Nazis in the Metro Read Free Page A

served as the man’s cover, and await verification before the door slid open. He folded himself in two to enter the vehicle. The president traded his mechanic’s overalls for jeans and a sweater. He asked the Octopus to wait, then crouched before a mirror hanging from a strap to fit a jet-black wig on his bald head. After the approximate application of a mustache to match the hair, using his right index finger and a tin of Black Lion shoe polish, the character transformation was complete. From his booth, the sentry of the Salpêtrière had been watching them approach from far away. The mocking smile on his lips blossomed into outright mirth when, as the men passed through the gate, one of the gusts of wind typical to the area caused the president’s rug to rotate a quarter-turn. His attempt to reposition his synthetic mane led only to disaster: the sleeve of his pullover, which was too big for him, brushed against his nose and jaw, marring the face of the Defender of Lunatics with black streaks. Gabriel was about to turn back, but his guide, not realizing that his wig was on backwards and his mustache had procreated, shot him an encouraging wink to signify that he had the situation under control.
    Vaguely ashamed, Gabriel Lecouvreur now lowered his head while passing the sentry booth for the second time in his existence. He made a beeline for the main entrance while one of the guards was busy answering the phone. He admired the shapeliness of a West Indian woman who was updating a schedule that hung on the wall, lingering for a while on the curve of her waist, then decided to cough to attract her attention.
    —Can you tell me which unit André Sloga is in? He’s a relative … He was admitted during the night, after an attack …
    Her lacquered nails squeaked against the glossy paper of the patient log, and the sharp point of her index finger stopped next to a name.
    —He’s still in Emergency, in ICU … I’m sorry, but visitors are strictly forbidden.
    Gabriel made as if to leave, then turned back around.
    —I came up from the south just to see him. Maybe I can find out something from the doc … Do you know who’s on his case?
    The young woman shrugged, then glanced back at the register.
    —Professor Lehmann is taking care of him. You’re welcome to try, but I’d be shocked if he agreed to tell you anything whatsoever!
    Gabriel was again turned away when he approached the ICU staff to ask for news about Sloga’s condition. He waited for a while, pacing the hundred feet of the central corridor, peering at anyone who came or went, his eyes peeled for a crack in the system. Finally he’d had enough, and then, as he was traversing the wings of the Pitié on his way to the exit, he came across a nurse busily picking up books that had fallen from a cart whose shelves, intended for trays of food, had been stocked with reading material instead. He stooped to glean a few copies of
Que sais-je?
—a booklet for the Assimil method of learning English—and two mismatched volumes of
Jalna
, and offered them to the young woman.
    —I wasn’t aware that hospitals had added reading to their list of treatments …
    She rose and tugged at the bottom of her smock to cover her knees.
    —There are lots of sick people who can’t stand television anymore, who find it mind-numbing, and ask for things to read instead. I’m in charge of the library …
    Gabriel collected the last paperbacks scattered in the corridor. Then he, too, stood up.
    —It’s curious …
    After a weighty silence, she took the bait.
    —What’s curious?
    —Oh! Nothing … I just learned that there’s a writer on the verge of death, two steps from here … And to see all these books on the ground … It’s just strange, the coincidence …
    The librarian’s face lit up.
    —You mean André Sloga? Do you know André Sloga?
    —Not personally; I know him through his writing … Just yesterday I was rereading
The Innocents
 … A