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

possible.
    This time as she waited Odile did not feel the same emotions as on the day before. Until now her fear had always been quite clearly defined, focused on the old woman in the broom closet and her motivations. But now Odile’s fear gave way to terror. She found herself confronted with a mystery: how had the woman gotten back in here today, when the locks had been completely and thoroughly renewed?
    The police found her in a state of shock. Since they had already been there the day before, they knew right away what to look for in the apartment.
    She was not surprised when they came back to the living room after their search and announced that they hadn’t seen anyone.
    â€œIt’s dreadful,” she explained. “The locks were changed this morning, I’m the only person who has a new set of keys, and yet this woman found a way to get in and out again.”
    They sat down across from her to take notes.
    â€œMa’am, forgive us for insisting on this point: are you absolutely sure you saw this old woman again?”
    â€œI knew you were going to say that. You don’t believe me . . . I wouldn’t believe it either if I hadn’t experienced it. I cannot blame you for thinking I’m mad . . . I understand only too well . . . No doubt you’ll advise me to go and see a psychiatrist—no, no need to protest, that’s what I’d say too if I were in your shoes.”
    â€œNo, ma’am. We’re just keeping to the facts. Was the old woman the same one as yesterday?”
    â€œShe was dressed differently.”
    â€œDoes she look like anyone?”
    This question confirmed in Odile’s mind that the policemen thought this was a matter for a psychiatrist. How could she blame them?
    â€œIf you had to describe her, who does she remind you of?”
    Odile grew thoughtful: if I confess that she looks vaguely like my mother, they will definitely take me for a nutcase.
    â€œNobody. I don’t know her.”
    â€œAnd what does she want here, in your opinion?”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest, I told you I don’t know her.”
    â€œWhy does she frighten you?”
    â€œListen, dear sir, don’t go trying some amateur psychoanalysis with me! You’re not a therapist and I’m not a patient. This person is not some projection of my phantasms but an intruder who has been entering my apartment, for what purpose I have no idea.”
    Because Odile was getting carried away, the policemen murmured some vague excuses, and that is when she had a sudden revelation.
    â€œMy rings! Where are my rings!”
    She hurried to the dresser next to the television, opened the drawer, and brandished an empty dish.
    â€œThey’re gone! My rings are gone!”
    The policemen’s attitude changed instantly. They no longer thought she was deranged, and the case now followed its rational, routine course.
    She listed and described her rings, put a value on each one, could not help explaining what was behind each of her husband’s gifts, and signed the report.
    â€œWhen will your husband be back?”
    â€œI don’t know. He doesn’t keep me informed.”
    â€œWill you be all right, ma’am?”
    â€œYes, don’t worry, I’ll be all right.”
    After they had gone, everything seemed banal again, the intruder now reduced to a vulgar thief who worked with disconcerting discretion; but such banality got to Odile’s fragile nerves, and she began to cry, loud and long.
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    â€œTwo thousand seven hundred victims in the heat wave. The government is suspected of hiding the true figures.”
    Odile was convinced of that, too. According to her own calculations, the number should be higher. That very morning, hadn’t she seen, in the gutter in the courtyard, the corpses of two sparrows?
    The bell rang.
    Since there hadn’t been a buzz from the entry phone downstairs, this had to be either a neighbor or her