The Apartment

a short story by Claude Simon

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Ms Cynthia Ruffin, Dr Evelyn

Abberton and Dr Jeanette E. Nelson for their
encouragements and constructive criticisms.

C. S.
Paris, March 5, 2014

When he reached the building, there was no one

yet waiting.

The afternoon sun was blazing the

street, but fortunately the entrance was on the

shady side. He heaved a sigh of relief and sat on
the cool stone steps.

He knew he was meeting

someone here but the heat and his walk through

the busy dusty streets had muddled up his mind
and memory.

He hoped that some rest in the

shade would bring him back to his full senses. He

was still daydreaming about his condition when he
heard her voice close to him.
-

Hi, my name is Deborah Highbridge, glad you

could make it.

-

Hi, no problem. Pleased to meet you, Miss

Highbridge.
- You can call me Deborah.
- OK, then you can call me Anthony.
He got up to shake her hand. He was startled but
pleased to see a young energetic woman, when he
had expected to meet some typically dull fat elderly
5

real estate dealer. Yet he disliked the touch of her

hand on his. It was cold and rough, such a contrast
with her appearance, as if it belonged to another
person.

Especially in the midst of summer.

She

was elegant but not flashy, with hazelnut eyes and

auburn hair.

A very melodious and unusual

combination, he thought. As he was pondering on

his first conflicting impressions, an odd and
troubling word came to his mind : reptilian . He
thought it was ridiculous to judge someone from
her appearance at first sight. She might well have
some blood condition or skin problem, after all.
Then a spark of memory made him remember
speaking to a man on the phone, that man he
expected to see.

Did they deliberately send her

instead of that man to meet him ? But to what

purpose ?

No doubt, it was more pleasant to be

with her than with a grim old businessman.

But

what was she supposed to get out of him ? Should

he be wary of her ? Could he trust his first intuitive
reaction ? But why would they do this ?
She dialled the digit code to open the front door
and they entered. The action put an instant end to
6

his drifting thoughts. The lobby was huge, like the

entrance of a theatre, but empty. A long reception
desk stood on the left and a wide staircase covered
with a burgundy carpet runner on the right led to
the upper floors. He was struck by the bright light
flooding the lobby.

Hed seen many such old

lobbies before, and he remembered them as being

always dull and dark.
colourful.

This one was bright and

He looked up to see where the lights

were, but there was none.

The light came from

what looked like a stained-glass dome, at least

three hundred feet above ground.

The colourful

flow of light pouring into the lobby gave it a

flamboyant and joyful atmosphere.
feel almost at home.
elevator.

It made him

He noticed there was no

He thought this was unusual for a

building that size.

He had not counted the floors

when he was outside, but it looked like five or six.

There was no one at the reception desk, but
Deborah seemed to know her way around.

She

went straight for the stairs and walked up.

He

followed her for three, or four or maybe five

storeys.

He was still under the admiration of the

wonderful lobby.

Every ten steps or so, a long

single pane window was shining some cold white

light through its frosted glass. There were no lights
in the stairway, and none on the landings he briefly
walked through. Perhaps there were lights behind
the frosted glass in the stairway. This building was
definitely quite original.
Deborah had the key to the apartment.

She

opened the door and he followed her into the dark

hallway. He had known a girl called Deborah, a
long time ago. They were about the same age. He
did not remember her full name, but she could
have been the same Deborah. Or else why would
she have invited him to call her by her first name ?
How did she know ? Had she looked into his life
before she offered to show him the apartment ?
He was keen to find out, but he did not dare to
address such a delicate subject at this stage. At
first, the darkness took him by surprise, although
the three wall lamps were on. Then he became
aware of the calming old-fashioned smell of
beeswax furniture polish. It brought back fuzzy
memories that became clearer and clearer as he

walked on.

It also reminded him of a similar

strange twilight from another apartment long ago.

Or was it the same apartment ? First Deborah, then
the dark corridor, and the lamps on the wall, the
smell of beeswax Could this be a coincidence,
some improbable chance ? Perhaps it was not the
time to reflect upon certainties end probabilities,
and his rational mind brushed aside his groundless
memories. Still, those lamps seemed very pale to
him. Why on earth did they use such weak lightbulbs in a blind passage ? Or was it just a defective
electrical system ? Yet his eyes were slowly getting
used to the darkness.
He started to vaguely realise that the corridor was
decorated.

