Central Park by Guillaume Musso (ebook reader macos .TXT) 📕

you dress in such baggy, unflattering clothes?” “Why do you still act like a teenager?” Sick of their vegetarian meals designed to keep them slim and healthy, their bird food, their disgusting quinoa, their tofu pancakes, their mashed cauliflower.

I turn onto Rue de la Coutellerie and take the Pont Notre-Dame across the river. This is a magical place—to my left, the historic buildings of the Hôtel-Dieu; to my right, the façade of the Conciergerie and the roof of the Tour de l’Horloge.

Every time I go to the family home, I feel as if I am traveling thirty years back in time, reopening the wounds of childhood, rebreaking the fractures of adolescence, bringing back the bitterness of sibling rivalries, and once again being left in absolute solitude.

Every year, I tell myself this will be the last time, and every year I go through the whole charade again without knowing why. Half of me would like to burn those bridges, but the other half would give anything to see their faces the day I turn up dressed like a princess with a perfect man on my arm.

Left Bank. I drive past the quays, then turn left on Rue des Saints-Pères. I slow down, turn on my hazard lights, and park on the corner of Rue de Lille. I get out of the car, put on my orange armband, and ring the intercom of a beautiful, recently renovated building.

I leave my thumb on the buzzer for a good thirty seconds. The idea took root in my mind early in the week and required quite a bit of research. I know what I’m doing is crazy, but being aware of that is not enough to dissuade me.

“Yes, who’s there?” a sleepy voice asks.

“Paul Malaury? Judicial police. Please let me in.”

“Uh, but…”

“It’s the police, monsieur. Open up!”

One of the heavy entrance doors unlocks with a click. Ignoring the elevator, I run up the stairs to the third floor, where I hammer on the door.

“Okay, okay!”

The man who opens the door is indeed my handsome gynecologist, but this morning he doesn’t look his best. He’s wearing boxers and an old T-shirt, his blond curls are in disarray, and his face is marked with surprise, fatigue, and worry.

“Hang on, I know you—you’re…”

“Captain Schafer, Criminal Division. Monsieur Malaury, I hereby inform you that I am taking you into custody. You have the right to…”

“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake! What am I supposed to have done?”

“Forgery and the use of forged documents. Please follow me.”

“Is this a joke?”

“Don’t make me send for my colleagues, Monsieur Malaury.”

“Can I at least put on a shirt and a pair of pants?”

“Hurry, then. And you’ll need a coat too—the heating is out at the station.”

While he dresses, I take a quick look around. The Haussmann apartment has been transformed into a sort of loft with a refined décor. A few dividing walls have been knocked down and the herringbone floorboards painted white, but the two marble fireplaces and the original moldings have been preserved.

Behind a door, I see a young redheaded woman, about twenty years old, wrapped in a sheet and staring at me, wide-eyed. I start to grow tired of waiting.

“Get a move on, Malaury!” I yell, banging on the bathroom door. “It doesn’t take ten minutes to put on a pair of pants!”

The doctor emerges from the bathroom, dressed to the nines. He has undeniably regained his former splendor, wearing a tweed sport coat, Prince of Wales check pants, a trench coat, and polished ankle boots. He whispers a few words of reassurance to his red-haired girlfriend, then follows me downstairs.

“Where are your colleagues?” he asks when we reach the street.

“I’m on my own. I was hardly going to organize a SWAT team to get you out of bed.”

“But that’s not a police car, is it?”

“It’s unmarked. Now quit stalling and get in.”

He hesitates but finally sits down in the passenger seat.

I start the car and we drive in silence as the sun begins to rise. We cross the sixth arrondissement and Montparnasse before Paul decides to ask: “Okay, seriously, what’s going on? You know I could have filed charges against you last month for stealing a medical prescription! You can thank my colleague that I didn’t; she persuaded me that you had lots of extenuating circumstances. To be perfectly honest, she even used the word nutcase.”

“Oh, really? Well, I’ve been doing my homework on you too, Malaury,” I say, taking some photocopied documents from my pocket.

He unfolds the bundle of papers and begins to read, frowning. “What is this exactly?”

“Proof that you provided false affidavits of accommodation for two illegal immigrants from Mali so they could apply for residence permits.”

He doesn’t try to deny it. “So what? Is humanity a crime? Is compassion against the law?”

“No, but forgery and the use of forged documents is. And it’s punishable by up to three years in prison and a forty-five-thousand-euro fine.”

“I thought the prisons were overcrowded already. And since when does the Criminal Division deal with this kind of thing?”

We are not far from Montrouge. I cut across the Boulevards des Maréchaux, take the beltway, then the A6 to the Aquitaine—the highway that connects Paris to Bordeaux.

When he sees the Wissous exit, Paul begins to get really worried. “Where the hell are you taking me?”

“Bordeaux. I’m sure you like wine—”

“What? You can’t be serious!”

“We’re going to my mother’s place for Christmas Eve. They’ll like you, don’t worry.”

He turns around, looking to see if anyone is following us, then makes a joke to reassure himself. “I’ve got it—there’s a camera in the car. This is some sort of cops’ reality show, right?”

I take a few minutes to explain to him, rather proudly, the deal I have in mind: I will drop the forgery charges against him, and in return he will pretend to be my fiancé over Christmas.

For what seems a long time, he stares at me in silence. At first, he is utterly incredulous. Then he realizes the truth.

“Oh