The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt

happened?”
    â€œWith the old woman? No. It’s the third time at least.”
    â€œTell us about it.”
    â€œThe other times, I just assumed that I wasn’t seeing properly, that it wasn’t possible. Exactly what you are thinking at this very moment. But this time, I know perfectly well that I wasn’t dreaming: I was so frightened! Mind you, I frightened her, too.”
    â€œThen I have only one piece of advice to give you, Madame Versini: you must change the keys and the locks immediately. That way you’ll be able to sleep in peace. Sooner or later, perhaps when your husband comes home, you’ll get to the bottom of this intrusion. In the meantime, at least you’ll get a good night’s sleep.”
    Odile nodded, thanked the policemen, and walked them to the door.
    Instinctively, she opened a fresh pack of cigarettes, switched the television to her favorite channel, the twenty-four-hour news, then began to think about what to do, approaching the problem from several angles.
    After an hour, when she realized that her hypotheses weren’t getting anywhere, she picked up the receiver and made an appointment with a locksmith for the following day.
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    â€œTwo thousand two hundred people have died,” announced the anchorman, staring at his viewers. “This summer is proving to lethal.”
    With her keys in the pocket of her skirt, reassured that nothing would befall her now that she had closed up the house with new locks, Odile succumbed entirely to her fascination with the perverse effects of climate. Streams dried up. Fish stranded. Herds devastated. Farmers in a rage. Water and electricity restrictions. Hospitals overwhelmed. Young interns promoted to physicians. Funeral homes swamped. Gravediggers obliged to interrupt their seaside vacation. Ecologists thundering forth about global warming. She followed each newscast as if it were a new episode in a thrilling soap opera; she was avid for adventure, eager for new catastrophes, almost disappointed when the situation did not get worse. Almost unconsciously, she kept track of the death toll with a sublime delight. The heat wave was a show that did not concern her, but it gave her something to focus on that summer, and distracted her from her boredom.
    On her desk there lingered a book and several articles that were waiting to be dealt with. She didn’t have the energy to focus on them, at least as long as her editors and publishers were not hounding her, screaming at her over the phone. It was odd she hadn’t heard anything, actually . . . Perhaps they, too, were absolutely crushed by the heat? Or dead? As soon as she had the time—or the inclination—she would give them a call.
    She surfed the Arabic channels, somewhat peeved that they showed so little interest in the situation in Europe. Truth be told, for them the heat was, well . . .
    To ease her conscience she decided to drink a glass of water, and it was while she was headed for the kitchen that she had a strange feeling once again: the intruder was there!
    She went back the same direction, had a quick look around. Nothing. And yet it seemed . . . For a split second the old woman’s face had appeared to her, no doubt reflected on a lamp or in the angle of a mirror or on the polish of a wardrobe. The image had imprinted itself on her brain.
    In the hour that followed she went over her apartment from top to bottom. Then at least ten times over she checked that the old keys could in no way be used to open the new locks. Once she was reassured, she concluded that she had imagined seeing the old woman.
    She went back into the living room, switched on the television and it was then, while walking over to her sofa, that she saw her, quite distinctly, in the corridor. Just like the last time, the old woman froze, panicked, and rushed away.
    Odile collapsed on the sofa and reached for the nearest telephone. The police promised to come as soon as