At first he could just about guess

elusive shapes and colour changes here and there.

As he became more accustomed to the dimness, he
was able to perceive the woodwork and sculpted
mouldings, two small pedestals, and the geometric
patterns on oriental carpets. He felt reassured to
relate to some concrete sensations. It enabled him
to find a way back to rational thinking. Apparently,
9

the unexpected meeting with Deborah and the

strange feelings in the corridor had wiped out the
reason for his visit from his memory.
looking for a new apartment ?

Was he

It must be so, or

else why would he be visiting this one ? Had he

really planned the appointment ? Whatever it was,
he was not unhappy to be here. After all, he had
begun to feel something rather pleasant in the
atmosphere. Feeling more at ease, he wanted to
take a closer look at the wood mouldings.

He

stopped and caressed them with his fingertips, and

noticed they were very fine carvings with no sharp
edges, smooth and rounded, another pleasant
sensation.
time.

Deborah must have been pressed for

She dragged him out of his contemplation

with a discreet but perfectly audible sharp cough.

Looking at the other end of the corridor, he saw her
much further away than he had expected.

How

could he misjudge the length of that hallway ? Was

it the darkness ? Was he so tired that he couldnt
see straight ? Now, as he started walking towards
Deborah, he noticed that he wasnt getting any
closer to her.

He looked down at his feet : they

10

were moving normally for a walking man, and he

was moving.

He came quickly to the conclusion

that the corridor was becoming longer and longer.

This is ridiculous, he thought, I must be
hallucinating, walls dont move. As he walked on,
he proceeded to a short checklist of his mental
and physical situation.

No pain anywhere, no

dizziness, no delirium, I see my hands and shoes as

usual, I dont feel particularly tired or thirsty or
hungry. So its not me. What is going on in this
hallway ?
Soon, he found it harder to walk.

He looked at

Deborah, and she also seemed to make more

efforts to keep walking. He realised then that the
floor was tilted and they were now walking up a
slope. No wonder they were going so slowly. And
the more they moved forward, the more the end
was receding. In spite of her slow progress, he had
a hard time keeping up with her, as if an invisible
impalpable force was holding him back, as if he had
to struggle against a powerful evil current. This
strenuous walk seemed it was never going to end.
He had to make herculean efforts to catch up with
11

Deborah, and he felt he was hardly moving.

Perhaps he would have to keep on walking without
ever being able to stop.

This fearful thought

brought about an intolerable feeling of oppression.

It was a matter of life or death. He had to speed up
his pace and, though completely out of breath,
doubled his efforts to survive the ordeal. Then he
became suddenly aware that this kind of situation
could only happen in dreams.

He must be

dreaming. Wake up, he said to himself, this is

only a dream.

Wake up, and the dream will

vanish.
He did not wake up. He was aware of all these
thoughts, dream and not dream, so he was not
dreaming. How could this be ? This could not be
real, not part of his reality. Yet he was living it. In
which reality was he ? He had lost all connections
with the reality he knew before, the real rational
world where you can at any time put things back
into perspective, into a context, with known
reliable references. Why could he not do it now ?
He had always thought that stories about parallel
worlds and space-time distortions were just fiction
12

fantasies. Now that he was living one apparently,

he was convinced that the only way to get out of it
was through calm rational thinking.

He tried all

kinds of explanations, from an earthquake to some

weird alien experiment, but none satisfied him.
Then the revelation struck him : this is how we
must feel when were dying But if he was feeling
those symptoms, he must be passing away.
why so soon ? It wasnt his time yet.
want to go yet.

No,

He didnt

Something awful in the situation

was clearly inevitable. And it seemed there was

nothing he could do about it. He was doomed. He
felt totally useless and powerless fighting against it.
A terrible panic invaded him suddenly.

He began

to think about his family, he must have a family,

and about his friends, he must also have friends.
However, no name, no face, no memory from other
people in his life came to his mind. Why was he so
sure he had family and friends ?

Had he been

fooling himself ? The panic feeling grew stronger.

