kitchen, as clean as her lab. There was a miraculous lozenge of sunlight on the black-and-white checked linoleum intowhich she placed her bare feet Mikel had been out for twenty-six hours. She washed up her mug then emptied the bread bin. She disposed of the rubbish, dropping it into the chute outside her back door. The smell of boiled fish came wafting up the back stairs, as did the guttural drone of the downstairs neighbour’s Buddhist chant tape.
She put on the red linen suit she had bought with Lola but the sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror made her change. The skirt was, as she had always suspected, too short. There was her beige dress but she preferred not to go home in something that Chastel had bought her. In the end she wore her black dress with daisies on it; one of those that Lola referred to as her widow’s weeds. She put on a large silver bangle as a concession to Lola’s love of ornament and pinned up her hair.
She put Chastel’s tie in a padded envelope and added the following note.
Dear Jacques,
I do not like to ask favours as you know. This one will be the first and I hope the last. I have not taken a holiday in all the years I have worked for you, not that I ever wanted one. I am leaving today. Vincent will hold the fort while I am gone. I will let you know when I am coming back and will work on the conference down there.
Fondly, Astrid
She reread the note. Her written French was still a disaster, full of spelling mistakes. She packed a small bag of clothes and filled a large leather briefcase with printed matter. Then she left the flat, double-locking the door, and took the lift to the basement. She threw her luggage into the boot of her car and climbed in through the passenger side as she had parked too close to the wall. When she turned the key in the ignition she jumped at the blast of classical music from the radio. She turned off the radio and drove out, aware that she was hugging the wheel like an old lady.
The périphérique was flowing smoothly. Her windscreen was soon covered with a fine coating of squashed insects which reduced visibility, forcing her to lean forward and peer through the gaps in a greasy film of chlorophyll and haemolymph. She stayed in the fast lane and for the first time took note of the season: the squashed insects, the coating of dust on the cars, theblack shredded plastic washed up against the dividing wall like seaweed wereall the signs of urban summer. Before passing beneath La Muette she glanced up at the egalitarian horse chestnuts, flowering here in the pellucid sunshine of the sixteenth arrondissement with as much vulgarity as those that bloomed in her own dingy square in the eighteenth.
TEN
Soon the compartment filled up and Kader was no longer alone. When a middle-aged woman sat down on the folding seat beside him, he shifted, leaning into the door of the train, careful to keep his shoulder out of contact. He drove his hands deeper into the pockets of his tracksuit top to still their shaking.
Fabien had crumpled on impact. The look of surprise on his face after Kader had brought the top of his forehead down onto the bridge of his nose had suggested that he was not accustomed to a fight. Kader had stood over him watching him rise, first onto his knees and then slowly upright, vertebra by vertebra, arms dangling, like some woman in a gymnastics class, until he was face to face with Kader for the second round; only this time Fabien’s small eyes denoted not surprise but blurred vision. The second blow, to the solar plexus, had knocked the air out of him and the grunt that came from him had made Kader pause for a moment and consider. He believed it was this intrusion of thought that had been his downfall. The knife blade had appeared then, at the edge of his vision, and he had seen it glint like a silverfish before it struck him on the shoulder and it was his turn to be surprised at the sight of his own blood blooming on the sleeve of his T-shirt. He
She put on the red linen suit she had bought with Lola but the sight of herself in the wardrobe mirror made her change. The skirt was, as she had always suspected, too short. There was her beige dress but she preferred not to go home in something that Chastel had bought her. In the end she wore her black dress with daisies on it; one of those that Lola referred to as her widow’s weeds. She put on a large silver bangle as a concession to Lola’s love of ornament and pinned up her hair.
She put Chastel’s tie in a padded envelope and added the following note.
Dear Jacques,
I do not like to ask favours as you know. This one will be the first and I hope the last. I have not taken a holiday in all the years I have worked for you, not that I ever wanted one. I am leaving today. Vincent will hold the fort while I am gone. I will let you know when I am coming back and will work on the conference down there.
Fondly, Astrid
She reread the note. Her written French was still a disaster, full of spelling mistakes. She packed a small bag of clothes and filled a large leather briefcase with printed matter. Then she left the flat, double-locking the door, and took the lift to the basement. She threw her luggage into the boot of her car and climbed in through the passenger side as she had parked too close to the wall. When she turned the key in the ignition she jumped at the blast of classical music from the radio. She turned off the radio and drove out, aware that she was hugging the wheel like an old lady.
The périphérique was flowing smoothly. Her windscreen was soon covered with a fine coating of squashed insects which reduced visibility, forcing her to lean forward and peer through the gaps in a greasy film of chlorophyll and haemolymph. She stayed in the fast lane and for the first time took note of the season: the squashed insects, the coating of dust on the cars, theblack shredded plastic washed up against the dividing wall like seaweed wereall the signs of urban summer. Before passing beneath La Muette she glanced up at the egalitarian horse chestnuts, flowering here in the pellucid sunshine of the sixteenth arrondissement with as much vulgarity as those that bloomed in her own dingy square in the eighteenth.
TEN
Soon the compartment filled up and Kader was no longer alone. When a middle-aged woman sat down on the folding seat beside him, he shifted, leaning into the door of the train, careful to keep his shoulder out of contact. He drove his hands deeper into the pockets of his tracksuit top to still their shaking.
Fabien had crumpled on impact. The look of surprise on his face after Kader had brought the top of his forehead down onto the bridge of his nose had suggested that he was not accustomed to a fight. Kader had stood over him watching him rise, first onto his knees and then slowly upright, vertebra by vertebra, arms dangling, like some woman in a gymnastics class, until he was face to face with Kader for the second round; only this time Fabien’s small eyes denoted not surprise but blurred vision. The second blow, to the solar plexus, had knocked the air out of him and the grunt that came from him had made Kader pause for a moment and consider. He believed it was this intrusion of thought that had been his downfall. The knife blade had appeared then, at the edge of his vision, and he had seen it glint like a silverfish before it struck him on the shoulder and it was his turn to be surprised at the sight of his own blood blooming on the sleeve of his T-shirt. He
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