“Oh, quelle bêtise—ces idiots…” The woman embarked on a brief diatribe as to the annoyance of this situation, which happened on the average of four times a week. Then, after a few more wan pleas from Gini, she did what no inhabitant of an American city would have done—pressed the buzzer. Gini pushed back the doors and went in.

She moved toward the elevator shaft and looked up, feeling a prickle of fear run the length of her spine. The floor indicator arrow was pointing at ten; she could just see the base of the elevator high above her. She could hear nothing at all.

Suddenly, she froze. The elevator had whirred into life. She watched the cables, the counterweights begin to move. Star was coming down.

Wait, she thought; act like a resident. Just stand by the elevator—what could be more natural? Wait, and see if he comes down alone.

He did not come down alone. A woman who could have been only Mathilde Duval was standing next to him, supported by his arm. As the cage came to a rest, and Gini could see the old woman through the bars, she felt her heart flood with pity and fear for her. She was tiny and obviously frail. She was dressed with evident painstaking care, in an all-black outfit that might have been fashionable forty years before. She was wearing new black gloves, and her hands were trembling: Gini could not tell if this was caused by infirmity or fear. As Star reached for the doors, the old woman lifted her face and Gini tensed: Mathilde Duval, she realized, had acute glaucoma: her eyes were blue-white, milky, almost opaque.

“Bonjour, madame. Monsieur,” Gini said as the gates opened. She gave the old woman a nod of polite greeting. Mathilde Duval did not respond or even turn her head. Virtually blind, Gini thought—also deaf.

She could feel Star’s eyes boring into her. Her mind was still flashing with uncertainty: speak, or remain silent? Do nothing now, or intervene?

Mathilde Duval herself made intervention imperative. As she stepped out into the lobby, she staggered and almost fell. Star’s arm tightened around her. He hauled her back onto her feet and tried to hasten her progress.

The old woman crept forward a few more steps, then came to a halt. She pressed her hand against her chest.

“Un moment, Christophe,” Gini heard her say. “Tu marches trop vite pour moi…Souviens-toi, je suis vieille maintenant.”

Star ignored the plea. He looked as if he would drag her out of the lobby if necessary. Gini heard him give a low curse. He began to tug at the woman’s arm. Gini stepped forward.

“Madame Duval?” she said. “Vous êtes malade? Je peux vous aider? Un moment, monsieur…”

Mathilde Duval’s lips were blue; she was breathing with difficulty. Gini looked up, met Star’s unwavering gaze. She began on a new plea: there was a bench, perhaps if Madame Duval sat down for a little while? She saw Star hesitate before he complied. He looked at the woman’s lips, and then helped Gini to assist her to the bench. Gini sat down beside her; Star drew back.