Then it mingled with the sense of fear from the
force that was dragging him down. At that point,
he clearly felt that someone or something was
definitely trying to grab and crush him.

13

He kept

wrestling with all kinds of chaotic thoughts and

visions whizzing wildly through his head.

He was

also desperately trying to keep walking to reach

Deborah who now looked like a salvation beacon to
him.
Eventually, just when he thought he was going to
give up and let himself die, the hostile current
dwindled. Soon they could reach the end of the
dark corridor. Deborah opened a heavy wooden
door covered with carvings, like those you find on
church doors. He was impressed at the sight of the
door. This must be the apartment of a very wealthy
family, he thought, or perhaps an old monastery.
They entered a large room decorated with wooden
wainscoting and Persian carpets, like those in the
corridor.

Several stately club leather armchairs

formed a semi-circle around a low table, facing a

huge fireplace. No fire was burning but he could
distinctly perceive the acrid smell of smoke and
wood ash. The same lamps were casting a dim light
around the room and the same scent of wax
blended into that of the fireplace.

Deborah

stopped in the middle of the room, turned around

14

and smiled at him. He understood it as you see,

what did I tell you ?. He felt somewhat uneasy to
find their almost intimate complicity quite natural.
Deborah continued her guided visit. She walked
over to the opposite end of the room and opened
the other door. They entered another largish room,
but smaller than the previous one and without a
fireplace. He noticed the windows on the right
side. They were large windows, starting very low
and stretching almost to the ceiling. He realised at
that moment that it was dark outside too, but not
quite night yet. He could still clearly see the other
apartments surrounding the inner quad of the
building.
-

It looks like Mr Partridge isnt in tonight. His

shutters are down.

He almost jumped at the sound of his own words.
Had he actually uttered the sounds ? He did not
even know who Partridge was. So how on earth
could he know Partridge live here ?

Hed heard

once that some people can become possessed by

other persons who speak and act through them. It
15

must really be awful He whispered God, I hope

this is not happening to me !

It must be his

subconscious mind playing tricks on him. And yet

the name

he thought hed heard this name

before. Then he sensed again that uneasy feeling

he had coming into the long corridor, not quite the
panic again, but a very uncomfortable feeling of not
being in the right place, or at the right time, or with
the right people.

Deborah did not react to his

unexpected comment. Then a distant doorbell rang

and shattered his muddled train of thoughts.
-

Will you excuse me a minute, please ? said

Deborah, and before he had time to answer, she

hurried back where they had come from.
Feeling a bit lost, he turned back to look at the
courtyard.

Then he decided to kill time while

waiting for her return and started to walk slowly

around the room. The wood panels looked quite
old but very well taken care of.

An enormous

bookcase covered the whole wall facing the

windows. The shelves were almost entirely filled
with books. Through the little panes of the glass
16

doors, he could see volumes of all sizes, some of

them very large and thick, others mere paperbacks.
That was another very odd thing: how can anyone
leave so many personal objects, and probably
valuable ones too, when leaving ones apartment ?
Of course, he could not find an answer to this
question, as he couldnt to any other. He thought
he would be better off not asking any more
questions, and just living the experience as it came.
The bookcase doors did not have locks. He opened
them one after the other and ran through the book
titles.

Many books were very old, with leather

binding and golden letters. While trying to make

out the titles in the faint light, he realised they were
often written in languages unknown to him. He
certainly was no expert linguist, but he thought he
recognised some Hebrew, Cyrillic and oriental
characters - perhaps Chinese or Japanese. He even
noticed a very old book scripted in what looked like
cuneiform characters, as he had seen a very long
time ago in a museum, carved on some stone or
clay fragments.

The book intrigued him.

He

remembered from some distant history class that

17

this type of character came from the Assyrian

empire. In those days, they did not write on paper,
but on clay, or stone, or maybe wood, but not
paper. He was not shocked, however, to see the
same characters on a book cover, just surprised and
very curious to see what was inside. He took the
large heavy book off the shelf and opened it.

It

was entirely written in cuneiform characters.

Of

course he did not have any idea what it was about.

But he was puzzled by the idea that someone,
apparently from our civilisation, took the time to
write a whole book in characters that only a
handful of people in the world could read. Perhaps
the person who wrote it wanted to perpetrate
some secret science or magic found on ancient
tablets that were never disclosed to the west.
Maybe the book contained key information about
the origin of humanity, the nature of the universe
or the end of the world.

