Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
It is on the sixth floor. The lift only goes to the fifth. As I walked up the stairs, I tried to get my bearings and, as we went along the corridor, I sensed that we were very close to Sophie’s apartment. It was opposite, directly opposite. When we went inside, I was careful not to rush to the window, in spite of my excitement. Once I had looked around the room (a quick glance was enough, there was nothing to see), and while the concierge was explaining the rules imposed on her “tenants” (a depressing, exhaustive list of dos and don’ts ), I wandered over to the window. It looked directly onto Sophie’s apartment. This was not just luck, it was a miracle. I pretended to hesitate, to think about it. The furnishings are old junk, the bed probably sags worse than an old whore’s tits, but that doesn’t matter. As I pretended to check the plumbing and study the ceiling, which has obviously not been painted for generations, I asked her how much the rent would be. And then I told her, yes, it suited me, and asked what the next steps were.
The concierge stared at me pointedly, as though wondering why a man who is clearly no longer a student would want to live in such a place. I smiled. That is something I know how to do, and the concierge, who looks as though she has not been with a man
in decades, was utterly charmed. I told her I lived out of town, that I would have to come to Paris often for my work, that a hotel was not a viable solution and that, for a couple of nights a week, somewhere like this would be perfect. I broadened my smile. She said she would call the owner and we headed back downstairs. Her lodge, like the building, looks like a throwback to the last century. Everything in it seems to date from the same period. The overpowering smell of wax polish and vegetable soup made my stomach lurch. I am very sensitive to smells.
The owner asked to speak to me. He reeled off the same litany of rules “of propriety” to be respected. He’s a cantankerous old codger. I played the meek tenant. When I handed the receiver back to the concierge, I could tell he was asking for her opinion, her gut instinct. I pretended to search for something in my pockets while I studied the framed photographs the old dear had on her sideboard, and the nineteenth-century print of a street urchin pissing. I didn’t think such things still existed. I passed the final exam with flying colours. The concierge was whispering “Yes, yes, I think so . . .” and by 5 p.m., Lionel Chalvin had officially rented the room, paid the exorbitant deposit – three months’ rent in advance – in cash, and had been given permission to visit the apartment again before leaving in order to take some measurements. The old biddy even lent me the tape measure she used for sewing.
This time, she let me go up on my own. I went straight to the window. It was even better than I had hoped. The storeys in the two buildings are not quite aligned, so I found myself looking down on Sophie’s apartment. I had not noticed that, in fact, I had a view of two of her windows, the living room and the bedroom. Both are hung with net curtains. I took out my pen and in my
notepad jotted down a list of things to buy.
As I left, I gave the concierge a generous tip.
August 13
I am very happy with the telescope. The salesman in the Galerie de l’Astronomie seemed to know his stuff. The shop has an excellent reputation among amateur astronomers, and perhaps also among voyeurs with a little savvy and a lot of money. This occurred to me because he suggested an infrared unit that attaches to the lens, making it possible to see at night and, if need be, take digital photographs. It is absolutely perfect. My studio is now impeccably equipped.
The concierge was plainly disappointed that I did not offer to give her a copy of the key, as I assume the other tenants do, but I did not want her snooping around my command centre. Not that I have any illusions, she probably has a key. So I set up a rather cunning lock-and-chain system that prevents the door from opening fully, and I made sure there was nothing incriminating in that part of the room visible through the gap. It is rather clever, even if I say so myself. She would be hard pushed to come up with any reason to mention it to me.
I attached a whiteboard and a corkboard to the wall, and I have a small table. I brought over everything I already had. I bought a new laptop and a small colour printer. The only problem is that I can’t come here as often as I’d like, or not for a while anyway, otherwise I might arouse suspicion and sabotage the story I gave for renting in the first place. In a little while, I can tell her there has been a change at work that means I have to come more regularly.
