Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

The phone rang. It was the desk clerk.

‘The checks have been approved. You can stay.’

How kind of you.

‘I have had a call from Adnan. He wanted to see how you were.’

Why would he care?

‘He also wanted you to know that you need to take a pill from each of the boxes on the bedside table. Doctor’s orders.’

‘What are the pills?’

‘I am not the doctor who prescribed them, monsieur .’

I picked up the assorted boxes and vials, trying to make out the names of the drugs. I recognized none of them. But I still did as ordered: I took a pill from each of the six boxes and downed them with a long slug of water.

Within moments, I was gone again — vanished into that vast dreamless void from which there are no recollections: no sense of time past or present, let alone a day after today. A small foretaste of the death that will one day seize me — and deny me all future wake-up calls.

Bringggggggg …

The phone. I was back in the blue room, staring at the vase full of urine. The bedside clock read 17.12. There was street-lamp light creeping in behind the drapes. The day had gone. The phone kept ringing. I answered it.

‘The doctor is here,’ Mr Desk Clerk said.

The doctor had bad dandruff and chewed-up nails. He wore a suit that needed pressing. He was around fifty, with thinning hair, a sad moustache and the sort of sunken eyes which, to a fellow insomniac like me, were a telltale giveaway of the malaise within. He pulled up a chair by the bed and asked me if I spoke French. I nodded. He motioned for me to remove my T-shirt. As I did so, I caught a whiff of myself. Sleeping in sweat for twenty-four hours had left me ripe.

The doctor didn’t seem to react to my body odor — perhaps because his attention was focused on the vase by the bed.

‘There was no need to provide a urine sample,’ he said, taking my pulse. Then he checked my heartbeat, stuck a thermometer under my tongue, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my left bicep, peered down my throat and shined a penlight into the whites of my eyes. Finally he spoke.

‘You have come down with a ruthless form of the flu. The sort of flu that often kills the elderly — and that is often indicative of larger problems.’

‘Such as?’

‘May I ask, have you been going through a difficult personal passage of late?’

I paused.

‘Yes,’ I finally said.

‘Are you married?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘By which you mean … ?’

‘I am legally still married …’

‘But you left your wife?’

‘No — it was the other way around.’

‘And did she leave you recently?’

‘Yes — she threw me out a few weeks ago.’

‘So you were reluctant to leave?’

‘Very reluctant.’

‘Was there another man?’

I nodded.

‘And your profession is … ?’

‘I taught at a college.’

‘You taught ?’ he said, picking up on the use of the past tense.

‘I lost my job.’

‘Also recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘A daughter, aged fifteen. She lives with her mother.’

‘Are you in contact with her?’

‘I wish …’

‘She won’t talk with you?’

I hesitated. Then: ‘She told me she never wanted to speak with me again — but I do sense that her mother has convinced her to say this.’

He put his fingertips together, taking this in. Then:

‘Do you smoke?’

‘Not for five years.’

‘Do you drink heavily?’

‘I have been … recently.’

‘Drugs?’

‘I take sleeping pills. Non-prescription ones. But they haven’t been working for the past few weeks. So …’

‘Chronic insomnia?’

‘Yes.’

He favored me with a small nod — a hint that he too knew the hell of unremitting sleeplessness. Then: ‘It is evident what has happened to you: a general breakdown. The body can only take so much … tristesse . Eventually, it reacts against such traumatisme by shutting down or giving in to an intense viral attack. The flu you are suffering is more severe than normal because you are in such a troubled state.’

‘What’s the cure?’

‘I can only treat the physiological disorders. And flu is one of those viruses that largely dictates its own narrative. I have prescribed several comprimes to deal with your aches, your fever, your dehydration, your nausea, your lack of sleep. But the virus will not leave your system until it is — shall we say — bored with you and wants to move on.’

‘How long could that take?’

‘Four, five days … at minimum.’

I shut my eyes. I couldn’t afford four or five more days at this hotel.

‘Even once it has gone, you will remain desperately weak for another few days. I would say you will be confined here for at least a week.’

He stood up.

‘I will return in seventy-two hours to see what improvement you have made and if you have commenced a recovery.’

Do we ever really recover from the worst that life can throw us?’

‘One last thing. A personal question, if I may be permitted. What brought you to Paris, alone, just after Christmas?’

‘I ran away.’

He thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘It often takes courage to run away.’

‘No, you’re wrong there,’ I said. ‘It takes no courage at all.’

FIVE MINUTES AFTER the doctor left, the desk clerk came into the room. He was holding a piece of paper in one hand. With a flourish, he presented to me — as if it were a legal writ.

‘ La facture du medecin .’ The doctor’s bill.

‘I’ll settle it later.’

‘He wants to be paid now.’

‘He’s coming back in three days. Can’t he wait … ?’

‘He should have been paid last night. But you were so ill, he decided to hold off until today.’

I looked at the bill. It was on hotel letterhead. It was also for an astonishing amount of money: two hundred and sixty-four euros.

‘You are joking,’ I said.

His face remained impassive.

‘It is the cost of his services — and of the medicine.’

‘The cost of his services? The bill’s been written up on your stationery.’

‘All medical bills are processed by us.’

‘And the doctor charges one hundred euros per house-call?’

‘The figure includes our administrative fee.’

‘Which is what?’

He looked right at me.

‘Fifty euros per visit.’

‘That’s robbery.’

‘All hotels have administrative charges.’

‘But not one hundred percent of the price.’

‘It is our policy.’

‘And you charged me one hundred percent markup on the prescriptions?’

‘ Tout a fait . I had to send Adnan to the pharmacy to get them. This took an hour. Naturally, as he was not dealing with hotel business, his time must be compensated for …’

‘ Not dealing with hotel business? I am a guest here. And don’t tell me you’re paying your night guy thirty-two euros an hour.’

He tried to conceal an amused smile. He failed.

‘The wages of our employees are not divulged to …’

I crumpled up the bill and threw it on the floor.

‘Well, I’m not paying it.’

‘Then you can leave the hotel now.’

‘You can’t make me leave.’

‘ Au contraire , I can have you on the street in five minutes. There are two men in the basement — notre homme a tout faire and the chef — who would physically eject you from the hotel if I ordered them to do so.’

‘I’ll call the police.’

‘Is that supposed to frighten me?’ he asked. ‘The fact is, the police would side with the hotel, once I told them that the reason we were evicting you is because you made sexual advances to the chef. And the chef would confirm this to the police — because he is ignorant and because he is a strict Muslim whom I caught dans une situation embarrassante with notre homme a tout faire two months ago. So now he will do anything I say, as he fears exposure.’