He browsed through a

few more pages at random.

Some showed

drawings and pictures of original engraved clay

tablets, of monumental bas-reliefs and sculptures,
as well as aerial views of old ruins. He realised that
no matter how long he stared at the cryptic writing

18

and at the pictures, he would never be able to

understand.

His curiosity was such, nevertheless,

that he decided to keep the book with him.

He

would give it back to Deborah once he found out

what he wanted to know.
He moved away from the bookshelf holding the
book and looked around. A few armchairs, smaller
than those in the first room, were scattered here
and there throughout the room.

In the middle

stood a shiny square table surrounded by wooden

chairs.
He came up to the table and stroked it gently with
his fingertips. It was clean and smooth as a mirror.
A clear vision sprung out of his memory : he saw
himself sitting at the table reading a book. He was
much younger then.

It was a small book that

smelled of smoke and old paper. What was that

book ? Would it still be in the bookcase ? He left
his book on the table and resumed his search
through the bookshelves with more concentration.
The light was too dim to make out all the titles. He
chose to trust his intuition and pulled out some of
19

the smaller books that drew his attention. He took

them in his hands one by one, smelled them and
fondled them, until he could bring round sensations
from his youth. He thought at times he had felt a
feeble thread that could lead him to them. He
looked intensely at the title and at the first pages of
the text, and smelled the inside partition with long
deep breaths.

He did not feel any spark or

flashback and the faint feeling faded away. Perhaps

the vision was just trickery from his mind. Can one
make up memories ? Can dj-vu simply come out
from new experiences ?

Or maybe it was just a

scene remembered from a dream.

The souvenir

was indeed somewhat blurred and unsteady.

Nevertheless, he knew it was definitely part of his
undeniable factual memories.

By then, he had

forgotten where he had taken the books from and

he decided to leave them scattered on the table.
Someone would come later to tidy things up in the
apartment, he thought.

He just picked up his

mystery book and walked on to the next room.

It looked very much like the previous one, but
larger and with no bookcase. The strange feeling of
20

disarray that had invaded him earlier had gone. He

was now eager to discover hidden treasures in this
decidedly unconventional apartment. He sort of
suspected he was here for a reason that he was
about to unveil. The room must have been the
drawing room. Five or six small round tables, each
with four or five chairs around it, evenly shared the
space. The same large windows looked over the
courtyard, and two long china cabinets of a similar
style as the tables and chairs crowded the opposite
wall. Although he was no antique enthusiast, he
guessed that the furniture must have been from
the Louis XVI period.

His eyes dwelled on the

furniture legs and again the sensation of dj-vu

came to him. He had seen those thin elegant legs
before, in a distant past, those typical legs you only
find in Louis XVI furniture style.
A vision was slowly coming into shape from very far
back in time, buried under piles of old irrelevant
memories. So it must come from way back in his
childhood and he held on to the vision. He felt an
intense thrill was the image of the vision became
clearer. He could now distinctly see what he had
21

seen then.

There was some kind of sculpted

column in front of him.

It had vertical grooves

almost from top to bottom.

The bottom was

thinner than the top, and ended in a bulbous shape

carved with tiny patterns.

The top widened into

sculpted geometric shapes that looked like flower

petals. The vision was now clear and vivid, almost
in front of him. He understood at once that if he
was a young child then, he was probably no taller
than the tables.

This was where he saw those

same furniture legs for the first time.

He knelt

down to the floor and his eyes were now at the

level of the top of the table legs.

He must have

been then about the same height. How amazing it

was to be able to recover so precisely such distant
memories !
Now that he had the vision firmly secured in his
mind, he attempted to remember the surroundings
and the context at the time of his experience. He
didnt get up and closed his eyes while keeping the
image of the table legs as hed seen them for the
first time.

He was sure he was not in his home.

He must have been visiting people. Did he know

22

them ? Were they relatives ? Someone he knew

must have taken him to see those people.

He

made an effort to look around the room in his

vision, beyond the table legs, beyond the tables.
He felt the connection between the vision of table
legs and the smell of bees wax in the corridor.
They were both part of the same memory scene.
He had come back to those people. They must
have been relatives or close friends of his grandma
on his mothers side.

