‘ … in … down.’

Marc and Anne sat down on two worn velvet armchairs covered in cat hair. A strong smell of urine, though overlain with ether, confirmed the constant presence of a feline. The doctor’s good eye immediately fell on Anne.

‘How many weeks?’

Anne turned to her father, eyebrows arched in query. Marc cut in.

‘Excuse me, doctor, but we’re here for me.’

‘Oh.’

From then on, the doctor accorded Anne no more attention than the profound disdain of his dead eye.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Practically nothing. I pricked my finger on a rusty nail and—’

‘Show me.’

Somewhat reluctantly, Marc gave up his hand to the dry claw of the doctor, who whistled like a punctured balloon as he leaned over it.

‘Not a pretty sight! When did it happen?’

‘The day before yesterday.’

‘A rusty nail, you said?’

‘Yes. On an African talisman.’

‘Ah, I see! … Just as I thought … I know Africa, you see! Just take a look at the souvenir I got from there.’

Craning his tortoise-like neck over his desk, he offered Marc the unappetising sight of his cloudy eye.

‘Pus spurted right into it while I was operating on a bubo as putrid as your finger. I’ll bet your rotten old talisman came from Benin, or maybe Togo, am I right?’

‘From Togo, I think.’

‘Well, there you go! It’s some kind of voodoo black-magic business. How do you expect medicine to help? It’s not looking good for you, Monsieur, not good at all. Oh, for Christ’s sake, I’ve had it with these people!’

The window behind him had just swung open with a thud, to the sound of falling scree. The doctor flung himself against the railing.

‘Bastards! Bunch of arseholes! You won’t get me, by God, you won’t! I’m indestructible, do you hear me? I’ll destroy you, I don’t care how many of you there are. Twenty years in Africa and I lived to tell the tale! Blanchard’s still standing, you pieces of shit!’

Shaking with rage, he closed the window and returned to his seat opposite Marc and Anne, looking them up and down as if he had only just set eyes on them.

‘Right, where were we? Either we cut it off, or else there’s nothing I can do. Up to you. I’ll do the amputation for 100 euros. That’s a good price.’

Marc looked expectantly at his finger as if it might make the decision for him.

‘What if I keep my finger?’

‘Then you’ll begin to rot a little more each day. First your hand, then your forearm, up to your shoulder, all the way to your heart. It might take a fortnight, a month or a year. Depends on your constitution. But you’ll rot either way.’

‘I … I’ll think about it.’

‘As you wish. That’ll be twenty-five euros.’

Outside, it looked as if it had been snowing. The car was covered in a fine sprinkling of white dust. Nearby a chair on a patch of flooring was precariously balanced against a half-collapsed wall covered in peeling wallpaper.