The Descent

Paris seemed to be working on Lena in ways that she could not understand. Perhaps it was the moment in front of the mirror in her room. Perhaps it had begun earlier as she walked the streets. But her senses seemed permanently heightened so that she was acutely conscious of the colours and shapes of things, as if she was seeing them for the first time. She stood for a long moment outside a shop selling antique remnants and stared at the copper glow of a kettle as if the burnished warmth that emanated from its surface was the product of some rare metal entirely new to the world. She became aware that the boundary between her outer and inner selves had dissolved. It was as if she no longer stopped at her skin so that the fabric of the city itself became part of her.

More surprising still was that this heightened sensitivity had a physical aspect. She found herself permanently on the edge of arousal. She could not decide if the clarity of her feelings was the consequence of this arousal or if the arousal itself brought about her heightened perception. Either way she found that each exploratory sortie into the unfamiliar streets had a more than geographical aspect - it seemed at the same time a journey into the unknown territory of herself.

On the first day she lacked the courage to dine alone in public. Instead she bought cheese and a small fragrant loaf from the tiny boulangerie on the corner of the Rue Chevert and carried them up to her room. She had reached the landing and was already fitting the key to her lock when she was stopped by a sound from behind the door opposite.

It was like the cry of a wounded animal. She stood quietly on the landing and listened. At first she heard nothing. Slowly she became aware of a low keening which rose in intensity and then died away. In the silence that followed she turned back to her own room only to find herself recalled by a second cry even louder than the first.

Lena took a step closer to the door and put her ear to the wood panelling. She could hear a woman's voice. She seemed frightened.

"Please," she was saying, "Please --." The same thing. Over and over.

And then again the cry of pain. Lena felt a chill run through her. This time the cry did not stop. It went on, rising in intensity until she felt sure she could only be listening to the sound of a violent assault or perhaps even an attempt on the poor woman's life. Powerless to intervene - who knows what madman was at work behind the door - she rushed down in search of help.

The Proprietor was behind the tiny reception desk hunched over a column of figures.

"Quickly - you must call the police."

"Mademoiselle?"

"Something dreadful is happening upstairs," Lena said.

The man seemed not to have understood because instead of hurrying out to find a gendarme he was looking quizzically at his guest.

"Upstairs," Lena said again. "The room opposite mine. Someone is being hurt."

"I don't think so, mademoiselle."

"It's true -- we must get help."

But the Proprietor merely shook his head and returned to his column of figures.

Lena was at a loss. She could no more bring herself to ignore the woman's plight upstairs than she could un-hear her dreadful cries.

"Then I will go myself," she said and turned away. His voice stopped her before she reached the street.

"Before we call anyone, mademoiselle," he said shutting his book. "I think I'd like to hear for myself. We wouldn't want to go calling the police for a simple misunderstanding now would we?"

And taking the time to recap his pen, close the ledger and lock it away in the cupboard below the desk he at last accompanied Lena back upstairs.

The sounds from within the room had lessened but the keening was still there and as they stood listening another sharp exclamation of pain reached them.

"There," said Lena. "Now do you see?"

The man was still unconvinced, but when Lena began to protest he at last seemed inclined to take things more seriously. His manner became brisk and business-like.

"Very well -- you can leave this to me." He led her to her own door. "You go back inside and I'll make sure everything is taken care of. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

Lena was ushered inside.

"I'm very grateful, mademoiselle, believe me."

And then she was alone once more facing a closing door.

Lena sat on the bed. Her breathing was shallow and fast. She found she was trembling. Would they be in time? When help finally arrived would the woman, whoever she was, still be alive. The thought that they might be too late was more than she could bear.

She could not tell how long she sat, waiting for the sound of heavy feet on the stairs, the hammering on the door and the demands to open to the gendarmerie. But all she heard was silence.

At length unable to sit still any longer she carefully opened the door. This time there was nothing. Just the stillness of the corridor and the far off sound of a cistern filling with water. It was as if the animal cries had never existed. Normality had returned with such force that Lena was left wondering if she had imagined the whole thing.

And then all doubt left her.

"No more -- please!"

The woman's voice cut through the silence. Lena knew she must not wait a moment longer. She turned and ran.

The Proprietor was no longer behind the front desk. Had he gone for the police? Surely he would have been back by now? Perhaps she should run into the street and stop a passer by? Should she try to contact the police herself? She must surely do something.

In the end she did none of these things. Because she was interrupted by the sound of a closing door from the landing above and turned to find a man descending the stairs. He was middle aged, respectable. His coat was obviously expensive. He carried a pair of pigskin gloves and -- like a stage prop from an Edwardian melodrama - a silver topped cane. He nodded to her as he passed and moved on into the street.

Lena was rooted to the spot. It was a moment before she was able to move and slowly retrace her steps. Upstairs she listened outside the door. From within she heard nothing. The keening had stopped. The woman's voice was silent. Not knowing what else to do she returned to her own room and sat on the bed.

The incident had unsettled her badly. She felt foolish and alone. How quickly her adventure in the romantic capital of the world had turned sour. She was trapped here in a strange hotel, while across the hall, for all she knew a woman was lying dead. She began to regret the note she had sent to her husband. Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She began to throw her few belongings into the suitcase. She would go to the station and change her ticket. She could explain that her friend had been called away to tend her sick mother, which was no more than the truth. She wanted only to be gone from here and back in the arms of her husband.

And then she heard the door open across the landing. Lena's mind was racing. If the man she had seen really had been in the room then this could only be the woman who's voice she had heard. A wave of relief spread through her. She tiptoed across the room and strained her ears. She heard the click of the closing door. And then the sound of something falling heavily to the floor.

Out in the corridor she found a girl about her own age struggling to her feet. Lena hurried to help her.

"Are you all right?"

The girl seemed a little dazed.

"Yes -- forgive me," she said. Her voice was barely audible.

At once taking charge, Lena led her back inside and sat her on the bed.

"I'm sorry," said the girl. "I should have waited a little longer."

"What happened? -- I'm sorry but I heard you shouting -- I told the owner. He's gone for the police. I thought they would be here by now. But you're quite safe. They can't be far away."

The girl shook her head and smiled sadly.

"The police won't be coming," she said. "Not here."

She looked at Lena.

"You don't know where you are, do you?" she said. "You don't know what this place is."

And when Lena stared back unsure how to answer, her visitor extended her hand.

"Yvette," she said. And smiled, this time with real warmth. "Please -- I'm grateful for your help. Do let us be friends."

During the course of the next hour Lena listened with increasing incredulity as Yvette told her story. And somehow in the welter of emotions produced by her narrative all thoughts of returning to the station and her husband evaporated.