She was the only

grandmother he had ever known.

As soon as he

thought of his grandmother, another memory slot

opened up. He remembered now clearly that, as a
child, he had gone on a trip with her. How old was
he then ?

Four, five, certainly no older than five.

His grandmother had woken him up so early that it

was still dark. Then he had to wear the clothes she
had prepared for him, a white shirt, his grey pants
that he usually wore on special occasions, like
weddings and Christmas mass, his patent leather
shoes with long black socks. And he had to wear a
tie, the navy blue one, not a real tie but one held by
a rubber band around the shirt collar.
23

They had

boarded the bus early in the morning in Pittsburgh

where she lived. It was a long bus ride through lots
of green hills and woody countryside, even some
mountains when he almost got sick. They had been
on the bus for the whole morning with only a
couple of very short stops for food and drink. They
had arrived in Baltimore around midday.

He

thought, memory does strange things, no doubt

about that.

He thought he had forgotten

everything about that trip, even the names of cities,

and everything was coming back to him all at once
without the slightest effort.
He was slowly becoming aware that he was not in
this apartment just to look for a new residence.
Probably none of todays events were happening by
chance. Or else it would be a series of incredible
coincidences.

First Deborah, then the familiar

beeswax smell, then the library, then the sitting

room and the table legs, all these memories were
adding up to show him something important or to
lead him to some important revelation.

But then

there was Deborahs disappearance. Why had she

left him on his own ? What was he supposed to do
24

or find out by himself ? What would happen when

shed come back ? What was the meaning of the
strange book he had picked up ? Was he supposed
to find out before she came back ?

He tried to

unravel the vague memories of his distant visit with

his grandmother.

He was clinging to those clear

landmarks that had been revived today, in the hope

that other images of the same visit would come
back to him. The first recollection he was aware of
was not an image but more an impression, a hazy
perception. During his childhood visit, no one had
paid much attention to him.

He could not

remember any contact with people living there.

They must all have been adults : he would have
played with the children if there had been any.
The adults did not pay attention to him because
they must have been discussing serious or grave
matters.
The image of his shiny black shoes came popping
out of his memory and he understood intuitively
the reason for his grandmothers visit.
close to her had died.

Who was it ?

Someone
Not her

husband : the man had gone long ago, he had never

25

known him. Not her parents : they must have died

long before her husband.

Perhaps a sister or a

brother, maybe one of her own children, who must

have been adult then.

Yet he could not recollect

any scene of grief or mourning from people around

him.

Or could it be such a traumatic experience

that hed buried it deep into the depths of his

unconscious psyche.

But if this was the case, it

must have been someone very close to him too, an

uncle or an aunt, or No, he thought, it could not
be, he would remember. But what if He was so
young then, and maybe his grandma hadnt told
him.

Maybe she had, and he hadnt realised, or

blocked it out of his consciousness.

So this must

be it.

His real mother had died and he did not

know.

Then who was the woman he called

Mummy. He had known her all his life, as far back

as he could remember. No one had told him later
she was not his real mother. Why not ? A feeling
of intense sadness invaded him. Then some sort of
diffuse panic came over him, a sense of not
knowing if he could trust his own parents, of
wondering if they had ever been truthful to him, of
wondering what else they had been hiding from

26

him. This led to a consciousness of total isolation

and mistrust, no one to turn to.
Was this the meaning of his present experience in
the apartment ?

Was he supposed to regain full

memory of his childhood traumas through his visit ?

For a moment, he wished he had not come to the
appointment. He wished he could get away from
the unpleasant ups-and-downs that were slowly
driving him panicky and apprehensive.

But he

couldnt leave the apartment without telling

Deborah.
Oh my God, Deborah, he thought. God help him,
he had forgotten all about Deborah, absorbed and
worried by his disturbing childhood memories. He
must try and find Deborah. He walked back to the
previous room through the door he had left open.
Deborah had not come back.

He went to the

lounge with the fireplace, but she was not here

either. He called her, but got no answer. Then he
shouted as loud as he could DE BO RAH,
waited a few seconds, still no answer. To fight the
growing feeling of resignation and surrender, he
27

focused his attention on the present moment.

