Lost - Part 1 by Dave Rigby

 

    “Monsieur?” A tone of concern.

I can hear his voice, but I’m face down on wet grass and can’t see the man. It takes a little time to get my limbs working. I turn and look up at him. He must be about sixty, balding, a small moustache which looks like it’s been painted on.

    “Hello,” I say. In English.

    “Are you OK? he asks. “Do you need a doctor?”

Do I? There’s this feeling that I should stay away from any part of the system … that something has gone wrong … and until I find out what …

    “No, thank you. I’m fine. Too much wine you know!” He looks doubtful. Perhaps I look bad but not in a drunk way. “But could you tell me where I am?”

    “Sure. You must have had a good night! This is the Rue Maitre Albert. Notre Dame is just at the end of the street,” he says, turning to point the way. “With the rain overnight, it’s lucky you have a good waterproof.” A pity my jeans aren’t also waterproof!

    “So … I must be in Paris.” How on earth did I get here?

    “Indeed, you are. It must have been a very good night.”

The man helps me to my feet and I manage to stand more or less upright. He seems hesitant to leave, but eventually walks off, away from the Seine, a single glance back as he turns the corner.

I fight the urge to sit down on the pavement and stay on my feet, walking unsteadily in the opposite direction, towards the river. The money! A sudden panic. But a quick check confirms I still have it. Well hidden. However, my wallet and phone have gone. I have no identity.

In a trouser pocket, there’s a key on a ring with a circular metal disc attached. Number 29A. No hotel or street name. I don’t recognise it.

The river is sparkling bright. I pull my cap out of a jacket pocket and put it on to shield my eyes. A café is just opening up on the Quai. I ask the patron for the time. Just after seven, he says, looking me up and down. His dark, wavy, well-cut hair makes him look a bit like a film star. And he has the face to go with it.

    “Espresso?” he asks. I nod. “Croissant?” I nod again and slump heavily into a chair at one of the outdoor tables. It’s such a relief.

    “Did you find somewhere to sleep?” the patron asks, which confuses me. I have no memory of this man. He smooths his crisp, white apron with his right hand.

    “Yes,” I reply, playing for time, hoping the brain fog will clear. “Did you see me last night then? Was I here?”

    “Just across the road, walking along by the river. You didn’t look good. Where’s your friend?”

A friend? I don’t have any friends in Paris. Well – not as far as I can remember.

    “What did my friend look like?”

    “She looked like a good friend, arm in arm you know. I have seen her before.” What! How can that be? “She lives in the Marais, somewhere near the Musee Picasso, I think. Not far from here. Perhaps you slept at her place.” He gives me a certain look, which I ignore.

    “No,” I say, a little too firmly. “Do you know this woman’s name by any chance?”

    “Yes. She’s called Simone. A singer. Good voice. You want something else to eat as well as the croissant? A Croque Monsieur perhaps?”

Somehow, that’s just what I need. And a carafe of water.

Later, feeling slightly more human, I pay the patron. He’s spoken to one of his regulars, who’s at an inside table.

    “Marcel is a taxi driver with a good memory. This Simone. She lives on the street, first right, opposite the Musee. Her apartment is above a boulangerie. He can tell you how to get there. Good luck my friend. Come and visit us again.”

Armed with the taxi driver’s directions, I set off. But I can only remember some of the details. The others seem to have drifted off in the river breeze. I ask a passer-by, but he doesn’t know the way. A concierge, broom in hand, having an early morning smoke on the steps of her apartment block, seems a more likely bet. She coughs heavily and tells me how to get to the boulangerie in a French accent I can barely follow, the cigarette bouncing up and down, between her lips as she speaks. Despite this, I manage to find the boulangerie.

With nothing to lose, I press the bell for the apartment above.

Only then do I notice the number 29A, painted artistically, in white, on the wall next to the bell.