyes.
    She put her hand up to a gold pendant. ‘You read hieroglyphics?’ she said admiringly.
    ‘I wrote Tears of Sand ,’ responded Pichier, laying his hand on a copy. ‘There’s a lot about Egypt in it. I learnt as I was doing research for the book.’
    ‘I’ll be right back,’ said Laurent quickly and he made his way through the customers to the internal door of the bookshop that led to the lobby of the apartment building. He took the stairs four at a time up to his flat, opened the door, turned the light on, quickly grabbed the keys from the card table, and looked breathlessly at the fob with the hieroglyphics. Now he understood: it had never been meant for keys, it was a pendant just like the customer’s; it was simply that she had attached it to her key ring. He left the apartment, slamming the door behind him and rushed back down the stairs.
    The customer was having two books signed: Tears of Sand for her husband and the latest novel for herself. Pichier was polishing off the dedication as Laurent approached. He had to wait while the customer related a colourful family anecdote, something that had happened to her great-grandmother during the Great War which was very like an episode in the novel. At last she said goodbye to the author and Laurent slipped in front of the next customer.
    ‘Can I just interrupt a moment,’ he said to Pichier. ‘Do you know what this says?’ And he laid the bunch of keys on the cover of one of the books.
    Pichier picked it up, adjusted his glasses and looked closely at the Egyptian characters. ‘Yes …’ he murmured. ‘It says Laure …’ Then he turned the little rectangle over. ‘…Va … Vala … Valadier.’
    Laure Valadier.

     
     
    Silence is golden . The phrase inscribed above the entrance of the ateliers and gold-plated by Alfred Gardhier (1878–1949) himself had taken on a new significance for William. It had been four days now, and Laure had still not woken up. No matter what Professor Baulieu said to reassure him – the brain scan had not shown any damage – the fact that she was still in a coma surely did not bode well. He picked up the leaf with the flat of his knife, placed it on the calfskin cushion and blew very gently; it unfurled into a perfect rectangle. With the sharp edge of the knife, he divided it in two, rubbed the sable brush against his cheek and picked up the first half in one smooth movement. The static electricity lifted the leaf above the layer of wetted Armenian bole covering the woodwork. With a flick of the wrist he dropped it into place. In a fraction of a second, the gold leaf moulded perfectly to the contours of the wood, blending in with the seventy-five others he had already positioned that day. Two more and the restoration of the pier glass bearing the coat of arms of the Counts of Rivaille would be all but complete. The only thing left was to burnish the surface with an agate stone until the gold shone as it had in its glory days.
    For the last four