I was very distracted — there had been no envelope that morning at the Romainville Monoprix under my Chamonix Oranges, and my hash hadn’t moved from the storage locker at the pool — so I wasn’t paying much attention. What’s more, my mother was being particularly bloody trying that evening, asking me for a frozen Diet Coke, not a cold one, like the one she was refusing to drink and had deliberately poured onto the floor. After mopping it up, I went off to fetch another can from the dispenser, passing Monsieur Léger’s room on the way, lost in thought and not looking in to see why he had been singing continuously for twenty minutes. When I came back with my can, a carer was calling for help. Monsieur Léger was just finishing off strangling his wife, using his one good arm, holding her in the crook between the upper- and the forearm. The carer was trying to make him loosen his grip, but he had his wife too firmly around the neck. By the time I got to the room, it was too late. Madame Léger was dead.

With my mother, I had truly thought I’d entered some sort of inner circle of Hell for the Elderly. Apparently not, I told myself, as I looked at the aged assassin singing away.

“Ikh vil ein coca . . .” came the shout from the neighbouring room. My mother. She was still with us.

The third event took place in my stairwell.

On the last Saturday of that unforgettable January, my neighbour from across the landing was marrying off her twenty-year-old daughter with the extravagant display of wealth you would expect from a Chinese wedding. White limousine parked outside the building, an abundance of flowers worthy of a mafia godfather in the hall and stairwell . . . Families going up and down for hours to demonstrate their allegiance and hand their cash-filled envelopes to Madame Fò, whose door was open to receive them.

All of a sudden, I heard yelling. Through the peephole at my front door, I saw a gang of four extremely fast and aggressive Black guys descend on the guests, throwing punches and snatching bags, and showing no hesitation whatsoever at bashing up women and the elderly in order to get their hands on Madame Fò’s cash. Three of them burst into my neighbour’s place to steal all her money, while the fourth kept lookout, his back to my door. Acting on pure reflex, I grabbed my weapon, went out and aimed my revolver at the jaw of the guy closest to me, a kid barely fifteen years old who stared at me, panic-stricken. Everything froze. There was screaming in Chinese from all around. I don’t understand that language, but I did know they all wanted me to pull the trigger.

“Hand over the bags and get out of here before they lock the doors on you for good.”

And they left, running.