THE KOREAN search engine had no information on “Yan Kerrand.” But google.fr gave me access to pages from his books. He signed his work “Yan.” The tenth and final volume of his most well-known series would be out the following year. I learned from the readers’ and reviewers’ comments that it was about a globe-trotting archaeologist. A different location for each book, a voyage in monochrome ink wash. No dialogue, very few words. A lone figure. With a striking resemblance to the author. Clean lines, his silhouette standing out clearly against the other mostly shadow-like figures. A lumbering giant, dwarfing all others. Or else, in miniature, only the hero’s features discernible. The others, hidden behind the detail of a chair, a stone, a leaf. A publicity photo showed Kerrand receiving a prize. Smiling sheepishly. A red-haired woman at his side, almost his height, square face, short hair. A publicist? His wife? They didn’t look right together. A married man wouldn’t leave for a trip with no definite return date, I thought. She didn’t look like the woman I’d watched him draw the other evening. That woman had softer lines.

MY ROOM WAS bathed in cold light. I opened the window. I closed it again once I was fully awake. I pulled on a jumper, changed my mind, put on a tunic dress instead. I inspected myself in the mirror. Took off the tunic. My hair was sticking up. I licked my palm to smooth it down on my head, put the jumper back on again.

The boy was in the kitchen, he looked disheveled. His girlfriend was still sleeping, he said, she wouldn’t be coming down for breakfast. The Japanese man didn’t appear either. I’d given up expecting to see Kerrand.

There was nothing for me to do, so I had a coffee with plenty of milk.

My phone rang. Jun-oh. He’d been gone for two days and his image was becoming a blur. He’d been held up, he was staying on in Seoul for longer than he’d planned, on a trial basis. He told me he missed me but didn’t ask how I was.

Park arrived and asked me to make some red-bean tteok. I asked if he’d seen the climber. He muttered something about the Japanese man going back to Tokyo the evening before, I’d have known if I’d done his room.

“It was my day off,” I said in my defense.

I should have done it anyway, he retorted, in case new guests arrived. As if we were swamped with bookings, I thought to myself.

Park kept one eye on me from behind the counter all morning. He must have noticed I was treating the Frenchman differently from the other guests. It was almost two weeks since Kerrand had arrived. He wasn’t around much but he left his door open, even when he was out. I cleaned his room meticulously, doing my best not to disturb his belongings. Occasionally I came across sketches of his main character. Nothing definitive, he threw away a lot of paper. I’d find the woman from the night-time drawings in the wastepaper basket, ripped to shreds.