The Mad and the Bad

2

In the manor’s community room, an audience of inmates sat on benches. Taking advantage of the staff’s lack of attentiveness, the patients were passing around a bottle of Kiravi red wine and sipping it through a straw. On a stage, a dozen people were dancing about, singing and playing music enthusiastically. They had drums, an upright piano, a cornet, and a tenor saxophone.

“Oh, the thrill, the fearsome thrill of the first embrace!” went the singers.

Several spectators were clapping incessantly.

In Julie’s bedroom the sounds of the concert were distantly audible, but the words were unintelligible.

The room was roughly cubiform, with pale green walls, a table, a chair, blinds, and a reproduction of a van Gogh painting of a wheat field. Julie was standing next to her luggage, a cardboard suitcase and a skai bag. She was a thin, tall girl with hollow cheeks and luxuriant black- very black-hair. She had a porcelain complexion and brightly colored lips. She was beautiful, but in a startling way: she might have been taken for a transvestite. Her tweed suit was too warm for the season. Large tan hands protruded from her sleeves like bunches of beans hung up to dry.

A nurse with a benevolent horsey face came in.

“He is here,” she announced.

“Already?”

“Why, aren’t you happy about it?”

“I’m scared.”

“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t you worry. He’s supposed to be a nice man.”

“Hmmm,” said Julie.

The nurse picked up the suitcase and left the room. Julie picked up the skai bag and followed. The two women went outside and made for the corner tower. It was a fine day. It was spring. As they passed in front of the manor Julie looked at the Lincoln. The driver was reading the sports paper L’Équipe. He had put on tinted glasses. He returned Julie’s gaze.

The two women entered the tower by a small side door. A few meters down a hallway they came to the white leather padding, the bell, and the intercom.

“Come in, come in.”

Once in the office, Julie contemplated the redhead and was taken aback by his youthful, modish appearance. Rosenfeld had risen to his feet, his pipe clamped in his mouth, less jovial than usual.

“Michel Hartog, Julie Ballanger,” he said by way of introduction.

Hartog scrutinized Julie.

“I suggest we talk as we drive. Let’s go.”

“What? Already?”

“You might like to take a little stroll around the grounds,” Rosenfeld put in. “A chance to get acquainted. Julie is naturally overwhelmed by the idea of leaving us forever after living here for five years. In her shoes, I am sure you would be a little panicked.”

“Sure, it would be perfectly awful for me,” said Hartog. He turned to Julie. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I could have refreshments brought out for you by the pond,” Rosenfeld persisted, his voice trailing off.

Hartog did not deign to respond. Grabbing hold of Julie’s suitcase, he held his hand out to the doctor. The doctor shook it weakly.

“Julie,” began Rosenfeld, “I hardly need tell you- “

“Quite so,” said Hartog rudely.

He grasped the young woman by the elbow and towed her towards the door.