He crossed the street and pushed the door open. A middle-aged blonde welcomed him coolly at the front desk. Travelers without bags weren't well-loved in the hotel business. But he paid up front, and it all got better. She handed him a key to Room 305, on the third floor. He hurried up to draw as hot a bath as possible, and after the first scalding minutes lazed there a long while. When at last he got out, he rubbed himself down vigorously and donned the terry robe he'd found in the bathroom. He would've like to top off his preventative treatment with some grog, but all the minibar had was whisky. He downed two minis in two gulps as a preemptive strike, then poured another into a glass that he planned to nurse before going to bed. Glass in hand, he went to the window and drew back the curtains. On the other side of the street, atop his pedestal, the bronze schoolboy turned toward him a face streaming with bluish tears. Shocked, Dorsay shrank back, letting the curtains fall shut. Was it exhaustion, or the alcohol he'd guzzled? He thought he'd glimpsed expectation, even supplication, in the statue's gaze. He shrugged, yet almost drew back the curtains to check again. He shook his head. It was pointless: bronze schoolboys weren't expecting anything from tired old poets. He took another swallow of whisky. All that whisky, straight up! But if he'd added soda, he'd have upset his stomach. He'd be a better "heart alarmed under the stars" if he didn't have to put up with a host of other organs.
The next morning, his first thought was to congratulate himself for having dodged a head cold. He'd woken up refreshed, sinuses clear, his head astonishingly light. Next, he noticed that sacrificing his own works inspired not the slightest regret. The freedom he'd felt the night before was intact. It even seemed that he hadn't gone far enough in getting rid of just those copies. He would have liked to destroy everything. Part of him rebelled at the idea. Everything? Erase it all? But all that was his life! protested the familiar voice that had whispered to him, one by one, the words enshrined on the Japan imperial and creamy ragstock of his collections. Another voice croaked that the copies in circulation weren't worth worrying about. Too thick and stiff, neither Japan imperial nor ragstock lent themselves to wrapping fish; for the same reason, they'd make catastrophic toilet paper, but they'd right tables, stuff shoes, and light pipes well. As for the copies that found no practical use, like all things in the world, they'd dissolve in the river of time, a river of acid.
Dorsay had breakfast in his room. Before going to bed, he'd taken care to lay his clothes out by the radiator. This morning they were wrinkled but dry. He dressed and readied to leave the hotel. As he was, in truth, incorrigible, he couldn't help but secretly draft an entry on the establishment for a future history of French literature: "The Museum Hotel-that ordinary spot-became the site of a veritable satori when poet Jean-Pierre Dorsay took refuge there one November night in I9-"
A girl with a healthy glow had replaced the wary woman of the night before at the front desk. He settled his breakfast and the three minis of whisky. As she was handing him his change, he noticed that her nails were well-manicured. Not overlong, but well-manicured. How he loved women's nails! The ones with dodgy nails appalled him. He'd never be able to bear an affair with a woman whose nails were black or even grayish. He shivered at the thought. But this girl's were flawless, from where he stood. He lifted his gaze to study her. She had pleasing features. Her pink cheeks-almost pink-contrasted with her pale throat and forehead. She was no less delightful for not quite being fashionable. She conjured up old prints, English paintingsthat kind of thing. He smiled at her. She smiled back. An innocent smile. For a few years now, he'd been able to detect innocence in others, to sniff it out like the scent of a rare herb. His expression darkened. Faced wih this young woman, he felt impure, unworthy, his soul all warty and callused. He spied sudden worry in her eyes. She'd been surprised by the change in his expression, and was wondering if she'd done something wrong. 0 innocence! He abruptly blushed. Foolishly, he set down one of the bills she'd returned on the faux marble countertop. Then, muttering a vague good-bye, he turned and left.
He crossed the road double-quick, without looking right or left. He hadn't heard a single car since waking. When he was on the island, in the shadow of the statue, he stopped. The bronze schoolboy stood out against a pure blue sky with pure white clouds. The pale sun seemed suspended from the heavens' vault by a plastic line. High, high up, Dorsay saw the unmoving silver cross of a plane. He thought to see in the Currier-and-Ives sky an intent, a kind of crushing irony, as though someone were mocking him from the heights of heaven above. He ceased his scrutiny of the skies, and turned his gaze back on the bronze schoolboy. At once, his heart began to pound in his chest. It was him. Him, ten years old, in that hat with earflaps Aunt Marthe had given him to go with the Christmas duffel coat from grandmama. He recognized his satchel, his scarf, and his canvas hiking boots. Many hiking boots had been sold that year. They seemed to have come straight from some military surplus, which the kids had liked.
