Zenith Hotel Read Online Free PDF Page B

is sixteen years old. He’s going to die. He’s weak, he doesn’t want to go out any more. He’s already had operations on his eyes, his mouth and his heart. He drags himself about, he shits on the floor. Victor’s afraid of ending up on his own.
    This morning, Baton wouldn’t allow Victor to wash him. He thrashed about under the shower head, letting out little yelps of pain and scratching the enamel on the bath. Victor could no longer bear to see him suffering; he carried him like a child and put him on his bed.
    Baton eats very little, he no longer wants to drink. Dr Blanchet says there’s nothing more to be done. Baton is sixteen years old, he’s going to die. Science can’t prevent it. Victor has a taste of rage in his mouth, an acid taste that won’t go away. He is as powerless as science and Dr Blanchet.
    He must make Baton’s life as comfortable as possible before he dies, take him out for a little walk from time to time. Baton needs to smell the world before leaving it. He can’t see colours, so smell is important to him. Baton was abandoned at birth.Victor took him in and washed him, caring for him like his own son. He raised him in his little apartment in the 11th
arrondissement
. He made him a space in the sitting room, in his life, in his heart. When he went off to work, Baton waited for him. Now Victor no longer works, he can spend more time with him, the only soul who has never deserted him. They love each other like family. In his wallet, Victor carries a photo of Baton, as he would of his son if he had one. But all the women who might have given him one had left him. That’s life. He has no one but Baton, and he was about to die. Victor’s woes are not over! There’s still a great deal of suffering in store for him, on top of all the never-ending shit that’s happened to him. And it wasn’t about to stop: as long as he lives, he’ll continue to be stabbed all over – in the heart, the stomach, the leg – everywhere. He’ll end up lying in a pool of blood on a tiled bathroom floor, unable to get up again.
    Baton must have suffered too, but Victor had rescued him. Wordlessly, they’d rescued each other. And now, Baton is dying. What will become of poor Victor? He’s going to end up alone, after all these years. He might not be able to cope. But let’s not think about that for the moment. Baton is here – he needs looking after. He shakes hishead, sometimes he scratches himself, slowly, as if making the effort of one final gesture. Watching him, Victor feels as if fingernails are pinching his heart, the blood dripping drop by drop from his organs, like tears in his flesh. It is overflowing, poisoning him. It fills his head until it explodes. Grief-induced hydrocephalus.
    He can picture Baton as if it were yesterday, running until he’s left panting, his tongue hanging out, froth bubbling with life around his mouth. Baton has always had that energy, as if he were somehow flying above life. No, he’s no ordinary dog, but he’s sixteen, and multiplied by seven, that means he’s old and is going to die.
    Every story comes to an end. And this will be the end of their story.

    Paris too seemed to be dying that day. The cyclists, the cars, even the tarmac were breathing their last. A white veil, like a shroud, enveloped everything. You immersed yourself in your occupations. Your soles stuck to the ground, as if trying to adhere to it, to stop you from losing your footing. Baton ambled slowly – he didn’t even sniff at the rivulets of piss running down the pavements. What’s thepoint of marking your territory when you’re going to die? He avoided the gaze of other dogs, moving a little closer to Victor’s legs each time. Victor kept walking, hunched, resigned, for love of the dog. Perhaps they’d share their final moments? Mustn’t think of it. Keep walking, eye the girls like before, impress them with his tweed jacket, show off, Baton on the leash. He and Baton would explore the