Lost and Found: A Novel - Chapter four.
London/Paris 2018.
Tom had never thought of himself as an impulsive person, but once the idea of Madeleine was planted in his mind, he felt he had to visit Paris at once. Of course he had no real hope of finding Madeleine. It was now 2018, forty years since his encounter with Madeleine in the autumn of 1978 on his first visit to Paris. The girl had not even come from that city and now no doubt lived somewhere else. Yet Tom felt that if he could at least revisit the places in Paris he had shared with Madeleine, perhaps he would rekindle some joy, some hope, in himself.
Kate had not been impressed with Tom's sudden decision to rush off to France.
'Why on earth do you want to go to Paris? And why now?', she had asked, not hiding her exasperation.
'You remember I was doing research for that article comparing British and French colonial policies in West Africa?', said Tom. 'Well, this is the perfect opportunity to look at the French source materials.'
'What article? You've never mentioned such an article to me', Kate replied. 'You know Susan and Kevin are going on that trip to Italy arranged by his company and we are supposed to look after little John. You can't go away and lay all that responsibility on me!'
Kate was failing to curb her growing anger.
'It will only be for a few days', Tom said in a quiet and even tone.
Kate was not to be appeased.
'This whole idea is ridiculous. Why Paris? Why now?'
'It just seems the perfect opportunity', Tom repeated.
'Why can't you wait until after Susan and Kevin have been on their trip? Then we could both go to Paris for a short break', Kate said in a more measured tone of voice.
Tom pretended to think about this proposal.
'It would be like that Paris trip we had just before the millennium', Kate went on.
That had been Tom's last visit to Paris, almost twenty years ago. He had been invited to attend a multi-disciplinary international conference about Western imperialism and the Third World. It was held at Nanterre University in the western suburbs of Paris. Day after day Tom sat listening to dreary papers given by sociologists, political scientists, development economists, and historians from around the globe until it was his turn to speak. All these years later, Tom could not even remember the subject of his paper. There was the usual pointless discussion afterwards, with his critics less interested in his paper than in showing how clever they were. Tom had been so glad to rejoin Kate at their hotel afterwards and go out to dinner with her.
Yes, Tom had to admit that being with Kate in Paris that time was a real pleasure. However, she could not go with him this time. This was a trip he must make alone. He was returning to a point in his life before Mary, before Kate, before the children. The feelings he wanted to recover were his alone and not to be shared with even his nearest and dearest.
For almost an hour Tom and Kate argued about his trip, but in the end Kate gave in. He could go to Paris, but only for a few days. Next day Tom threw some things into an overnight bag and made his way to St Pancras Station to catch the Eurostar train to Paris.
Now the train had exited the Channel Tunnel, leaving England, London, and Kate behind. As he gazed out across the French fields beside the track, Tom felt free and looked forward to his adventure. He was sorry to have lied to Kate. Most French colonial records were not even in Paris. They were in a special archives centre at Aix-en-Provence, hundreds of miles south of the French capital. But Tom could forgive himself, he felt, as he would be back home soon. A few days of nostalgia in Paris, then back to London and whatever challenges his new life as a retiree would pose.
Tom took out his cell phone. His children always told him that everything was on the Internet. He wondered if he could find any trace of Madeleine there. Then, for the first time, Tom realised he was not sure of her full name. Madeleine something. He was sure her surname began with a Q. He searched his mind for some memory of it, but came up blank.
Then he thought: was it Quercy? No, that was a region in southern France. But he had no better idea. Tom searched for Madeleine Quercy. To his amazement Tom found a Madeleine Quercy. However, she was a doctor in Bordeaux and even from the sparse information given on the Internet, Tom could tell she was a young doctor. Clearly not his Madeleine.
Again Tom tried to conjure up Madeleine's surname, but nothing came. Tom did a search for just Madeleine Q, and was told there were 73 million results. There was no way he could work his way through that amount of data.
Anyway, Madeleine Q had probably married at some point in the last forty years and Tom could not know her married surname. He put his phone away. Perhaps once he visited the places in Paris he had shared with Madeleine, her surname would come back into his mind. Even then Tom doubted he could track her down, even with all the wonders of the Internet.
Eventually the Eurostar train reached the Gare du Nord in Paris, arriving on time after a journey of only two and a quarter hours. Tom was impressed. Four decades ago it would have taken him much longer to get from London to Paris whatever means of transport he took. Tom ventured down into the metro and made his way to the Cardinal Lemoine station on the Left Bank. He had a vague idea that the hotel in which he stayed back in 1978 was somewhere near that metro station. Once he came back up to street level, Tom headed north towards the River Seine. He was sure the hotel was in that direction. After wandering the streets for a while, Tom had to admit that none of the buildings looked even vaguely familiar. In four decades hotels could be closed down or just change their names, not that Tom could remember his hotel's name.
A cold, autumnal evening was beginning to close in, and Tom knew he had to find accommodation soon. Then Tom came to a hotel on a street corner which seemed to resemble the faded memory in his mind. Could this be the place? He went inside.
In 1978 Tom could read and speak French quite well, but now while he could still read it with some facility, his spoken French was at a low level, just enough to order a meal or, as now, book into a hotel. A young black woman was at the front desk. A name badge told him she was called Hortense. In his basic French, Tom asked for a room. Yes, there should be one available, said the girl, but she would check with the manager. The girl opened the door into a nearby office. There was a woman seated at a desk. Was she the manager? She could not be more than thirty years old, thought Tom. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and a rather grave expression on her face. She could see Tom from where she was sitting. She did not seem impressed by the elderly man she saw. However, she nodded to Hortense, who then closed the office door and returned to the front desk.
She looked at her computer screen and began to check Tom in.
Among the many Paris tourist brochures on the desk was a brochure for Martinique, the French island in the Caribbean. Tom idly opened it. Hortense looked up from her computer screen.
'That's where I come from', she said.
'I am sure it is warmer than here', said Tom.
The girl just smiled and handed over Tom's key. His room was on the second floor. There was no lift. Tom had to struggle up the stairs with his overnight bag, which now seemed much heavier than when he had packed it back in London.
If this was the same hotel as in 1978, it had improved vastly from what he remembered. The old hotel was run down, with tatty furniture in its small, dingy rooms, and with only one bathroom and one toilet on each floor. But it was cheap; a big consideration for a poor student. Today the hotel was up to modern standards. The rooms were still small, but nicely furnished. Tom's room had two beds that almost filled the space, but an en suite bathroom, or rather shower room, had somehow been attached to the room.
Tom unpacked and then went downstairs. The hotel was too small to offer food. As Tom went out to find a cafe or a restaurant, he passed Hortense, who was talking to the woman manager. The latter was quite tall, slim, not unattractive - if only she would smile, thought Tom. But she did not smile. Instead she gave Tom another suspicious look.