Although the experience might be upsetting at
times, unearthing such past experiences could be
beneficial to his psychic health. And he thought if
he continued the visit slowly on his own, she would
eventually catch up with him when she returned.
So he managed to calm down the panic feeling, and
resumed his childlike exploration of the vast
apartment.
After the styled drawing room, he entered what
looked like a dining room.

The same windows

looked over the courtyard. A massive china cabinet

stood in the middle of the opposite wall, and in the
middle of the room, a long oval table covered with
a delicately embroidered white tablecloth. A dozen
chairs were evenly spread around the table, but no
furniture had any particular style. It looked rather
modern and impersonal, nothing interesting or
magical. He walked on to the next room that was
all rustic style. No carpet on the uneven rough
plank floor. A huge fireplace with no fire or cooker
still showed on its stone floor, under the immense
hood, marks of what must have been an old stove,
28

and on its walls several rows of hooks that probably

used to hold kitchen utensils. To the right of the
empty fireplace, the old sink had been left as a
witness of another age, carved out of a rock,
undoubtedly granite for lack of mottles.

A few

rustic stools without any style were strewn

disorderly on both sides of the fireplace, some
standing, some lying, as if knocked over in a hasty
flight. In the middle of the kitchen stood a massive
table flanked by two sturdy benches, weathered by
smoke and domestic splatter. He could still vaguely
make out some whiffs of cooking with hints of old
cheese and stale bread.

There was another

certainty : those were the exact odours he had

smelled at her grandmas friends or relatives
home in Baltimore. Where were they now ? Was
he going to inherit this place from them ? He could
not remember having received any letter or
telephone call about this.
He felt like someone, or some people, were hiding
things from him, intimate things that he should
have known. It was as if what he had lived in his
childhood was being repeated, in an adult version,
29

so to speak. Maybe he was just imagining things.

Or perhaps hed forgotten

Perhaps sometimes

the subconscious mind erases traumatic or painful

personal events from the conscious memory. And
maybe its better that way, a way of protecting
ones sanity. But why was he being reminded of all
those disturbing painful episodes ?
turning point in his life ?

Was this a

At this moment he

wished he had studied medicine, or psychology,

instead of economics like his elder brother.

He

then became aware that he had taken all important

decisions in his life to please people around him.
Was this supposed to make him realise that he had
been taking the wrong decisions all his life ?
Desperate to find at least some answers, he finally
gave himself up to fate, abandoning logical
reasoning and opting for real-life experiences that
might bring up more revelations.
He lingered some more in the kitchen to try and
catch the thread that would tie up together all the
scattered pieces from the puzzle of his jumbled
memory. Stealthy images and impressions would
fleetingly come back to him and then vanish like
30

shooting stars, wonderful and mysterious. But he

could not piece enough together to make sense out
of the strange experience. He sat down on a bench
at the end of the table, on the spot where he must
have sat as a child. He used to dip his toast fingers
into a soft-boiled egg and lick off the warm and
unctuous yolk. The thought made his mouth water.
All of a sudden, he was starving. The day was
almost over and he did not remember having any
lunch. He got up and opened every cupboard and
drawer in the kitchen, but he found nothing to eat,
only the persistent smell of cheese and stale bread.
So he walked to the next room, similar to the
previous ones, then to the next one, and the next
one, all roughly the same rooms, all aligned in a
row, each room opening directly onto the next one,
without any corridor, hallway or other means of
egress.

He must have gone through a dozen

rooms. He imagined that the apartment must be

big enough to go round the whole quad and take up
the complete floor of the building.
He had walked briskly through the last rooms, going
from one to another with growing restlessness. At
31

this point, another shock struck him : he realised

that the windows were now on the left wall of the
rooms. This meant that the rooms were now on
the other side of the apartment.