August 16
I
haven’t had a panic attack since I first met Sophie. From time to time, when I’m drifting off to sleep, I feel a twinge of anxiety. Before now, this was a sure sign that I would have night terrors and wake up in a cold sweat. It is a good sign. I think Sophie can help to make me well. Strangely, the calmer I feel, the more I am aware of the presence of Maman. Last night, I laid her dress out on the bed to look at it. It is a bit crumpled now, the fabric does not have the same velvety softness, and despite having it dry-cleaned several times, if you step back you can clearly see a dark mottling. There was a lot of blood. For a long time, the stains bothered me. I wanted the dress to have the same unsullied whiteness it had on her wedding day. But now I don’t mind that, although almost invisible, the stains are there. Because they spur me on. They are evidence of my existence, they symbolise my willpower.
I lay down on it and fell asleep.
August 17
Sophie and Vincent got home last night. I allowed myself to be caught off guard. I would have liked to be there to welcome them. When I woke up this morning, their windows were wide open.
It doesn’t matter, everything was set for their return.
Tomorrow morning, Vincent is leaving early, he is going away on business and Sophie is dropping him at the airport. I won’t bother getting up to see them off. It was enough to take in the news when I read Sophie’s e-mails.
August 23
The
weather has been sweltering, sometimes all I can bear to put on is a T-shirt and shorts. I don’t like to open the window when I am keeping watch, so the heat quickly becomes unbearable. I brought over a fan, but I find the noise it makes irritating. There is nothing to do but sit and sweat at my observation post.
My surveillance programme has been richly rewarded. They obviously don’t worry about being seen. Firstly, because they live on the top floor, and secondly, because the building opposite – my building – has only four windows facing their apartment. Two of these are boarded up. My window is permanently closed, which no doubt gives the impression that the room is uninhabited. The room to my left is occupied by a weird guy, a musician or something like that, who lives in the dark and goes out at all hours, although he abides by the building rules like everyone else. Twice or three times a week, I hear him creeping home furtively.
No matter what time they come home, I am ready at my lookout post.
I am particularly attentive to their routine. Routine is what people depend on, it is the protocol by which we live. The thing people are least likely to question. This is what I need to work on. For the time being, I make do with little tasks. For example, I’ve been timing certain habits and activities, so I know that between showering and personal grooming, Sophie spends at least twenty minutes in the bathroom. To me that seems an awful lot, but she is a woman. And even then, she comes out in a bathrobe, goes back later to do her face, and sometimes one last time to freshen her make-up.
Having carefully timed everything, and knowing that Vincent was away, I made the most of it. As soon as Sophie went into
the shower, I crept into their apartment, took her watch from the bedside table and left. It’s a pretty watch. From the inscription engraved on the back, her father gave it to her in 1993 when she graduated from university.
August 25
I have just met Sophie’s father. The family resemblance is striking. He arrived yesterday. From the size of the suitcase, he is not planning to stay for long. He is a tall, thin man in his sixties, very elegant. Sophie adores him. They go out to dinner together like lovers. Looking at them, I can’t help but think about the time when Sophie’s mother, Mme Auverney, was still alive. I suppose they talk about her sometimes. But they do not think about her as much as I do. If she were still alive, we would not be in this situation. Such a shame . . .
August 27
Patrick Auverney, born August 2, 1941 – Graduated as an architect, 1969 (Paris) – Married Catherine Lefebvre, November 8, 1969 – Founded the Agence R’ville in 1971 in partnership with Samuel Génégaud and Jean-François Bernard, head offices: 17 rue Rambuteau, later 64 rue de la Tour-Maubourg (Paris) – 1975, the couple move to 47 avenue d’Italie in Paris – Divorce granted September 24, 1979 – Buys a house in Neuville-Sainte-Marie, 1980, and moves in – Second marriage to Françoise Barret-Pruvost, May 13, 1983 – Françoise dies, October 16, 1987 (road traffic accident) – Sells his shares in his company that same year – Lives alone – Continues to work as a part-time consultant
architect and town planner, particularly for local community associations
.
August 28
M. Auverney stayed for three days. Sophie drove him to the station. Since she had to get to work, she did not hang around. I hung around, I watched the man. I even took a few quick snaps.
