The Woman in Valencia by Annie Perreault (book recommendations website txt) 📗

slowly pushing the door open; for a second, she remains mired between the two, on the razor’s edge.

Then, powerless to resist, Claire eases the door open on its hinges. She takes one step forward, and the floor suddenly gives way. She loses her footing and she’s about to go over a cliff, into a bottomless pit, the start of a sickening fall through the Valencian sky, through the oppressive night air. She topples into the void, her body in free fall. She sees her reflection streaking by in the windows of the Valencia Palace Hotel; she’s blonde and terrified, she doesn’t recognize herself. With mere inches to go before she hits the ground, she screams and sits bolt upright in bed, her back drenched with sweat in the frigid hotel room. Jean moans quietly, rolls over and wraps himself in the sheet, while Claire stares wide-eyed at the white soundproof ceiling, tries to steady her breathing and go back to sleep.

*

Someone other than her, Claire Halde tortures herself, might have been more helpful, might have reacted better or been more comforting in the time it would have taken to call for help or come to the strange woman’s assistance. Surely, someone else would have said or done the right thing at the right time, offered her a warm smile, an “it’ll be okay” or a “don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,” a glimmer of hope, a measure of kindness in the form of a smile or a hand on the small of her back, with the compassion needed or the wherewithal required to shield the woman from her own desperation, from her determination to depart this world.

Claire Halde will keep this story from her friends and family, and Jean will eventually tell her that he’s sick of hearing about it. She will carry the secret around like a vicious scar, and the encounter in Valencia will become engraved on her mind. A crack in the heretofore smooth finish, a defect, a burden, a sense of self-loathing, the biggest failure of her life. In the wake of the woman’s death, she will hand herself down a sentence of silence and self-effacement and something resembling guilt. And yet, she didn’t kill the woman. No one will come to arrest her or even question her. She didn’t run over a child with her car. She didn’t lose control of her vehicle, spin out on the highway, commit a hit-and-run or mow down strangers in a moment of distraction. She didn’t start a forest fire, burn down a parliament building, torture an animal, smuggle ivory in her suitcase or plan a terrorist attack.

Up to that point, Claire Halde had lived a life virtually above reproach. She carried her elderly neighbour’s shopping bags into the house and shovelled her driveway during the winter, she often held out her arm to a young blind man on his way to the metro, she always stopped at crosswalks, always used her flashers, rarely gave in to road rage. She even let the squeegee kids make a streaky mess of her windshield in exchange for a few coins, which she handed over with a smile. She often asked the homeless man bundled up in front of the grocery store if she could buy him a meal, beaming with pride at the sight of her generous, kind-hearted children holding out a barbecued chicken, a carton of milk or chocolate cookies to the man with the sunken, hollow cheeks—Mama, can we give him a little treat today? She also gave money to the rubby who held the door open for her at the Fabre metro station and to the gypsy woman in front of the Asian market with the passel of snot-nosed kids clinging to her embroidered skirts, although less often, mostly because she couldn’t stand it when people used their kids to attract sympathy. For the same reason, she never gave a cent to some charities, but gave generously to others, like Doctors Without Borders and Amnesty International. She even gave up her seat in the metro for old people and pregnant ladies. But, for that desperate woman in Valencia, she’d had nothing but cold indifference.

DAY 3 ITINERARY

At breakfast, the children are impressed by the buffet in the hotel restaurant. They pile their plates high with pastries, ham, eggs and jam. Jean eats with gusto, sipping his coffee while paging through a guidebook. He plans the day ahead. The children go back for seconds. Claire forces herself to swallow a few bites, chews slowly, with no real interest in her food. She drinks two big cups of coffee while watching the people eating at the surrounding tables. The hotel staff are cheerful. The guests are relaxed. You’d never know a woman killed herself at this very hotel the night before. The newspapers don’t even mention her death.

Checkout is at noon. After breakfast, the kids ask to go for a swim; they want to enjoy the pool for as long as possible. Jean agrees to take them and suggests that Claire go for a run to clear her head.

When she hits the streets of Valencia that morning, Claire Halde feels detached from reality, like she’s running outside her own body. The streets, the buildings, the pedestrians she deftly avoids—seniors, the odd couple with arms wrapped around each other’s waists, babies in strollers, roly-poly little girls like her daughter playing hopscotch—it all flashes by in a haze. Nothing but vague shapes stand out from among the Valencian cityscape; she runs with just enough focus to avoid obstacles and cracks, to stop obediently for red lights, to watch out for reckless drivers. It’s the same easy motion as when she runs at home, in her own city, on the streets and paths so familiar to her. Her body moves forward on autopilot in Valencia, speeding up and switching gears smoothly, but her thoughts are detached and her concentration almost nonexistent. And yet, she runs to feel alive; she