Read Online Murder in the Bastille by Cara Black - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cara Black
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de Lyon,” the nurse said, her words rushed, breathing hard. “Two hundred people have been injured. We’re the closest facility, so we’re taking the overflow. L’hôpital Saint Antoine, too.”
Aimée felt her blanket pulled back.
“All the area hospitals are Code Red,” the nurse from Burgundy continued. “Your condition’s stabilized so we’ll move you to the résidence Saint Louis around the corner. A place for the unsighted to learn how to function.”
So they were moving her to a blind people’s home.
“You don’t understand, I have a home. . . .” She wanted to shout “I’m not like them!”
But she was.
“Before you return to your own home, it’s best to learn to navigate in the world of the sighted, mademoiselle,” she was told. “Chantal, our volunteer, will guide you. She’s a resident there.”
A musty lilac scent accompanied the click of heels on linoleum. “Don’t worry,” said a quavering voice, “You can take care of yourself. I did.”
“But how can you help me if you can’t see?”
A cackle of dry laughter. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
Aimée felt the nurse tying her hospital gown and draping a robe over her. Her bag was thrust in her arms. But how would René find her?
“I have to tell my friend . . .”
“Don’t worry, there’s time for that. Chantal’s a pro,” the nurse said. “Stand up.”
Aimée fought the dizzying sensation as she slid her feet to the floor. Sirens hee-hawed outside her window.
“Now, stretch out your arm and find my shoulder.”
Aimée gingerly extended her arm, felt smooth material, and gripped Chantal’s bony shoulder.
“ Parfait! Let yourself see shapes with your fingers, read textures and angles. We will teach you tricks. Vite , eh . . . let’s make way for the real unfortunates!”
Aimée hesitated.
“ Allons-y!”
Aimée shuffled forward, a baby step at a time.
“I’m only legally blind, you know,” Chantal said, her tone confiding. Her shoulder moved forward. “I distinguish light and dark, large shapes. That’s our little secret, eh? The doctor said you had spirit, he recommended you for the résidence. Not everyone gets sent there . . . God forbid, you could be shipped off to St. Nazaire or some provincial backwater! Saint Louis only takes the quick learners, don’t forget that.”
Wednesday
VINCENT CSARDA WAS BORN on the wrong side of the blanket. He knew he wasn’t unique in that. A lot of the world was, and would continue to be. As a child, once a year at Christmas, his mother would take him for lunch with a “gentleman friend.” Always at the posh Ladurée, famous for thick hot chocolate, in Place de la Madeleine. This was all kept a secret from his stepfather, an injured tram conductor with a meager disability pension.
Vincent, scrubbed clean and wearing his best, had hated the long ride at the back of the bus on the outside platform. And his mother’s nervous picking of lint from his wool jacket. This “friend,” with his wiry, amber mustache and red watery eyes, would ceremoniously give Vincent a gift. Odd or old-fashioned toys. Once, a much-thumbed book about steam engines.
Vincent would thank him and spoon up the hot chocolate. “Growing a mustache?” the man would joke about the chocolate swipe on Vincent’s upper lip. Vincent would nod, aware of his mother’s scrutiny.
The gifts had sat in a pile in his armoire. One Christmas his mother told him they wouldn’t see the “friend” anymore but they mustn’t be sad. He’d taken care of Vincent. His mother had never told him outright, but from what she left unsaid, Vincent figured this man was his father and he’d died.
Later Vincent found out he’d inherited a lot of money from his mother’s “friend.” A natural in business and promotion, Vincent started his agence de publicité, expanded, and never looked back. His father hadn’t given him his name or birthright, but, as Vincent rationalized, something more important:
Aimée felt her blanket pulled back.
“All the area hospitals are Code Red,” the nurse from Burgundy continued. “Your condition’s stabilized so we’ll move you to the résidence Saint Louis around the corner. A place for the unsighted to learn how to function.”
So they were moving her to a blind people’s home.
“You don’t understand, I have a home. . . .” She wanted to shout “I’m not like them!”
But she was.
“Before you return to your own home, it’s best to learn to navigate in the world of the sighted, mademoiselle,” she was told. “Chantal, our volunteer, will guide you. She’s a resident there.”
A musty lilac scent accompanied the click of heels on linoleum. “Don’t worry,” said a quavering voice, “You can take care of yourself. I did.”
“But how can you help me if you can’t see?”
A cackle of dry laughter. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”
Aimée felt the nurse tying her hospital gown and draping a robe over her. Her bag was thrust in her arms. But how would René find her?
“I have to tell my friend . . .”
“Don’t worry, there’s time for that. Chantal’s a pro,” the nurse said. “Stand up.”
Aimée fought the dizzying sensation as she slid her feet to the floor. Sirens hee-hawed outside her window.
“Now, stretch out your arm and find my shoulder.”
Aimée gingerly extended her arm, felt smooth material, and gripped Chantal’s bony shoulder.
“ Parfait! Let yourself see shapes with your fingers, read textures and angles. We will teach you tricks. Vite , eh . . . let’s make way for the real unfortunates!”
Aimée hesitated.
“ Allons-y!”
Aimée shuffled forward, a baby step at a time.
“I’m only legally blind, you know,” Chantal said, her tone confiding. Her shoulder moved forward. “I distinguish light and dark, large shapes. That’s our little secret, eh? The doctor said you had spirit, he recommended you for the résidence. Not everyone gets sent there . . . God forbid, you could be shipped off to St. Nazaire or some provincial backwater! Saint Louis only takes the quick learners, don’t forget that.”
Wednesday
VINCENT CSARDA WAS BORN on the wrong side of the blanket. He knew he wasn’t unique in that. A lot of the world was, and would continue to be. As a child, once a year at Christmas, his mother would take him for lunch with a “gentleman friend.” Always at the posh Ladurée, famous for thick hot chocolate, in Place de la Madeleine. This was all kept a secret from his stepfather, an injured tram conductor with a meager disability pension.
Vincent, scrubbed clean and wearing his best, had hated the long ride at the back of the bus on the outside platform. And his mother’s nervous picking of lint from his wool jacket. This “friend,” with his wiry, amber mustache and red watery eyes, would ceremoniously give Vincent a gift. Odd or old-fashioned toys. Once, a much-thumbed book about steam engines.
Vincent would thank him and spoon up the hot chocolate. “Growing a mustache?” the man would joke about the chocolate swipe on Vincent’s upper lip. Vincent would nod, aware of his mother’s scrutiny.
The gifts had sat in a pile in his armoire. One Christmas his mother told him they wouldn’t see the “friend” anymore but they mustn’t be sad. He’d taken care of Vincent. His mother had never told him outright, but from what she left unsaid, Vincent figured this man was his father and he’d died.
Later Vincent found out he’d inherited a lot of money from his mother’s “friend.” A natural in business and promotion, Vincent started his agence de publicité, expanded, and never looked back. His father hadn’t given him his name or birthright, but, as Vincent rationalized, something more important:
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