If Only It Were True - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Marc Levy lived in San Francisco for six years before returning to France to run an architectural firm. He divides his time between America and Europe. If Only It Were True is his first novel and was an instant #1 bestseller in his homeland, and the inspiration for the film Just Like Heaven starring Reese Witherspoon and Mark Ruffalo. 

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Chapter Three

Arthur opened the door to the street-level garage with his remote control and parked his Saab. He climbed the outside staircase that led from the garage to his new third-floor apartment, swung the door shut with his foot, put his briefcase down, took off his coat, and collapsed onto the couch. Several cardboard boxes were still stacked in the living room, waiting to be unpacked. He had moved in only ten days ago, and he hadn't brought much with him -- only his draftsman's table, his work files, his CDs, and his art and architecture books. Only after his relationship with Carol Ann had finally, definitively fallen apart had he accepted that it was time for him to move on, to try to start living his own life again, rather than the somewhat tentative, temporary one he'd grafted onto hers.

He'd been lucky to find this apartment. An architect specializing in the restoration of homes, he was amazed by how comfortable he'd immediately felt when he'd entered this apartment. Whoever had designed this environment had a keen sense of life and had created a home of taste and charm -- and coming from Arthur, that was a supreme compliment. He hadn't had to change anything -- just fit his draftsman's table between the fireplace and the writing desk, buy some towels and linens and rudimentary kitchen supplies, and he'd had an instant home.

He changed his suit for a pair of jeans and began to unpack his books and CDs, arranging them alphabetically on the shelf by the fireplace. When he had finished, he stood back and contemplated his perfectly ordered collections. "I think I might be getting a bit obsessive," he said to himself.

He went to the bathroom, hesitated between a shower and a bath, finally opting for the bath. He started the water running, switched on the little radio sitting on the radiator next to the walk-in linen closet, undressed, and sank into the tub with a sigh.

As Peggy Lee sang "Fever" on 101.3 FM, Arthur dunked his head several times under the water. There was something odd about the acoustic quality of the song. He was surprised by the stereo effect, particularly since his radio had only one, crummy internal speaker. He sat up straight in the bath and listened carefully. It sounded as though the finger-snapping accompanying the tune came straight from the linen closet. Intrigued, he emerged from the water and crept over to investigate. The sound was becoming more and more distinct. He paused, took a deep breath, and abruptly threw open the doors. His eyes widened, and he stumbled back.

Huddled on the floor beneath the hangers sat a young woman, eyes closed, seemingly transported by the rhythm of the song, humming along and snapping her fingers.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, shocked, and amazed, all at once. "Who are you?"

The woman jumped and looked at him with wide, startled eyes. "You can see me?"

"Of course I can see you."

She seemed astonished that he should be looking at her. "You can hear me?"

He pointed out that he wasn't blind or deaf and asked again, "What are you doing here?"

"This is wonderful, amazing!"

Arthur saw nothing "wonderful" about the situation, although there was plenty that was "amazing." Increasingly irritated, he asked, "What, I repeat, are you doing in my bathroom closet?"

"I don't think you realize. Touch my arm."

He stood there nonplussed as she held out her arm.

"Please..."

"No, I won't touch your arm. What's going on here?"

She took Arthur's wrist and asked him if he felt it when she touched him. Greatly exasperated, he confirmed that he did indeed feel her touch, that he saw her, and that he heard her perfectly well. For the fourth time, he asked her who she was and what she was doing in his bathroom closet.

She ignored his question. "I just can't believe it. You can actually see me, hear me, and feel me. This is fabulous."

Arthur was in no mood for this game. "Okay, that's enough! What is this, a practical joke? A call girl from my partner as a housewarming gift?"

"Are you always this rude? Do I look like some sort of hooker?"

Arthur sighed. "No, you don't. You're just hiding in my closet in the middle of the night."

"And yet you're the one who's naked, not me."

Arthur, startled, grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist as he tried to compose himself.

"All right now, the joke is over, you can come out of there, go home, and tell Paul it was lame. Very, very lame."

She did not know Paul, she told him. "And could you please stop yelling. Other people may not be able to hear me, but I can hear perfectly well."

Arthur was much too tired for this nonsense, and he wasn't going to play twenty questions trying to figure out what was really going on.

"Listen," he told the young woman before him, "it seems you're quite disturbed, but it's not my problem. I've just finished unpacking, and I'm very tired and I really need some peace and quiet. Please, please stop whatever game you're playing and go home. And come out of that closet, for God's sake!"

The young woman looked at him sadly. "I'm afraid it's not that easy. I haven't quite gotten the knack yet, though it's gotten better the last few days."

"What's 'gotten better' the last few days?"

"Shut your eyes, I'm going to try."

"To try what?"

"To get out of this closet. That's what you want, isn't it? So shut your eyes, I have to concentrate. And don't say anything for a couple of minutes."

"This is completely insane!"

"Oh, please. Just shut up and close your eyes. Then we won't have to spend the night here."

Not knowing what else to do, Arthur obeyed. Two seconds later he heard a voice coming from the living room.

"Not bad. I just missed the couch, but still, not bad at all."

He hurried from the bathroom and saw the young woman sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. She acted as though nothing were out of the ordinary.

"I'm glad you've kept the rugs, but I can't stand that painting on the wall," she said, indicating his college attempt at abstract expressionism.

"I'll hang whatever painting I want, wherever I want. I don't know how you do this place-shifting business. And really, I don't care. I simply want to go to bed. So if you won't tell me who you are, fine. I don't need to know. I beg you, just go home!"

"I am home! Or at least, I was. It's all so confusing."

Arthur shook his head. "Listen, I moved in here ten days ago. This is my home, not yours."

"Yes, I know, you're my postmortem tenant. If you think about it, it's really rather funny."

"Funny? What do you mean, 'postmortem tenant'? The owner of this apartment is a woman in her seventies, and very much alive -- or at least that's what the Realtor told me."

"She'd love to hear that," she said sarcastically. "She's only sixty-two, although she has aged a lot recently. She's my mother, and for the time being she's my legal guardian. I'm the actual owner."

"You have a legal guardian?"

"Yes. In my present condition, I'm having a tough time signing papers."

"Are you under hospital care?"

"That's putting it mildly."

"Well, they must be very worried about you. Which hospital is it? I'll drive you there."

"Hey, you don't think I'm some nutcase that just escaped from an asylum?"

"No, not..."

"Because first you call me a whore and now a nutcase. That's a bit much for a first meeting."

"Listen, I really don't care who you are: whore, nutcase, you could even be some fugitive from Bewitched. I'm exhausted and I just want to go to bed and get some sleep."

She ignored him and kept on with her questions. "How do I seem to you?"

"Seem? Disturbed, you seem very disturbed," he said flatly.

"I mean physically. How do I look?"

Arthur hesitated before describing her. He told himself, maybe if he went along with her charade for just a...