Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘It’s fine,’ said Manfred. ‘We’re here now.’

The idea of just getting up and leaving horrified Manfred and, worse, Alice might suggest going to the Restaurant de la Cloche. The waiter arrived with Alice’s drink and two menus bound in maroon leatherette. Ordering provided a welcome distraction from the business of making conversation. While they waited for their starters Alice lit a cigarette with a chunky brass lighter, which emitted a whiff of butane. She turned her head to the side and blew out a slow stream of milky grey smoke.

‘So, Manfred Baumann,’ she said, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’

Manfred unconsciously put his hand to his face and slowly massaged the flesh around his mouth. What did he have to say for himself ? He had nothing at all to say for himself. The carpet in the restaurant was dark brown with a pattern of messy yellow whorls. Manfred felt a little dizzy. He was tempted to excuse himself and make a dash for the door, but he did not do so. Alice leaned forward a little. Her fingers played on the stem of her glass. The second hand of her wristwatch moved slowly around the dial. Her dress was snug around her breasts, which did not appear to be constrained by a brassiere. Manfred raised his eyes to Alice’s face. She appeared quite relaxed.

‘So,’ Manfred began, ‘you’ve only been in your apartment a few months?’ It was the only thing he could think of to say. He breathed out as if he had just put down a heavy object.

‘That’s right,’ said Alice.

‘Yes,’ said Manfred, ‘it struck me as odd that I hadn’t run into you before.’

There was no reason to make this remark. It made him seem like the sort of busybody who liked to keep tabs on the comings and goings of his neighbours, when nothing could be farther from the truth. He only knew the names of his immediate neighbours because they were written on the little plaques on their doors and he did his best to avoid all contact with them.

‘And I hadn’t run into you before,’ said Alice. She widened her eyes as if this was an astonishing coincidence.

Manfred gave a little laugh. Despite everything, the conversation was proceeding quite satisfactorily.

‘Do you like it?’ he said.

‘Architecturally?’ she said.

‘Living there, I meant. Do you like living there?’ said Manfred.

Alice gave a little snort of derision through her nose. Manfred recognised the gesture from before. It gave him a sense of intimacy, as if they were lovers who knew each other’s quirks inside out. Still, it was a stupid question. What was there to say about living in a drab apartment building exactly like a thousand other drab apartment buildings elsewhere? Of course, there had been the incident with the dog faeces in the stairwell only a week earlier and there was the ongoing dispute about the need to refurbish the laundry facilities, but, even if she knew about these things, Alice would probably not deem them worthy of comment.

Alice shrugged. ‘It was supposed to just be a stopgap. I haven’t even unpacked most of my things.’

The starters arrived. Alice had asked for a green salad, even though it was not on the menu. Manfred ordered an expensive bottle of white wine. The waiter poured a little for him to sample before filling their glasses.

Alice, it transpired, had moved into the building following the breakdown of her marriage. She talked almost uninterrupted for the rest of the meal, pausing only to top up her glass or take the occasional mouthful of food. Her husband, Marc, ran a large concrete firm. They met when Alice’s stationery company won the contract to supply his firm with letterheads and other goods. Marc was twelve years older and Alice had been flattered by his attention. Shortly after they married, Marc’s firm began to supply various large government projects, which entailed a lot of travel. They both had affairs and — Alice shrugged — after a while it became apparent that they were sharing a house, but weren’t really married anymore. It was all perfectly amicable. There were no children to complicate matters. ‘I’m not the maternal type,’ Alice said. They still met for dinner once or twice a month and had even taken to sleeping together now and then. Alice mentioned this last detail without a hint of self-consciousness, but the thought of Alice engaged in the sexual act brought the colour to Manfred’s cheeks. He put his glass to his face to disguise the fact.

Manfred found himself building up a healthy loathing for this successful man with his easy way with women. He probably wore ostentatious jewellery and spoke in a loud voice in restaurants. He did not like the idea of Alice continuing to see him and the fact that they persisted in sleeping together was certainly not healthy.

Alice paused and looked at Manfred, as if she had almost forgotten he was there. During her monologue he had confined himself to nodding and the occasional ‘I see.’ They had ordered a second bottle of wine. Alice had consumed her share, but Manfred felt quite drunk. Alice excused herself and Manfred took the opportunity to pay the bill.

They walked back along Rue de Mulhouse. Alice put her hand in the crook of Manfred’s arm. He was not sure if this was a sign of affection or merely to steady herself.

They passed the little park where Adèle had met her friend. Some people were gathered on the pavement outside a shop on a side street. It was not late. Lemerre and his cronies would still be at their table by the door of the Restaurant de la Cloche. Manfred wondered what Lemerre would have to say if he could see him walking home with a woman on his arm. Something obscene, no doubt. The streets were deserted, as they always were at this time of night. They reached the apartment building. Manfred unlocked the door and they stood in the foyer.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘thank you for a very pleasant evening.’

He had decided that he would take the stairs and allow Alice to take the elevator. It would be less awkward to part here in the foyer.

‘How about a nightcap?’ said Alice.

‘A nightcap?’ Manfred repeated.

‘Why not?’ she said. She prodded him playfully on the arm.

Manfred could think of no plausible reason to refuse.

‘Where?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Your place? My place is a mess. Half of my stuff is still in boxes.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ said Manfred, but she was already leading him to the elevator. Manfred got in and pressed his back against the grooved metal of the tiny box. Alice stood with her shoulder touching his. The smell of her perfume mingled with alcohol and cigarettes.

Alice led the way along the corridor to Manfred’s door.

‘4F,’ she said.

‘Perhaps we should go to a bar,’ said Manfred. ‘I’ve only got whisky.’

‘Whisky’s fine,’ said Alice, ‘I like whisky.’

Manfred unlocked the door and led Alice along the passage to the kitchen. They stood by the table.

‘I’ll fetch another chair,’ said Manfred. He unlocked the door to the balcony where three folding chairs were stored.

‘Why don’t we sit in the living room?’ she said.

Manfred was about to object, but Alice was already on her way. Manfred went into the bedroom to fetch the whisky from the bedside table.

‘My apartment is exactly the same layout,’ she called. He returned to the kitchen to get glasses. Alice had switched on the lamp next to the sofa and was standing in front of the wall of books, which were arranged more or less alphabetically. Manfred stood in the doorway with the bottle and glasses in his hand.

‘That’s a lot of books for a bank manager,’ said Alice. She appeared impressed. ‘Quite the enigma, aren’t you, Monsieur Baumann.’