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hollyhocks underneath can attest.
    “I hope they don’t plan on putting all those trees above my place! All I need is for them to bring the balconies crashing down—onto my balcony!”
    Upon arriving at the church, Ferdinand pushes open the heavy wooden door, enters without crossing himself, and sits down in a pew at the back of the nave. Nobody else is there. He enjoys his tranquility, even if the smell of incense bothers him—his ex-wife always lit a stick of incense after meals. After barely twenty minutes, Ferdinand shifts from one cheek to the other. It isn’t very comfortable. He’s cold, too, and hungry. It’s 10:40, a bit early for a ham sandwich. He sighs. The day will be long. Very long.
    All of a sudden, the wooden door opens and shuts heavily. Ferdinand glances up discreetly to see who’s come to pray. But no one passes by. He senses a presence behind him. Ferdinand feels himself being watched, a very disagreeable sensation. He slowly turns around to find a stooped man wearing a raincoat standing to the left, near the entrance. He appears to be waiting for something or someone. Ferdinand hears the stranger’s rhythmic wheezing. Each inhalation seems to scrape down the sides of his windpipe before working its way out through narrow, congested nostrils. Every breath is agony. On a normal day, Ferdinand would find it extremely annoying, but fatigue and solitude have gotten the better of him, and the hollow sound sends chills down his spine.
    Ferdinand is on guard. He feels as if a crouching beast is preparing to pounce. He hopes someone comes in, even the priest, even if it means he has to go to confession. He could easily conjure up a few unorthodox tales to admit. His only objective is to not stay here alone with this psychopath. But no priest shows up, and no other charitable soul is on the horizon. Ferdinand summons the courage to stand up. Slowly, he heads for the door, as normally as possible, without glancing at the man.
    Once he reaches the reassuring light of day, the evil demons are behind him.

    At 2:30 p.m., having gulped down a sandwich made with stale bread, Ferdinand is shivering on a bench in the church square. He hasn’t dared return inside, dreading the presence of his chance companion. I hate movers. I already hate these new neighbors who are forcing me to roam the streets like a bum. Without even knowing his tormentors’ identities, he almost misses the hairdresser. But a ray of hope makes him hold fast to the bench—Ferdinand knows how to welcome the new neighbors in turn, and thank them for this terrible day . . .
    After more than five hours, completely exhausted, Ferdinand finally returns home. The moving truck has disappeared, but the green plants are still crowding the lobby, and the stairs are littered with scraps of cardboard. Still, someone did deign to clear the way to his door. Silence has returned. At last! Ferdinand collapses into his bed, determined to fall asleep as quickly as possible, when, all of a sudden, he hears a whimper. He forces himself to stay focused on his sleep and pulls the blanket up over his head.
    “It’s nothing,” he says when, this time, a cry rings out from above his bed. It can’t be true . . . no, not that! I have to refocus. It’ll stop. It has to stop.
    But it doesn’t stop. Between 4:30 and 6:00 p.m., no relief. The cries of the new occupant of the bedroom upstairs have only ceased long enough for a bottle, too quickly drained. When Ferdinand gives up and leaves his bedroom to collapse into his armchair, he turns up the volume on the quiz show Questions for a Champion to cover up the incessant sniveling. The show, a favorite of everyone at Eight Rue Bonaparte, has already started. The “Four in a Row” round reveals a mystery category dear to Ferdinand: attack dogs.
    “Ah, finally, something positive! I’m gonna get all of these! I’d even wager this airhead will mix up Great Danes and Weimaraners.” Ferdinand is on his game—it