chapter forty-six

THAT evening I realize that I don’t know where I stand. I need to be alone and think. Gloria is exhausted. I feel relieved to take her to her room.

Before I leave the hospital, I go back to Dr. Leonidze’s office. I ask him who the man was who recognized Gloria from the TV documentary. He explains that the man refused to give his name.

“It happens frequently here.” He smiles. “The war happened not that long ago. We all have our wounds.”

I nod and say that I will be back tomorrow.

I walk in the city for hours without bothering about the recommendations the embassy gave me concerning safety at night. I am not afraid. I feel out of touch.

Back in my hotel room, I sit by the window, in front of the table, with a notebook and a pen. I make a list, in French, like Mrs. Georges taught me to do when faced with a difficult situation:

1. My real name is Koumaïl Dabaiev.

2. I was born on December 28, 1985, in an orchard in Abkhazia that is situated in the Caucasus, per page 68 of my green atlas.

3. My mother is Gloria Vassilievna Dabaieva.

4. My father is Zemzem Dabaiev.

5. I am Russian on my mother’s side, Chechnyan on my father’s. I became a French citizen through a lie.

6. Jeanne Fortune does not exist.

7. Blaise is the name of a poet. Fortune is a cigarette brand.

8. A woman and a baby died in the express train, killed by a bomb. The bomb was made by my mother and placed under the train by my father.

9. I am the son of two criminals.

10. Vassili is my grandfather; Liuba, my grandmother. I have five uncles. Are they still alive?

11. Zemzem is still alive. He has to be the one who recognized Gloria on TV. Is he still in Tbilisi?

12. Gloria lied to me.

13. Gloria abandoned me in the truck filled with livestock.

14. Why?

   I put down my pen and look at the list. I am wiped out. Drained.

I totter to my bed and collapse.

The next morning I wake up, wondering if I dreamed it all. I feel like someone who’s coming out of a long coma. The world around me doesn’t look like it did yesterday, and yet it is the same sky, the same sun.

After a warm shower I telephone Prudence. It’s eight o’clock in Paris, and I imagine her in our small studio, still in a nightgown, in front of her cup of coffee. In half an hour she will lock the door to go to work at the flower shop where she earns the better part of our rent. She will come back home tired but will spend the evening studying because in September she’s taking an exam to become a teacher.

She’s happy to hear my voice. She was waiting for my call.

“So?” she says.

“I found Gloria.”

“How do you feel, Blaise?”

“OK.”

“And how is she?”

“Very sick. She could die soon. I don’t think she could make the trip to France. I need to stay here with her.”

“Of course.”

“I really wanted her to meet you, and for you to get to know her.”

“I wanted that too,” Prudence answers. “Show her the photos.”

“I will.”

There is a short silence. I hear a strange echo on the line.

“I’ll tell you everything when I get back,” I say. “The whole truth about Blaise Fortune.”

“OK.” Before hanging up, she adds, “I love you, Blaise.”