Free The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain Page B

them were all deep in the kind of sleep that goes on for days, weeks, years, or even until the end of their lives, leaving loved ones to wonder: was he aware he was dying, or was he already long gone? The only sound was the quiet pumping of the ventilator by the neighbouring bed, which went on continuously as if it had a life of its own which would never end. The human race could die out, mortal bodies turn to dust, and this pump would go on gently rising and falling until the end of time.
    ‘It’s William,’ he finally murmured. ‘I’m here. Apparently people in comas can still hear. I don’t know if that’s true. Don’t worry, I’m looking after Belphégor. He’s eating his Virbac biscuits, the duck ones. Amandine and Pierre took over your work today; they’ll finish restoring the Virgin Mary for you.’
    He placed his hand over hers. It didn’t move.
    ‘I have to go to Berlin soon to do the ceiling for the German guy – Schmidt or Schmirt, is it? – you know, the gold mouldings.’
    I’m scared of storms.
    ‘I’ll think of a plan for the cat. I’ll think of something, don’t worry.’
    I’m scared of zoos. I’m scared because the animals are in cages.
    ‘You have to wake up. You have to come back, Laure.’
    I’m scared of boats.
    ‘All this for a bag. I told you not to buy it, it was too nice.’
    I’m scared when I don’t understand. I don’t understand why I’m here.
    I’m scared when I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know where I am. I don’t know ‘when’ I am.
    I’m scared when William talks to me and I can’t say anything back.

     
     
    The days had passed between visits to Laure in the morning and Belphégor at night. Professor Baulieu had taken him into his office.
    ‘Your sister … She is your sister, isn’t she?’
    The doctor had a sweep of white hair, a rather round face and kind, laughing eyes. The ability to keep a degree of detachment and a sense of humour must be essential in this job, William thought to himself.
    ‘What do you think?’ he replied, smiling ruefully.
    ‘I think … you’re not her brother,’ the doctor said with a knowing smile. ‘But that’s really neither here nor there. What matters is that you’re here, which is great, and you’re the only one able to speak for her.’
    William replied as best he could to the doctor’s questions. Yes, he was effectively Laure’s next of kin; she had lost her husband and parents and had no children – only a sister who lived a long way away, in Moscow, from whom she heard only once or twice a year.
    ‘She has a lot of friends, though,’ William began explaining.
    ‘Including you,’ the doctor cut in, ‘the best of them, the only one who’s here. You must talk to her when you come. That’s very important. She can hear you.’
    ‘I do talk to her.’
    ‘That’s good,’ the doctor said, nodding approvingly. ‘Right, let me tell you where we are. Laure is in a mild form of coma caused by the head injury and the subdural haematoma that developed during the night. This sometimes happens to people involved in car crashes – they go home feeling a bit dazed and collapse an hour later. The signs are encouraging. I see no cause for concern – she should wake up within days. It seems she was mugged,’ he said, consulting the notes on his desk.
    ‘She had her bag stolen. I guess she must have tried to fight back,’ replied William.
    The doctor shook his head with a sigh. ‘All for a handful of euros, and I’ve seen far worse,’ he muttered.
    William went on to answer a series of questions about Laure: Was he aware of any previous operations? Was she on any medication? Had she ever been involved in an accident? Any drug or alcohol addictions? If at all possible, he should also get hold of her social security number and a few other bits of paperwork. William said yes, he could supply that information – the ateliers would provide the necessary documents.
    ‘Profession?’ asked the