care center, and Iâd stop off at the supermarket for a few things before jumping on a bus where someone would let me have his seat. Iâd get home, warm up the bottle while my husband would give the baby a bath, then weâd sit in front of the television, eating a frozen dinner Iâd heated up, and toddle off to bed without making love, unless itâs the evening when we do make love, in which case weâd sleep better, before beginning again the cycle of days, weeks, years, safe from all suspicion.
Appearances are on my side. Equipped with that alibi, I head toward Rue des Ãcoles, where I know I will find a hotel. Indeed, I find several. Theyâre lined up parallel to the Seine on the uneven-numbers side of the street, but I doubt that one can glimpse, from behind the pastel curtains of these semiluxurious establishments, the river and its tourist attractions: Notre Dame, the former royal palace and prison of the Conciergerie, the headquarters of the Police Judiciaire in Paris at Quai des Orfèvres, and the courts of the Palais de Justice. I have my plan. I need a hotel room for a few hours, something not too costly because Iâm not sure if Iâll have additional expenses later on and Iâd like to economize.
As it happens, these hotels all have three or four stars. Prices are not posted at the door and I donât dare go inside to ask about them, not wanting to seem hard up. Finally I stop in front of the Moderne Saint Germain where I overhear the conversation of a very East Coast American couple: they will go to the Louvre rather than on the Bateaux-Mouches excursion boats, will skip the Moulin Rouge in favor of the Musée dâOrsay. I donât need to know them to guess everything about their itinerary because Iâd do the same in their place. When I was a girl, I too enjoyed discovering new places by stickingto the sites recommended in travel guides. I smile at the couple and glance inside the hotel; a discreet-looking young man is standing at the reception desk. Itâs exactly what I need. But first, a drugstore.
Thereâs one close by, where I wait on line at the pharmacy and examine the analgesics and sedatives on display behind the counter. Theyâre mostly antihistamines, phytotherapeutic capsules, which wouldnât put a horse to sleep but a thirteen-pound child, no problem. When itâs my turn, I ask for four different boxes and, as a precaution, I produce my doctorâs prescription so that I can obtain the tranquilizers, just the tranquilizers. The young pharmaceutical intern gives me a worried look but I donât back down. I am the customer, she is not a policewoman, I stare back at her until she hurries off to fetch my pills, then I return to the Moderne Saint Germain where I book a single room. Itâs seventy-seven euros.
The receptionist as well would like me to be forthcoming with explanations. He doesnât ask for them but I can tell from his sidelong glances that I should invent a story to justify swanning in with a three-month-old child as my only luggage. So I claim to be from Nevers in Burgundy, my car has broken down and wonât be ready until tomorrow morning. Itâs at the Mercedes dealershipon the corner I add, because a big car always inspires confidence. He visibly relaxes and, handing me the key to the room, wishes me good night. I say thank you.
The room contains the bare minimum of furniture, plus pink-and-green curtains. Extracting a drawer from a chest, I line it with towels and settle the baby inside. Sheâs still not asleep, still not crying, and looks at me as if to say, old thing, whatever are you up to now? Sometimes I feel as if she were the mother and I the child, and I reflect that in this case, thereâs no point in giving her the pills I bought: she wonât betray me. As if to agree with me, she closes her eyes and goes to sleep.
While the receptionist is sorting through his brochures for