Every day I go to Starbucks to write, I sit around in cafes, and I walk. I take my swimming bag, my cigarettes, a book, and just walk. No direction in particular. I prefer places that aren't too beautiful, I can't bear beauty anymore. It's cold and gray, one morning in November, Boulevard Arago. I don't even know what the hell I'm doing in the 13th. I reach a massive wall, I stop, I look up. La Santé prison. I'd forgotten about this place. I felt that same old rush, a mixture of pleasure and disgust. The same feeling in my stomach I always used to get, a slightly unhealthy feeling, whenever I would go to see my clients. The entrance, security check, the lawyer card, the token, the keys, taking the coins out of your pockets, taking your belt off so the detector doesn't beep, leaving your phone in the car or scooter, the yard, a corridor, a sort of welcome desk at the center of the quincunx, the doors with their bars, the guards, the smell of food, the fear, the sound of keys. It's dark inside, darker than Fresnes or Fleury. Section 1, section 2. Visiting room. The cells above. The men walking past, their sneakers, their joggers, their style, their virility. A small room, the small table, the crappy chairs, the light coming through the windows, the bars. The conversations, the case, the hearing, the next round of questioning, the next request for release. How long will it take, ma’am? I don't know. A long time.

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