August 29
It is difficult to find a place to park. Even in August, when Paris is deserted, I often see Sophie driving round and round the neighbourhood before she finds a spot, sometimes quite far away.
As a rule, Sophie and her husband take the
métro
. She only uses her car when her work takes her out into the suburbs, or she has something bulky she needs to transport. There are only two streets in the neighbourhood that don’t have parking meters. Everyone knows them and swoops as soon as a space becomes free. Occasionally, Sophie is forced to leave her car in the nearby public car park.
Tonight, when she arrived home at about 7 p.m., there were no free spaces so she left the car in a disabled parking bay (not very nice, Sophie, not very public-spirited!), just long enough to carry three heavy parcels upstairs. She raced down again at the speed of light. I immediately noticed that she wasn’t carrying her handbag, she had left it upstairs. I didn’t hesitate for a second; by the time Sophie climbed into her car and set off to find another parking space, I was on my way up to her apartment. I felt feverish, but in my head I had rehearsed what I was doing dozens of times.
Sophie had left her bag on the small sideboard by the front door. In it, I found her wallet and I swapped her new identity card for the one I stole in July. It will take a while before she notices. When does anyone ever look at their own I.D. card?
I’ve started to sow doubts.
September 1
I looked at their holiday photographs. Vincent left the flash card in the digital camera. God, but their pictures are banal. Sophie at the Acropolis, Vincent on a boat sailing past the Cyclades. Deathly dull. But still, there were other treasures. After all, they’re thirty, they have an active sex life, so they take dirty pictures of each other. Oh, nothing terribly risqué. The first one shows Sophie thoughtfully stroking her breasts (they are outdoors in the blazing sun). There are a few blurred shots of them going at it doggie-style, but in the end I found my thrill (if I can put it like that): four or five shots of Sophie giving Vincent a blow job. She is clearly identifiable. I made a copy of the digital files and a few colour prints.
September 5
It is the sort of mistake a woman cannot afford to make often. Tonight, Sophie realises that she has somehow miscalculated in taking the pill. It’s something she does as a matter of routine, but tonight, when she takes out the blister strip, she discovers it is empty. It is not as though she got the days mixed up, there is one pill missing.
September 10
It
is all a matter of skill, of ingenuity. You have to be subtle, to play the piece with finesse. For example, I’ve spent brief but frequent periods watching Sophie from a distance as she does her shopping at the Monoprix on the corner. People don’t really realise how much they act out of habit, even in the smallest things. So Sophie usually buys much the same things, follows much the same route, makes much the same gestures. For example, after she has been through the checkout, she always sets her plastic bags down on the ledge next to the shopping trolleys while she queues at the bakery. Last night, I replaced her pack of butter with a different kind and switched her brand of coffee. Little touches: discreet, gradual. It’s a simple process, the key is to ramp things up by degrees.
September 15
Yesterday, Sophie booked a couple of tickets online for the Théâtre Vaugirard on October 22. She is going to a production of “The Cherry Orchard” (still the same obsession with Russian writers) starring some film actor whose name I can never remember. She booked early, because the production is bound to sell out fast. This morning, I sent an e-mail from her account asking to postpone the reservation to the following week. I was lucky, there were only a few seats left. I planned the date carefully, because I know from Sophie’s diary that she and Vincent are going to a company event at Lanzar that night. She underlined it twice, so it must be important. I was careful to delete my e-mail requesting the change of reservation, and the confirmation from the theatre.
September 19
I
don’t know whether Sophie had a meeting this morning, but if she did she would have been late. Someone stole her car! She came downstairs – for once she had found a space with no parking meters – and it was gone. So she has to go to the police station, make a statement, these things take time.
September 20
You can say what you like about the police, but sometimes it is reassuring to have them there. Sophie could have done without the hassle. She said as much in an e-mail to Valérie, her best friend. It did not even take a day for the cops to find her car . . . in the next street. She had reported it stolen when in fact she had simply forgotten where she parked it. The police were sympathetic, but even so, it creates a lot of paperwork, maybe if she were not so scatterbrained . . .