He walked

carefully over to one of the windows and he could

vaguely recognize another courtyard in the dark.
He could not hear a single noise. Yet people must
live in this building. Its quite nice, he thought as
if to comfort himself, to have such a quiet place in
the middle of a city and not hear any neighbours or
any sound from cars. But if he was now on the
other side of the apartment, how and when had he
turned around since he had always been walking in
a straight line from one room to another ? Perhaps
had he not noticed turning back and walked in the
opposite direction, absorbed as he was in his long
forgotten memories. No, this is impossible, he
thought, even if I had turned around, the windows
would still be on the same side. His restlessness
quickly turned into distress, a frightening feeling of
being caught in a trap that he had no means to foil.
And he just had to find something to eat. But the
first thing to do was to find Deborah. She would

32

know how to get him out of this nightmare, since

she had brought him here in the first place.
Thats when he decides to turn back and walk
through all the rooms he just visited. He stops in
each room and calls Deborah as loud as he can. No
answer. Deborah is not here any longer. Could she
have gotten lost in the vast apartment ? Could she
have deliberately abandoned him ? But why would
she want to do that ? What would become of him
if he did not find the way out ? At times, though,
he feels he is on the right track because he
remembers distinctly some of the rooms, like the
dining room with the large oval table and the white
tablecloth, or like the kitchen with the cheese and
bread smell. And still those rooms streaming one
after another like the cars of an endless train. After
the kitchen, he goes through five or six more rooms
and he was sure he should have found the entrance
hallway. But he cannot find the corridor either.
Does this mean there is no way out any more ?
This is ridiculous, any apartment has a way out if
there is a way in.

33

He realised at last that he was caught in a trap.

The feeling of despair and panic from past traumas
and deceits was coming back stronger with the
certainty of being in a dead end. Suddenly, he had
found himself trapped in a prison with no guard.
The idea then seemed so ludicrous to him that he
looked for other explanations. Maybe he was in a
sort of trance operating simultaneously on two
parallel universes. Or perhaps he was drugged.
Yes, this must be it: he was drugged.
drugged him ?

Deborah ?

But who

This would explain

everything. Yet, he did not remember having drunk

or eaten anything with Deborah.
In fact, strangely enough, he realised that he did
not remember anything that happened before he
came to the apartment with Deborah.

Was

everything erased before that ? Did the world, his

world, start all over again at this point in time ?
Was this at all possible ? No, its not. Come on,
this is totally ridiculous, he thought, alarmed at
the absurdity of his own thoughts. But how come
do I remember nothing before my visit here ? The
only plausible answer was surely a drug she had
34

given him, maybe as a spray, or a small injection

with a very fine needle. She could have slightly
brushed past him and injected him at the same
time without him noticing it.

At last, he reaches a room that looks like the first

one, the lounge with the large fireplace. A wave of
relief rolls over him, bringing a little hope and
courage.

He walks past the leather armchairs

towards the door through which they first entered.

This is it, he thought, its over, Ill be able to get out
and stop this frenzy.

He opens the door, but

theres no corridor. Yet it is the same room and the

same door. In any case, they are identical. And you
do not have two identical rooms in an apartment,
absolutely not. That door now opens on a narrow
staircase covered in dust, probably service stairs.
He feels this is an opportunity, because service
stairs must lead him to the ground floor and to the
street. Hell be able to get out.

35

He runs frantically down the steep stairs and tries

to open the door on each landing.

Theyre all

locked. He tries to force them open. But they are

sturdy doors and there is not enough space on the
narrow landing for a take-off. He runs all the way
down. The last door is even more massive and
does not open either. He perceives a slight draught
carrying a vague reek of fungus. The door must
lead to the cellar. He climbs up one floor. This
must be the ground floor, but the door is also
locked. He has no other choice than to go back up
all the flights he just walked down and find the
open door that led him to the staircase.
He should have counted the landings coming down.
Now coming up, he counts seven eight nine
ten eleven twelve This is not possible. It
is obviously an old building, certainly before World
War One. They did not build such high buildings in
those days. Besides, he distinctly remembers the
building seen from the street only had five or six
floors. Could there be another building behind the
one he entered from the street ?

36

A sneaky gut hunch begins to emerge almost

unconsciously at first, then more and more
conspicuous and prevailing. He is trapped ! There
is no other possible explanation to his situation.
The man on the phone and Deborah obviously
connived to trap him in this tricked apartment, if it
really is an apartment. After all, it could well be a
set up from the beginning in some sort of staged
maze with unseen henchmen changing the props as
he walked on. Why on earth would they want to
do that to him ? What are they going to do with
him ?

