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long months. Marseille back then must have smelled of camphor, cinnamon and precious wood, of coke and the heavy fruits of Black Africa
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    He screamed, closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back into place. Methodically. As always. A few minutes later, he opened his eyes: his childhood had disappeared. He was calm, but his body was now completely drained of energy.
    It was time for the hunt. After the long hours, the bird was coming. It was there, a few meters away, behind the tall grasses. It had come to drink from the only pool on the entire, vast plain. The lance with its flint tip had been placed in its stick of hooks. The bird approached. He looked up
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    A good hunter must not miss his first shot
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    The bird was a few paces away, dipping its beak in the water, then stretching its neck. Once, twice
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    In a flash, he launched the lance. The bird took wing…
    A great hunter must not miss his first shot
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    Beside the front door, the answering machine was flashing in the half-light. It showed the number eleven, in red batons. Eleven messages. All from patients canceling their appointments between Christmas and the New Year. The eleventh was a woman’s voice:
    â€œExcuse me, Doctor, this is Hélène Weill speaking. I’m sorry to disturb you at home, but you never answer your mobile. Anyway, I’d like to cancel my appointment on Thursday 28. And I was wondering if you were available today.”
    The night augured well.
    He picked up the telephone and dialed. Hélène told him that she really needed him. Christmas was making her feel terribly anxious. She could come now, or any time he wanted, even late that evening. But she simply had to see him, at any price. He suggested taking her to a restaurant, a lovely little place which he knew well. It would be nicer than the psychiatrist’s couch.
    â€œI’ll pick you up from your house before 8:00. We’ll go to Cadenet. I have a friend there who’s just opened a little bistro. You’ll see, it’s a bit of a drive, but it’s just perfect.”
    It was 6:00 p.m. He glanced at the cast-iron hooks above the telephone: the keys to the doctor’s Mercedes were there.
    But first of all he had to perform the ritual.
    He went up to the first floor, to the psychiatrist’s vast study, placed his rucksack on a Chippendale chair, and took out a small bottle of mineral water and a plastic box containing some red powder.
    He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, opened the box, poured a little of the powder into the palm of his right hand, lifted it to his mouth and started to chew carefully before taking a mouthful ofwater. He placed his hand on a sheet of white paper, bending his little and ring fingers. He then spat out the liquid over his hand, again and again, until it was covered in red. When he lifted it up, a negative image of his hand had been left on the white paper.
    He waited for it to dry, looked at the result of his labors and said aloud:
    â€œSpirit of the hunt
    Goddess of life
    Here is the hunter’s sign
    Take her life to fortify mine
    May her death be swift
    May I not make her suffer
    May your spirit guide me in the shadows
    May the force of her blood enter into my blood
    May her flesh fortify the first man.”
    Carefully he slipped the sheet of paper into a green plastic folder and left the mansion.
    Hélène Weill lived alone in a flat on rue Boulegon, right in the center of Aix. At 7:30 p.m., he called her from a phone box to say that he was late, and that it was impossible to park in her narrow street, so could she wait on the ringroad, just by the Ford garage.
    â€œHélène, I’m a bit late,” he said. “I’ll send along a friend of mine. Another patient … He’ll pick you up in my car. You’ll see, he’s a wonderful guy. Just won-der-ful! He’ll recognize you, don’t worry, he’s already seen you around in my consulting room. Then you can come and