Buffeted by the east wind, a strong wind that had been blowing on and off since the previous day, the train swayed gently and, when she closed her eyes, Juliette imagined herself aboard a ship setting sail, leaving the calm, smooth waters of a port for the open seas.
She needed this image to calm herself down, to quell her shaking hands. The book she was holding open in front of her felt stiff, much too thick, too conspicuous, to be honest.
But wasn’t this what she wanted?
The cardboard cover kept slipping. She had made it the day before, helping herself from the office stationery cupboard, using and abusing the color printer to the point where they’d probably have to change the cartridges twice this month—an expense that Monsieur Bernard would frown upon. She’d thrown the botched attempts into the wastepaper basket, then changed her mind and stuffed them into a big bin bag, which she’d dumped in a trash can three streets away, with a vague feeling of guilt. Once again, she marked the fold of the flaps and wedged the book on her knees. Opposite her, a guy in his thirties, fitted suit and thin tie straight out of the sixties, stopped bashing away on his smartphone to give her a rather emphatic look of commiseration, she thought.
Juliette covertly observed the other occupants of the compartment. There weren’t many people. Public-sector workers were on strike; reduced service on the suburban express trains. The commuters had stayed home—those who could, at least. And, for once, she was early, very early even. It was barely 7:30. Why had she chosen this early-morning hour? Oh yes: she was afraid of not getting a seat. The book she was reading, or pretending to read, was not the kind you could hold in one hand while hanging on to one of the straps by the doors with the other.
So none of her habitual traveling companions were to be seen. She felt almost relieved.
No one was taking any notice of her, except the guy with the smartphone. He was leaning forward, his chin jutting out, his eyebrows raised in an exaggerated expression of amazement.
“Are you really going to read all that?” He let out a shrill laugh, leaned a little closer, and tapped the book jacket with his nail. “It’s a joke.”
Juliette merely shook her head. No, it wasn’t a joke. But she hadn’t found a better way of snaring her potential prey. She didn’t feel capable of deducing from a person’s appearance their character, their tastes, and their dreams, or of choosing a suitable nourishment for those dreams. That is what she had explained to Soliman the other day, after their argument.
Argument was perhaps a little strong. Can you talk about an “argument” when you’re fumbling around in your bag—under the hairbrush, the book begun ages ago, the keys, those of the agency, those of the basement of her building, the mobile phone, a notebook full of scribbles and never-ending to-do lists—looking for a slightly crumpled but clean tissue for a man sobbing uncontrollably?
No, Juliette corrected herself. Now you’re writing the novel and you’re overdoing it.
Rewind.
She had told him everything, as he had demanded: the passage with a bend and the bathroom, dark, damp, and ridiculously big compared to the other rooms in the apartment, the claw-foot bathtub, the rust stains, Chloe’s ideas and her home-staging training, the indoor plant, the draped bath sheet, and finally the book. And the unhoped-for success: the clients had already signed the sale commitment, they didn’t need a mortgage—cash buyers—they’d already booked a contractor, and they seemed over the moon.
And Soliman, who had listened to her attentively but without taking any notes, had dried, almost without thinking, a glistening tear on his cheek—which she would not have seen had it not been for the glaring light from the lamp whose shade was raised.
But she couldn’t have failed to notice the one that followed. And other tears had taken the same path; gentle, slow, rolling down his cheeks and being transformed on contact with a two-day stubble into a thin film, which he no longer attempted to wipe away.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Juliette. “Is something the matter? I…”
Yes, of course something was the matter. She’d done everything wrong—as usual.
Then she’d tipped out the contents of her bag onto the desk, hunting for a packet of tissues, and eventually found one, which she offered him.
“I’m sorry, truly sorry.”
She couldn’t think of any better word.
“Sorry, sorry,” she repeated.
“Stop.”
“Sor—You don’t understand, I’m not clever like that woman, the one who killed herself. Or like the others, your passeurs. I don’t know them, I don’t know. I’m incapable of guessing someone’s character just from watching them during a Métro journey. And I can’t follow people around all day, otherwise I’ll lose my job. So how can I know what book they need?”
He blew his nose vigorously.
“That’s a stupid thing to say,” he croaked.
“But you can see…”
And then they’d begun to laugh hysterically, a contagious, irrepressible laughter. Bent double, her hands pressed between her knees, Juliette laughed until she cried. Soliman was clutching the lampstand with both hands and hiccupping, which made the lampshade tip up and bathe his face in green shadow.
“You … you … look like … a zombie…” Juliette had managed to stammer before stamping her feet, her leg muscles twitching madly.
How good it was to laugh like that, mouth wide open, without worrying about making an idiot of herself for once. To scream with laughter, hiccup, wipe off the saliva drooling down her chin, and start all over again.
They were still laughing when Zaide burst into the office, closing the door very carefully behind her and then turning around and staring at them with a solemn expression.
She was hugging a book—and her hands, noticed Juliette, who’d stopped laughing abruptly, were like finer replicas of her father’s. The same attentive care to ensure she held the book firmly by the spine, the same delicacy. Each of her pink, almost pearly nails was a little masterpiece.
But that was not what had held Juliette’s attention.
Zaide’s book was encased in thick, slightly undulating cardboard, a bright green, on which thin red felt letters had been carefully glued—even if they were slightly wonky.
And those letters said:
This book is amazing.
It will make you clever.
It will make you happy.