Ransom his family ?

information out of him ?

Get some secret

Nonsense, he thinks.

Were not rich, and I have no knowledge of any

scientific, economic, political or diplomatic secret.
I dont have any powerful connections either.
Then maybe he is the plaything of some psychopath
who is watching him suffer through hidden cameras
Cold sweat starts oozing all over his body He
has just come to the conviction that he is going to
be killed. No, I dont want to die, he whispers as
he starts trembling uncontrollably.

He can hardly

believe this is happening to him. But why ? Why,

37

why, why ?

And what can he do ?

Oh, God,

please, please help me if youre here !

thinks he has not called for help yet.

Then he
He starts

screaming at the top of his voice Help ! Help me !

Somebody help me please ! Help ! He waits a
few seconds for an answer or just some other sign
of life Nothing ! Then he thumps and kicks at
the door with all his might for as long as he can
stand the pain Nothing !
And now hes hurting all over, his throat from
screaming, his hands and feet, his knotted stomach
Perhaps he should go back upstairs to find some
secret passage that he missed earlier in his haste.
But the fear of dying, his screaming and hitting
have taken all his energy.
theyre going to kill him.

Now he imagines how

Is he just going to

disappear into oblivion ? Are they going to torture

him ?

No, please, dont make me suffer, please

dont make me suffer

he pleads out loud,

convinced that his torturer his watching every

single move and sound he makes.
anxiety comes over him.

A hysterical

It soon turns into a

hopeless feeling of total disarray, bringing panic

38

and a sense of being stuck in a dead end that will

surely be fatal to him. He is aching, he is hungry,
he is thirsty, and he is dead tired
In complete desperation, he sits down on the dirty
floor, physically and mentally exhausted, leaning on
what he believes to be the door to the ground
floor, waiting for the end, praying for a painless
death, praying for his loved ones, saying silent
good-byes to his family and friends
falls into a deep sleep.

39

and soon

- Sir Sir are you alright ?

Sir, are you

OK ? Hello, sir, do you need help ?

He hears a voice as in a dream. Someone is gently
moving his shoulder. He opens his eyes. A woman
is leaning over him. She is smiling.
relieved to see him wake up.

She looks

Her face seems

familiar to him. He is still too dazed to remember

where he has seen her before.
-

Excuse me, sir, but are you alright ? she

repeats.
-

Yes, I am, thank you. Yes, well I think I am, he

answers while getting up unsteadily.

He is still

wearing the same suit, though somewhat wrinkled

and dusty from the gate curb he was leaning on
when he woke up. Im sorry, Im slightly muddled
up. I must have gone a bit overboard last night and
I dont exactly know where I am now.
-

But you are in Baltimore, of course you are, you

know, Baltimore, Maryland.

Baltimore ?

40

Dont you live in

Baltimore Maryland he repeats silently.

How on earth did I land in Baltimore ? he
wonders. He knows full well he was in New York
City last night. Is she testing him ? Is she just pulling
his leg ? Is this a practical joke some friends are
playing on him ? Has he lost all notion of space and
time ? Theres one way he can be sure: My wallet,
Ill know once I see my ID, he says to himself.
-

Uhmm just a minute, please He feels his

inside pocket. His wallet is still here. He pulls it out

and checks its content. Nothing is missing, not
even the cash. Sneakily, he glances at his ID. Thats
right, he is the true Anthony Partridge, living at 135
Claremont Avenue on the Upper West Side in
Manhattan. But just how did he land in Baltimore ?
- Excuse me, I must really sound stupid. This party
was too much for me and I lost track of things last
night. What day are we today ? he asks her,
looking at his watch.

Ten after eight.

In the

morning, no doubt.
- Its Saturday, today is Saturday says the woman
smiling again.

I was just going to have some

41

breakfast. I have a little time. On Saturdays, I dont

open the shop until ten. If you care to join me, I
think a nice hot cup of coffee would do you a world
of good.
-

Yes, I think so too, I think it would. But let me

invite you. To thank you for saving my life, in a

way.
-

Come on, I think thats overstating it a bit, dont

you ?

Lets introduce ourselves, shall we ? she

said, still smiling.

My name is Deborah

Highbridge. And whats your name ?

42

43