The Red Notebook Read Free Page B

and come up to his flat, noticing on the way that the water was back on. He had spent all day apologising with a smile for his dishevelled appearance. One of his customers had said he looked like Chateaubriand, another like Rimbaud in Fantin-Latour’s painting Un coin de table (whilst making it clear that he was only referring to the poet’s hair).
    Laurent dried his face then took the razor from the drawer and an old can of Williams shaving foam he had luckily kept. Close-shaven, he put on clean jeans, a white shirt and loafers and brushed his hair back, preparing for the opening of the bag as if he were going out to dinner with a woman.
    In his inbox he found all sorts of spam. Mostly offering him, in the warmest first-name terms, insurance or a holiday to an exorbitantly expensive destination – but all at half price! ‘Leave today,’ announced one. Another suggested in that chummy digital way, ‘Laurent, time for a holiday.’ He was also exhorted to buy one of those oddities you come across on the internet, in this case an umbrella for dogs. The email urged him in all seriousnessto hurry to acquire this indispensable accessory – ‘Your loyal companion will be so grateful.’ In the midst of this digital forest there was not a single personal message. Yet he was due to have dinner soon with his daughter. No doubt she would appear in his inbox shortly – Chloé never forgot an arrangement.
    He took the remains of the hachis Parmentier from the fridge and decided to open a bottle of Fixin from the case one of his loyal clients had given him. He tasted it; the Burgundy was perfect. Glass in hand, he went back to the sitting room.
    The bag was there, on the sofa. He was about to open it when he received a text. Dominique: ‘Maybe see you this evening, but very late, complicated day, will explain later, still at the office. The Bourse is crashing, if you watch the news you’ll see how I’m spending my evening! xxx’. Laurent drank some wine then sent back a sober ‘Let me know xxx’. Then he sat down cross-legged on the floor, with his glass beside him and picked up the bag carefully. It was beautiful. Mauve leather, gold clasps and external pockets of various sizes. There was nothing comparable for men. They had to make do with satchels, or otherwise briefcases which were all a standard shape intended only for carrying paperwork. He drank some more wine, feeling he was about to commit a forbidden act. A transgression. For a man should never go through a woman’s handbag – even the most remote tribe would adhere to that ancestral rule. Husbands in loincloths definitely did not have the right to go and look for a poisoned arrow or a root to eat in their wives’ rawhide bags.
    Laurent had never opened a woman’s handbag. He hadn’t opened his mother’s when he was a child and he hadn’t opened Claire’s either. Occasionally he had been told, ‘Take the keys from my bag,’ or ‘There’s a pack of tissues in my bag; you can take those.’ He had not touched a handbag without explicitprior authorisation, more like a command that was only valid for a very limited time. If Laurent couldn’t find the keys or the tissues in less than ten seconds and began to rummage about in the bag, it was immediately reclaimed by its owner. The action was accompanied by an irritated little exclamation, always in the imperative, ‘Give that to me!’ And the keys or tissues would magically appear.
    He gently pulled the zip open all the way. The bag gave off an odour of warm leather and women’s perfume.

     
     
    What I really need is a friend just like me; I’m sure I’d be my own best friend.
     
    Last night’s dream: Belphégor was a man, which was a bit of a surprise, but in a way it wasn’t. I knew it was him – he made quite an attractive man. We were going back up to our room in a luxury hotel after a drink at the bar. We were falling asleep on the bed and then making love on the terrace (it was good). I woke