3

I went up to her and apologised for bothering her. I spoke with the honeyed politeness of a salesman. She slowed down, looking surprised. I explained that I lived nearby, that I was a writer. When you stop someone who’s walking, you have to get straight to the point. It’s often said that old people are suspicious of strangers, but she immediately rewarded me with a big smile. I felt confident enough to tell her about my plan.

‘So … I’d like to write a book about you.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I know this might seem a bit strange, but … It’s a sort of challenge that I set myself. I live just over there,’ I added, pointing to my apartment building. ‘I’ll spare you the details but basically I decided that I was going to write about the first person I met in the street.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Could I buy you a coffee now so I can explain?’

‘Now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t. I have to go home. I have things I need to put in the freezer.’

‘Ah, right, I understand,’ I replied, wondering if my story was already becoming pathetic. I was excited about the possibilities of my idea, yet here I was having to write about the necessity of not letting frozen products thaw. A few years after winning the Prix Renaudot, I felt the shiver of decline run down my spine.

I said I could wait for her in the café at the end of the street, but she told me to come with her instead. By asking me to follow her home, she immediately showed her trust in me. In her shoes, I would never have let a writer into my apartment that easily. Particularly a writer in search of inspiration.

4

A few minutes later I was sitting alone in her living room while she busied herself in the kitchen. To my surprise, I was overcome by emotion. Both my grandmothers had died years before; it had been a long time since I’d found myself in an old woman’s apartment. Her home was so similar to my memories of theirs: the plastic tablecloth, the loudly ticking clock, the faces of grandchildren in gold-coloured frames. With a pang I remembered those visits. We never said much, but I enjoyed our conversations.

My heroine returned carrying a tray. On it was a cup and a few biscuits. She hadn’t thought to have anything at all herself. To reassure her, I gave a brief summary of my career, but she didn’t seem worried anyway. It had clearly not even crossed her mind that I might be an impostor or a manipulator, a dangerous man. Later I asked her why she’d been so trusting. ‘You looked like a writer,’ she replied, leaving me slightly confused. To me, most writers look lecherous or depressed. Sometimes both. Anyway, as far as this woman was concerned, I looked the way I was supposed to look.

I was impatient to discover the subject of my new novel. Who was she? First of all, I needed to know her family name.