thirty-five

The raindrops crashing against my windshield grew larger and larger. The wipers creaked and shuddered, yet I was totally calm, despite the rain, the mist, the gridlocked traffic, and the red pool of light that the taillights spread through the night. For the first time in my life, I felt completely at peace, “aligned” as Claude would have said. Gone were the days when life tossed me about like a leaf caught in a violent storm. I was continually amazed at my own inner resources. I felt I was connected to a force whose existence I had not even suspected until now. I felt ready to confront whatever life threw at me. At last I had learned to take hold of the reins of my life, and I was never going to let them go.

Around me, stuck at the traffic lights in their metal boxes, all I could see were gloomy, angry, weary faces. I felt like winding down my windows and shouting Claude’s instructions on how to be happy at the top of my voice. Instead, I made do with smiling blissfully while I waited for the lights to change.

Green! I accelerated away, keen to get the traffic moving. Just then a vehicle jumped the red light and smashed into me . . .

Blackout.

Soon afterward, the sound of sirens.

Oh, what a handsome fireman, I told myself as I was being lifted from my car.

He took me over to the fire engine and sat me down to recover from the shock. A few moments later, a woman flung open the door: the woman who’d crashed into me. She began to babble apologies at me, crying, groveling, saying how stupid she had been, how useless she was, how hopeless . . .

I listened without interrupting. There was no point in me saying anything even if I had wanted to: when it all has to come out, it all has to come out. Neither of us was hurt, apart from a few bruises and scratches. More of a fright than any injury. In spite of this, she could not forgive herself for having caused the accident.

Once we had given statements to the police and dealt with the rest of the formalities, we moved our cars to the side of the road to free the route. Our insurance companies would take them away soon enough.

To recover from the cold and shock, I suggested to my still-apologizing road-rammer that we go for a hot chocolate while waiting for the tow trucks. She seemed both grateful and incredulous that I should be so kind to her.

Now she could not thank me enough. I didn’t mind the verbal avalanche: the poor woman really seemed at the end of her tether.

We ordered our hot chocolates—Viennese for me because I needed the comfort of that little dollop of Chantilly. I could see the woman’s lower lip start to tremble, and I sensed she was on the brink of confiding in me things she had bottled up for far too long.

I laid my hand on her forearm to encourage her.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not that serious. Besides, my insurers are getting to know me. I used them only a few months ago. Seeing how much we pay them, it’s just as well they have something to do.”

Tears began to well in the corners of her large, distressed eyes.

“Than . . . thank you! You . . . you’re so kind! In your place I think I would have gone berserk.”

“That wouldn’t have done much good.”

“I’m so . . . so . . . sorry! I don’t know what’s happening to me lately. Nothing is going right. My nerves are in tatters, I feel like chucking it all in . . . and now this. Today has been just . . . appalling. It’s too much.”

She broke down in a torrent of sobs. This started me thinking . . .

My heart began to race. Had the moment come? She’s the one, I thought, feeling quite emotional myself.

Would I be up to it? Unconsciously, I sat up straighter in the bistro armchair and took a deep breath before I plunged my hand into my coat pocket and began to stroke the little piece of card I found there.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Isabelle.”

I held out my card.

“Here, Isabelle. Take this. The thing is, I might be able to help you . . .”

She snatched my business card with the incredulous expression of someone who found it hard to believe anyone could do anything for her.

“I’m a routinologist.”

“A routine-what?”