Tuesday, January 19, 2010
I wake up early. It’s exceptionally quiet. I go to the large windows, drawing the curtains. The street is covered in snow and not a soul can be seen for as far as my eyes can reach. The house is freezing. So I go downstairs to blast the heating system and then make myself a cup of coffee. A double espresso, which I bring upstairs, along with the newspaper that made it after all. I haul out my laptop, which sits under the bed. Dust balls and cat hair whirl across the parquet floor before collecting in a forgotten corner. I don’t take much notice and instead focus my concentration on an email to the receptionist telling her they shouldn’t expect me in today. The morning is still early when I jump into the shower and let the hot, steaming water hit me like a summer monsoon rain. The heat warms up the cold air, creating a cloying mist that settles on the bathroom’s interior. It sticks to my skin, and as I do my make-up pearls of sweat run down from the folds of my breasts. Although they infinitely annoy me, I let them run their course. Mind over matter, I think to myself. Mind over matter.
I find little point dressing up, so I pull on a beige tracksuit that sits atop the dirty laundry basket, waiting to be washed. With that and a light breakfast I sit down in my study. We have a new major assignment that should take my attention for most of the day. Yet I can’t take my mind off last night’s events. I go back to the library and pull out the book that Cyril had drawn my attention to. The enigmatic note is still there, inserted once more after our brief discourse. It should have been left to obscurity, but fate seemingly had different plans.
The note is not old, written on cheap inkjet paper. The street doesn’t say anything to me, so I take the book and the note and return to my computer.
I enter 84 Rue Saint-Honoré into the Google search field and hit Enter. The first entry is a club called Le Liberty, piquing my curiosity enough to click further.