"Sir-"
He lowered his gaze. The girl from the hotel was standing before him, holding out the bill he'd given her a moment ago. He'd made a mistake… or she didn't want it, for innocent reasons.
"Sir, you forgot this."
"I didn't forget it. It's for you."
"For me? But-"
"It's a tip. Don't you ever get tips at that hotel?"
"I don't know. I'm just helping out my aunt for the first time-"
"Ah. Well, then, this is your first tip. You'll surely get more, nice as you are!" He bit his lip. She wouldn't get tips that big often. Unless she was really nice…
"Well… thanks!" She folded the bill and stuck it in her pocket.
"You're welcome. Say-"
"Yes?"
Those fawn's eyes, that young voice, that confident tone. He hesitated. She'd think he was insane. But he didn't have to go about it so directly… He pointed at the statue. "Do you know who that kid is?"
She glanced at the bronze schoolboy. "No idea. I don't know this neighborhood. I came from Niort to help out my aunt, so-"
"Don't you think… don't you think he looks like me?"
She looked up again, and this time stared at the statue longer. At last she said, "It's hard to tell, since I didn't know you then. Why? Is it you?"
"No. I was just kidding."
She didn't laugh. Which was worse, coming across crazy or stupid?
"You're very sweet, he said. "What's your name?"
"Julia."
"Julia? Well, Julia, I hope you'll buy yourself something you like with that money." Was he ever in form today! To think he'd once considered himself a seducer.
"Sure… Can I go back to the hotel now? Someone might be waiting to pay-
"Of course! Off you go!"
Before going through the glass door, she looked back again to thank him, flashing the wadded-up bill. A little girl! He shut his eyes. He reflected that he'd been left to his own devices once more. He could pretend he'd never seen the statue, and walk away quickly. If only there'd been a taxi in sight! All he'd have to do was get inside and bark his address at the driver. But a taxi wasn't the only solution. He could walk, like yesterday. Just around the bend, and everything would probably seem familiar again, fall into place… But what was he on about? What was out of place? What needed to be normal again? Everything was normal. He'd let himself be unnerved by a coincidence, that bronze whippersnapper up there, with his false airs of… Quite simply, he'd gotten in his head that it looked like him. Eyes still shut, he thrust out his hand. His fingers brushed the pedestal's rough stone. The statue was still there. It existed, of course. It existed with all the atoms of all its molecules. He couldn't pretend to ignore it. There was but one way to have it rejoin the ordinary things from whose ranks it had stepped to torment him: he had to give a name to the child it depicted. He walked around it, looking for the plaque he couldn't find last night, or a signature. After all, statues were signed! Once he knew the artist's name, he'd have the mystery all cleared up before long. Suddenly, the idea came to him that there might be a link between the statue and the museum before which it stood. He turned from one to contemplate the other. He'd barely spared the building a glance till now. It was a handsome edifice, of medium size and yet perfectly proportioned. Its neoclassical facade was adorned with columns and a pediment of indistinct figures that nevertheless gave off a happy impression. Without lingering to inspect them-in a place like this, they had to be the usual mythological suspects-Dorsay swiftly crossed the street. In a few bounds, he climbed the steps that led him to a great portal whose leaves were mostly open. He entered the lobby, looking around for a ticket counter, and soon saw a sort of booth or cage of glass and lacquered wood that surely served the purpose. He walked up to it. The cage was empty. There was every indication it usually housed the person whose job it was to sell visitors tickets and souvenirs: to either side of a boiled cardboard blotter lay a book of tickets and bundles of leaflets and brochures he couldn't make out the writing on, as well as envelopes that probably held postcards. He pressed his face to the glass for a better view of the inside of the cabin. He could see no personal effects that might lead him to believe whoever manned (or womanned) it was somewhere in the building and only momentarily away from the booth for one reason or another: a quick trip to the bathroom, idle chatter by the coffee machine, or a service issue to be taken up with management. Dorsay would've liked to have one of these possibilities to cling to, which the situation, in its bareness, did not allow him: there was no one to sell him admission or give him information about the statue. No one at all? The ordinary sound of a mop and bucket rekindled his hopes. A cleaning woman had just appeared at the far end of the lobby.