Lost Luggage Read Online Free PDF

whole effect was that of a still life, a perfectly arranged composition. On the table in the living room, a dozen walnuts awaited sentence in a little raffia basket with the nutcracker executioner keeping them company. Next to them was a box of French matches and a half-burned candle stuck in the neck of a Coca-Cola bottle, ready for the nights when there were power cuts. A stainless-steel shoehorn had been suffering for an eternity as it teetered on the armrest of a black leatherette chair. A wall clock, stopped at three minutes past one, was fed up with getting the time right only twice a day and silently begged to be wound up.
    I’m making an inventory of these superficial details—and I could offer a lot more—to give an idea of the lethargy that gripped the apartment. As I went from room to room, not touching a thing, I thought it expressed my father’s way of being in the world, as Mom and I had known him. Nothing important or revealing surfaced. Another idea came into my head, over the top for sure, but I still want to write it down: “Buried alive.” Feeling quite despondent, I was on the point of leaving, closing the door and forgetting the whole thing. Then, all of a sudden, I remembered the piece of paper the policeman had found on the bedside table, which I interpreted as licence, an invitation even, to snoop. Why had he made a list of four names that were the same but different? Cristòfol, Christophe, Christopher, Christof, and their respective surnames. Why was I the first?
    In his bedroom, I opened the drawers of the bedside table and didn’t find anything interesting. Next to the bed was a wardrobe with three doors and a full-length mirror. The first concealed a series of shelves piled with sheets, towels, and blankets. I felt around in them in case he’d hidden anything there (as people tend to do) but only pulled out two lavender sachets that had lost their fragrance. Behind the second door were my father’s clothes. A collection of shirts, pullovers, jackets, and trousers, most of them very old, were hanging there, devoid of all hope. On the floor, looking ill at ease, were several pairs of shoes. A few bare coat hangers, like fleshlesscollarbones, gave the impression that he’d only taken a couple of changes of clothes. I ran my hand over his clothes as if trying to express solidarity, and, just then, a jacket caught my eye. It was suede, old, with worn elbows. I remembered that Dad often wore it when he visited us. I took it off the hanger to look at it again and smell it, as I used to do when I was a kid but, when I brought it to my nose, something fell to the floor—a bit of paper. I bent over to pick it up and was very surprised to find a poker card, an ace of clubs. I put it in one of the pockets and went to hang the jacket up again. As I was returning it to its place, another card fell out of a different jacket. This time it was the king of hearts. I grabbed five or six items of clothing and gave them a good shake. More cards fell out. I picked them up. They were all aces, kings, queens, and jacks. Some were repeated. Then I had a thought. I took out another jacket and carefully examined the sleeves. The end of the left sleeve had been painstakingly unstitched, and there inside, between cloth and lining, a proud but biddable king of diamonds was exiled.
    I was so fascinated by the discovery that I decided, then and there, that I wanted to find my father come what may. I began to rummage systematically through every cupboard, every shelf, and every drawer. (In my place, you’d have done the same, wouldn’t you, Christophers?) I pried into every corner of the kitchen, dining room, and bathroom. Tucked away in a dark corner of the apartment, I found a sort of junk room, some six meters square and full of shelves. A forty-watt lightbulb hung from the ceiling. I tried the switch, but it didn’t work, of course, as the power supply had been cut off.