The troublemaker

Zootherapy

In his anguish tinged with hope, Charles had not asked any of the common-sense questions that this strange phone call demanded: who was this Dr. Maboul giving consultations in a public garden? Why had he reacted so quickly to his GP's request? Shouldn't he call her back to ask for the name and references of this neuropsychiatrist she was sending him? How did he know it would take him an hour to get home from his office in Neuilly? Instead of asking himself the right questions, he rushed out into the street without informing anyone. The girls followed suit. They mimed trotting horsewomen holding imaginary reins. They raised their knees and jerked with each stride.

He decided to get off at Gare de Lyon station and walk to the park. He needed to calm his spirits, and he always hoped that with his big legs, he'd outrun the little ones. Alas for him, they showed neither fatigue nor speed limits. He was astonished that they followed him so smoothly, yet took twice as many steps as he did, without appearing to run. When they reached Rue de Bercy, one of the girls asked him why everything was so ugly. Without slowing his forced walk, he made a great circular movement of his head to look at his surroundings. He thought she was right, and that this four-lane street surrounded by soulless buildings and almost no shops was indeed hideous.

He mused: I could show you a much more beautiful Paris. "Oh yes, gladly," nodded one of the little voices politely. She hears when I think, which proves she only exists in my head," he reassured himself. Leaving behind the shadow cast by the colossal citadel of the Ministry of Finance, whose walls and moat deliberately mimicked a medieval fortress, they headed for the other fortress opposite. The Palais Omnisport de Paris-Bercy or POPB, now named after its sponsor, stood on its grassy mound. They skirted the blue metallic architectural aggregate that housed this giant concert hall and climbed the staircase to the park.

The gray slab that greeted them was hemmed in like a canyon between the POPB and a cheap hotel for salesmen. He was startled by the sound of falling on the steep grassy slopes to his right. Young people in PSG jerseys were climbing and sliding down these improvised slides, shouting at each other in French and Arabic. He reached the park, whose lawn was yellowed by the heat and gaunt from the soccer games. Surrounded by high embankments, the grassy landings of the Palais Omnisport and the buildings, the space was encased on all sides. This fifteen-hectare basin was too vast for a meeting place, especially between two strangers. On the cobbled paths, he reassured himself that the park was almost deserted on this hot mid-afternoon, apart from a few nannies with baby carriages and homeless people lying among their empty beer cans. It would be easy for him to recognize a doctor returning from a consultation. He looked at his watch. He was right on time. But there was no figure in sight to match the sketch he'd made. The park's tall trees and equipment didn't allow the view to set everything ablaze without moving. The wooden and concrete kiosks were completely tagged, the picnic tables and benches sealed, the Chinese hat lampposts combined to hide a good third of the landscape. So he wandered around to get a better view of the whole.

This little walk put him in a good mood, despite the two little girls on his heels who were rolling around in the grass, disdaining the risk of dog droppings. The joyful chirping of birds and the bell of artificial waterfalls soothed the senses. With no one coming, he wanted a bird's-eye view of the park. He climbed the wide staircase over the levee-dam that protected against the flooding of the Seine. He turned his back on the footbridge that led across the river to the great library and then, in the distance, to his apartment. He scanned the walkers below. From his vantage point, the air seemed less stifling. His confidence bolstered, he agreed to watch the children's antics. They were miming grotesque poses, and he turned to look at what they were modeling themselves on. Wrought-iron statues, human-sized, with disquieting figures, grimaced like spectres. Contemporary art at its best! he gritted his teeth. He realized that these figures represented the countries of the world, when he spotted one wearing a sombrero, the other a geisha dress beneath his skull. He couldn't help smiling as he noted the children's gift for mimicry.