After eating a tomato and several slices of cured ham, accompanied by some bread and an apple, she lay down on the bed. She slept no better than she had the previous night and was woken up several times for no apparent reason. She didn’t hear her neighbors making love, but when the door to the toilets was left open, there was the sound of water running in the flush. There was a murmur as well, as if two people were whispering somewhere in the room, unseen.
The next day, after some hesitation, she climbed out of her clothes. She took a cold shower in the plastic cabin. Removing some clean clothes from the sports bag, she rolled the dirty ones up into a ball before stuffing them into the desk drawer. Once again, she installed herself at her observation post, nibbling on bread and from time to time crumbling little pieces onto the window sill.
Since moving into the room, she hasn’t spoken. And now she feels as if her voice has been hidden somewhere inside her body, as if it were a living creature in the process of dying.
Later on, she heard a key in the lock. A young woman dressed in overalls appeared in the doorway and mumbled something with such ingenuousness that she immediately nodded in assent. The maid entered and began remaking the nearly untouched bed. She had done no more than cover herself with the blanket during the night when she felt cold. The maid passed a cloth over the night table, a sponge round the inside of the shower unit and the base of the sink, then picked up the white towel she had used to dry herself with. She watched these efficient movements without seeming to bother the maid who mechanically went about her tasks as if no one else was in the room: her body was at work, but her mind was elsewhere. It occurred to her that she could offer her services to the hotel and in exchange live here for an indeterminate length of time. There would be no need for her to talk, she would learn the two or three English phrases necessary for the job, that would be enough. She could have another life, and far more easily than she ever imagined before coming here. The maid put a clean towel on the bed before withdrawing in silence. She finished the rest of the bread then went out.
The park gate was open, she sat down on a bench. The air was chilly, the sky grey and monotonous. Now and then, she saw the upper portion of a scalp pass by on the other side of the thick hedge. She drew circles in the gravel with her heels, stared at her hands, clicked her tongue, flicked non-existent specks of dust off her clothing. A squirrel with a frayed tail approached to within a metre of her feet. Up on its hind legs, it sniffed the air. She cleared her throat and spat, but her spittle fell short and the little animal bolted for the cover of a protective tree. She had absolutely nothing to do. She felt like a bored patient who hasn’t the strength to do something to help the time go faster. She felt permanently out of breath, even though she hardly moved. Her heart was beating oddly, as if out of rhythm, as if she were constantly being dropped into a void. She tried to rekindle her enthusiasm. She was on a trip to London, there was an entire city around her to explore, she couldn’t leave without finding out what Big Ben really was. But none of this inspired the least shudder of curiosity. She had to face the facts: monuments or no monuments, she couldn’t have cared less. She had not an ounce of willpower left. Just getting herself down to the park had required an effort.
Later on, she stood up and walked round the park, tearing off bits of leaves as she passed by, sprinkling them at her feet. She went over to a tree and let herself hang from the first branch she could reach. The bark grazed her skin slightly, but she jumped up, trying to get her legs high enough to hook them over the branch. But they fell back heavily to the ground, not making contact. After about fifteen attempts, she gave up: she no longer knew how to climb trees.
She would have done anything for him to be there. She would have done anything not to think about him. She would have done anything never to have met him.
Back at the hotel, she passed a man on the stairs. He didn’t say anything and kept his eyes trained on his shoes; all she could see was the top of his shiny bald head. She had an urge to grab hold of him and shake him as hard as she could until he finally looked up at her and felt scared. As he went by her, she clicked her tongue against her palate. The man turned his head. C’est vous qui baisiez toute la nuit? The man shrugged his shoulders with an air of doubt, and continued on his way down.
She finished the first pack of ham and devoured the second. She ate four yogurts and several pieces of fruit. She ate as much as she could until she could eat no more. It was then that she remembered the photographs. She took them out of the folder, which was still in her bag, and studied them for a long time. Now she was there, now she could recognize herself. She placed the three photos upright on the desk. She filled the sink with water and put them in to soak. She wanted to see if the images would dissolve and then be washed away when she pulled the plug. Sitting at the window, she waited. When she went to check, the black-and-white versions of her face were floating intact beneath the surface of the water. She took out the sopping pieces of paper and scrunched them into a ball, which she threw in the toilet.
That night she had a dream. She was a man and there was a brown paper bag over her head. His wrists had been tied behind his back, hands were firmly gripping his arms, forcing him to walk despite a leg stiff with pain. He could see blood dripping onto the dust between his filthy bare feet. There was a tiny hole in the bag, a peep-hole through which he was trying to look out at sections of the ransacked city. And then something happened; he had reopened his eyes in the dream. He was free. He was hobbling along a road in the middle of a forest cut in two by a streak of limpid sky. Up ahead, by the side of the ditch, he realized there was a woman, her swollen belly protruding under her dress. She stood motionless, arms dangling at her sides. He had to take her with him, that was the only possibility, even if the presence of this unknown woman would slow down his escape. Hurry up, he told her as if it were a threat. She began walking behind him, not saying a word. Suddenly a contraction rooted her to the tar-covered road, dappled with writhing spots of sunlight. Her two slender hands supported the weight of her child. He went over to her; it’s coming, she murmured.