Unlimited Plan (*)

Dentist appointment

6

Paris, France (6 months earlier)

The sensation of a presence woke Dr. Marchand. Battling the onset of a migraine, he resolved to sit up. Despite the ambient dimness, he immediately recognized the waiting room of his practice on Avenue Marceau. Resting on the edge of the couch, the unusual silence that reigned struck him.

Paris is a noisy city, especially in this part of the eighth arrondissement, just a stone's throw from the Champs Élysées. The immense roundabout of the Arc de Triomphe, where the avenue began, brought a constant hum of mechanical sounds to the windows of the luxurious office. Three lanes unwound at the foot of the bourgeois building, each separated by a straight line of plane trees. Despite these green attractions and the elitism of the surrounding properties, this posh artery paid in decibels for its proximity to "the most beautiful avenue in the world."

Even on the top floor and with double-glazed windows, the orthodontist was accustomed to this continuous hum that only a slight background music could subtract from his patients' ears. For now, no music was playing, and yet the external buzzing remained discreet. This could only mean one thing: night had fallen, and the capital's traffic was minimal.

Disoriented, the dentist stood up, stiff and undecided. He did not live in this building. He had always made it a point to separate his home from his workplace and therefore had no reason to spend the night here. Hand on his forehead, he tried to regain his senses and dispel the headache that was drilling into his temples.

He looked at his watch, which read, "1:17." Surprised, he frowned. But what was he doing here? Memory began to come back to him, and it only made him more confused.

Indeed, he remembered finishing his day with a particularly challenging patient, whose implant he had to adjust for the eleventh time. The practitioner accepted this kind of behavior. His global renown earned him a select clientele, often demanding, always in search of discretion. He had redone the smiles of many French and foreign celebrities, but also of less publicly known personalities, albeit just as wealthy, like his last patient, Madame Rossi De-La-Motte-Bréviaire.

After the multimillionaire heiress had slipped out through the inner courtyard where her limousine awaited her, the dentist remembered parting his office, leaving the closure of the practice to his plethora of employees. No doubt about his actions, his memory related them to him with clarity. He had then walked home to the rue de Longchamp in the 16th arrondissement, a few blocks away. He had dined alone in his apartment with a terrace overlooking Dauphine University, close to the Bois de Boulogne. Taking advantage of the school holidays and his wife and daughters' getaway to Tunis, he had reappropriated the place.

After finishing his meal, he had watched a pornographic movie from his private collection, then reached his bedroom where he had ... done what exactly?

Mr. Marchand got up to fetch a bottle of mineral water from the mini bar at the reception. He completely forgot what had occurred after entering his bedroom a few hours earlier.

Disturbed, the dentist tried to collect his thoughts and understand what was happening to him when suddenly a ringtone sounded. Surprised, he almost dropped his small drink and caught it just in time. A few drops fell on the counter. He eventually recognized the melody of his mobile phone now chiming insistently.

He placed his bottle next to the empty glass he wanted to fill, decided to finally turn on the light, and searched for his device. He found it in the inner pocket of his jacket hanging on the entrance coat rack. On the screen, a text message read: "U av a nU ptient." Unaccustomed to this writing, the dentist squinted without understanding. He had to enunciate out loud to decipher its meaning: "You ... have ... a ... new ... patient," he articulated, stumbling over the words.