Mauve leather, gold clasps and external pockets of various sizes. There was nothing comparable for men. They had to make do with satchels, or otherwise briefcases which were all a standard shape intended only for carrying paperwork. He drank some more wine, feeling he was about to commit a forbidden act. A transgression. For a man should never go through a woman’s handbag – even the most remote tribe would adhere to that ancestral rule. Husbands in loincloths definitely did not have the right to go and look for a poisoned arrow or a root to eat in their wives’ rawhide bags.
Laurent had never opened a woman’s handbag. He hadn’t opened his mother’s when he was a child and he hadn’t opened Claire’s either. Occasionally he had been told, ‘Take the keys from my bag,’ or ‘There’s a pack of tissues in my bag; you can take those.’ He had not touched a handbag without explicit prior authorisation, more like a command that was only valid for a very limited time. If Laurent couldn’t find the keys or the tissues in less than ten seconds and began to rummage about in the bag, it was immediately reclaimed by its owner. The action was accompanied by an irritated little exclamation, always in the imperative, ‘Give that to me!’ And the keys or tissues would magically appear.
He gently pulled the zip open all the way. The bag gave off an odour of warm leather and women’s perfume.
What I really need is a friend just like me; I’m sure I’d be my own best friend.
Last night’s dream: Belphégor was a man, which was a bit of a surprise, but in a way it wasn’t. I knew it was him – he made quite an attractive man. We were going back up to our room in a luxury hotel after a drink at the bar. We were falling asleep on the bed and then making love on the terrace (it was good). I woke up and he was rubbing his nose against mine (that bit was real, not in the dream). BUY CAT FOOD, Virbac duck flavour.
I like:
Walking along the water’s edge just as everyone else is leaving the beach.
The name ‘americano’, but I prefer to drink a ‘mojito’.
The smell of mint, and basil.
Sleeping on trains.
Paintings of landscapes without people.
The smell of incense in churches.
Velvet and panne velvet.
Having lunch in the garden.
Erik Satie. Buy an ERIK SATIE BOX SET.
I’m scared of birds (especially pigeons).
Think of other things ‘I’m scared of’.
On my way home, I always scan the Métro carriage for ‘possible’ men. (I’ve never met a man on the Métro.)
I need to break up with Hervé. Hervé is boring. There’s nothing worse than being bored with a boring man.
I like open fires. I like the smell of burning wood. The smell of a wood fire.
I’ve broken up with Hervé. I don’t like breaking up. Think of other things ‘I don’t like’.
It was almost eleven o’clock. Still sitting on the floor but now surrounded by objects, Laurent was absorbed in the red Moleskine notebook. The thoughts of the unknown woman were written over several pages, sometimes with crossings out, underlinings, or words written in capital letters. The handwriting was elegant and fluid. She must have recorded her thoughts in the notebook as the whim took her, on café terraces or on the Métro. Laurent was fascinated by her reflections which followed on one from the other, random, touching, zany, sensual. He had opened a door into the soul of the woman with the mauve bag and even though he felt what he was doing was inappropriate, he couldn’t stop himself from reading on. A quote from Sacha Guitry came to mind: ‘Watching someone sleep is like reading a letter that’s not addressed to you.’ The bottle of wine was half empty and the hachis Parmentier forgotten on the kitchen counter.
The first thing he had found was a black glass bottle of perfume – Habanita by Molinard. He pressed once on the spray, releasing the powdery scent of ylang-ylang and jasmine. Then came a bunch of keys on a decorative key ring with a gilt cartouche covered in hieroglyphics. Next a little diary with appointment times circled on the appropriate day, with first names, sometimes full names noted. No addresses or telephone numbers. For this month, January, it was filled halfway through. Laurent recognised the make of diary; Le Cahier Rouge sold similar ones in their stationery section. Its owner had not bothered to write her own details on the page at the front that was intended for that purpose. The last event listed was for the previous evening: 8 p.m., dinner Jacques and Sophie + Virginie. No address for that entry either. Just one entry for the coming week, on Thursday: 6 p.m., dry-cleaner’s (strappy dress). Next he took out a little fawn and violet leather bag containing make-up and accessories, including a large brush whose softness he tested against his cheek. A gold lighter, a black Montblanc ballpoint (perhaps the one used to jot down her thoughts in the notebook), a packet of liquorice sweets – he took one and it immediately added an interesting woody flavour to the taste of the Fixin – a small bottle of Evian, a hair clip with a blue flower on it, and a pair of red plastic dice. Laurent picked them up and rolled them on the floor. Five and six. Good throw. A recipe for ris de veau torn from a women’s magazine, Elle probably. A packet of tissues. A telephone charger, but of course, no phone or wallet. And nothing with her name or address on it.
There were four colour photographs in a folded envelope. One of a middle-aged man with grey-white hair, dressed in a red polo shirt and beige trousers. He was standing against a backdrop of pine trees, smiling. Next to him, a woman of similar age in a lilac dress, blonde with dark glasses, held her hand out to the person taking the photograph. It looked as if it had been taken more than twenty years ago, thirty maybe. The next photo showed a much younger man with short brown hair standing with his arms crossed in front of an apple tree. In the third one there was a house and garden with a large tree. There was nothing to indicate the location of the house and none of the photographs were annotated. Here were memories and loved ones that revealed nothing and which only the owner of the handbag would be able to identify.
There seemed to be no end to the items in the bag. Laurent decided to take several out at once. He thrust his hand into the left side pocket and pulled out a jumble of things. A copy of Pariscope, lip balm, Nurofen, a hairgrip and a book. Accident Nocturne by Patrick Modiano. Laurent paused for a moment. So the bag’s owner read Modiano, a novelist whose favourite themes were mystery, memory and the search for identity. It was as if Modiano was sending him a message. When had he written that book? Laurent couldn’t quite remember, but he thought it was around 2000. He opened the book to find the year it was originally published. ‘Gallimard 2003’ was printed at the bottom of the left-hand page and there was something else visible on the other side of the page. Some handwriting showed through. Laurent turned the page back and read the two lines written in pen beneath the title: ‘For Laure, in memory of our meeting in the rain. Patrick Modiano.’ The writing blurred before his eyes. Modiano, the most elusive of French authors. Who hadn’t done any book signings for years and only rarely gave interviews. Whose hesitant diction, full of pauses, had become legendary and who was himself a legend. An enigma that his readers had followed from book to book for forty years. To have a book signed by him seemed highly improbable. And yet here was his signature in black and white.
The author of Rue des Boutiques Obscures had just provided him with the first name of the woman with the mauve bag.
I’m scared of red ants.
And of logging on to my bank account and clicking ‘current balance’.
I’m scared when the telephone rings first thing in the morning.
And of getting on the Métro when it’s packed.