Françoise Camirand

On the radio someone is introducing the latest book written by a well-known writer. He is telling a bit of the story.

The host asks, “Is it true, is it about him?”

The commentator replies, “No, it’s not about him. He never makes himself one of the characters in his own books. But it’s good, very good.”

The host replies, “But I like to read a true story. It has to be well written, of course, but a true story, you know, it’s something special …”

The commentator says, “We often tend to confuse actual events and the fictional narrative. In Germani’s novel, we enter into a world that he has created. It’s credible and we believe in it, it’s true because we believe it. And it’s well written, that’s what’s important, basically. It’s amazingly well written, and it exudes truth.”

The radio discussion she happened to tune into while waiting for the news to come on made her think about what her publisher Jean-Hugues had told her, when he tried to convince her to write her autobiography. “Your readers want to get to know you,” he had told her. “They are waiting impatiently. You know how popular true
stories are these days. Everyone wants true stories. Literature is crazy at the moment. Just say that it’s a true story and it will sell like hotcakes. Are readers fed up with fiction, or what? Have readers become warped by all the outrageous true confessions they get from the stars and by all the reality shows they see on television? Is fact more thrilling than fiction? Are writers just on an ego trip, forgetting about their readers? Even in the movies, you see the subtitle “true story,” sometimes in bigger letters than the actual film title. I’m flabbergasted by this appetite for true stories. And yet, mysteries sell very well, too, and you couldn’t get more fictional than that.”

She listens to the news until the end of the broadcast. She turns the radio off and puts on a CD of Corsican music. It takes just a few seconds for her office to be filled with the sounds of singing voices. The plants and cats are happy, and so is she.

She fills a pot with water and puts it on for tea. She is thinking about the character she is working on. She imagines the character hunched over an open book, a large book which she is reading zealously, standing up while making tea, just like she is. There’s no noise in the house now, except for the fridge that hums occasionally, but she doesn’t hear it, just as she doesn’t notice the burbling of the water. A strange noise penetrates the silence. She glances up, startled, and looks around. She had forgotten where she was. There is not a drop of water left in the pot and the bottom is burned.

The first time she saw her was at the bookstore called L’Écume des Jours, on Saint-Viateur. Clearly, this woman is in love with books. At the Olimpico Café, right across the street from the bookstore, she unwraps what she has just bought. She looks at the books from all angles, strokes them and, with a smile, mulls over which one she will dive into first.

Over the years, Françoise has met her in the bookstore or at the coffee shop from time to time. When she saw her at the drugstore a couple of days ago, Françoise realized that she had not seen her in a long time.

The person she would end up calling Martine Saint-Amant had changed a lot. Her face was pale and wrinkled and she didn’t look at all well. She looked nothing like the lively woman she had noticed a few months earlier. It was as if she were gripping her book to avoid falling, her hands trembling ever so slightly. She was sitting down, waiting for her prescription to be filled.

She was so absorbed in reading her book that she didn’t hear her name being called. The pharmacist repeated her name a bit louder. The other customers indicated that they weren’t the ones whose name was being called, and still she didn’t move. Françoise went up to her and gently touched her arm, “Madame, I think it’s your turn.” The detective book addict looked as if she had been woken up from a long sleep. As the woman got up, Françoise glanced over and had the time to note that she was reading Michael Connelly’s The Poet, which is an excellent crime novel.