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man looked a bit like a young Antoine Waechter, if you can imagine such a thing, but his hair was darker and he had a neatly trimmed beard. Actually, he didn't so much look like Antoine Waechter as like Robin Hood, though he looked Swiss, or, to be more precise, he had something of the Jura about him. All in all, he didn't look much like anything, or nothing more than a real jerk. Not to mention his wife, in overalls, serious, a good milkmaid. It was inconceivable that these creatures had not yet reproduced, I thought; they'd probably left the child with their parents in Lons-le-Saulnier. The second couple, a little older, seemed rather less serene. Skinny and nervous, with a mustache, the man introduced himself to me as a naturopath, and, faced with my ignorance, went on to explain that he practiced healing using plants or other natural means wherever possible. His wife, thin and curt, worked in social services, reintegrating, I don't know, first offenders or something in Alsace; they looked like they hadn't fucked for thirty years. The man seemed inclined to tell me about the benefits of natural medicines, but still dazed from this first encounter, I went and sat on a bench nearby. From where I sat, I could barely make out the last three members of the group, who were half-hidden by the pork-butcher couple. There was some fifty-year-old thug called Robert, with a particularly harsh expression; a woman, of age ditto, with curly black hair framing a face that was nasty, world-weary, and flabby, whose name was Josiane; and another woman, yet younger, pretty nondescript really, of about twenty-seven who followed Josiane with a sort of canine docility and whose name was Valérie. Anyway, I'll get back to them; I'll have far too much time to get back to them, I thought glumly as I walked toward the bus. I noticed that Sôn was still staring at her list of passengers. Her face was tense, words formed on her lips involuntarily—it was clear she was anxious, almost distraught. Counting up, it appeared there were thirteen people in the group; and Thais are frequently superstitious, even more so than the Chinese, so much so that the numbering of floors in a building or houses in a street often goes straight from twelve to fourteen, simply to avoid mentioning the number thirteen. I took a seat on the left-hand side about halfway down the bus. People establish points of reference pretty quickly on this kind of group outing. In order to feel relaxed, they need to find a place early on and stick to it, maybe leave some personal effects around in order to actively inhabit the space in some way.
    To my great surprise, I saw Valérie take a seat beside me, even though the bus was about three-quarters empty. Two rows behind, Babette and Léa exchanged a couple of scornful words. They'd better calm down, those sluts. I discreetly fixed my attention on the young woman. She had long black hair, a face, I don't know, a face that could be described as "unremarkable": not pretty, not ugly, strictly speaking. After brief but intense consideration, I managed awkwardly: "Not too hot?" "No, no, here in the bus is fine," she replied quickly, without smiling, relieved simply that I had started a conversation. Though what I'd said was remarkably stupid—actually, it was freezing in the bus. "Have you been to Thailand before?" she went on by way of conversation. "Yes, once." She froze in a waiting posture, ready to listen to an interesting anecdote. Was I about to recount my previous trip to her? Maybe not right away. "It was good," I said eventually, adopting a friendly tone to compensate for the banality of what I was saying. She nodded in satisfaction. It was then that I realized that this young woman was in no way submissive to Josiane, she was just submissive in general, and maybe just ready to look for a new master. Maybe she'd already had enough of Josiane—who, sitting two rows in front of us, was furiously leafing through the Guide du Routard ,