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opening the windows to get some fresh air into the stale-smelling apartment, he would sit down opposite him and gently take his friend’s hands, two warm dying birds that meekly allowed themselves to be caught. Then, chatting about this and that, he would steer Giuseppe into the bathroom. He bathed and rubbed down his friend’s battered body, shaved the straggling bristles on his cheeks and chin and combed his thick locks. Next, Guylain washed the dirty dishes mouldering in the sink and picked up the clothes scattered over the floor throughout the apartment. He never left without explaining to Giuseppe that he had to hang in there, that all was not lost, that time acted on books like ice on buried stones and that sooner or later they would surface. But all his efforts to coax the old boy out of his sluggish state were to no avail. Only new finds could rekindle the fire in Giuseppe’s eyes.
    How the idea of contacting Jean-Eude Freyssinet had come to him, Guylain couldn’t say. On the other hand, it was strange that it hadn’t occurred to anyone else, not even to Giuseppe, to contact the author of Gardens and Kitchen Gardens of Bygone Days directly. He’d had no trouble tracking down the illustrious writer’s telephone number and Madame Freyssinet had answered on the fifth ring. She informed him in a quavering voice that her Jean-Eude had passed on a few years ago, halfway through writing his second book, an essay on Cucurbitaceae and other dicotyledons of central Europe. Without beating about the bush, Guylain had explained to the widow that within the unsold slurry-coloured copies that she had kept in memory of her departed there was something more than her husband’s spiritual legacy. She immediately suggested that she only needed to keep a few copies and offered to let him have the rest of her collection, which represented around a hundred pristine copies of Gardens and Kitchen Gardens of Bygone Days . Giving them to Giuseppe all at once would have been a grave mistake, Guylain knew. It was the search that mattered. The Freyssinet collection had to be distilled sparingly, at a rate of three or four a year, never more. Just enough to bring a glimmer to the old boy’s eyes and keep the hunter on the alert.
    During the years of plenty, the famous Albert had become the self-appointed spokesman for the bouquinistes . His cheeky humour was a huge hit with the tourists he snared in his banter like a spider catching flies in its web. And it was naturally to him that Guylain turned to put his scheme into action. It worked like a dream. When he felt the time had come – in other words, when the old boy was showing fresh signs of losing hope and sinking into despondency – Guylain would give Albert the go-ahead. The bookseller would then call Giuseppe, who would immediately inform Guylain that a new copy had come to light. In three years, over a dozen Freyssinets had artificially appeared from out of the blue without the old boy suspecting a thing.
    Guylain put the suitcase down on the bed and flicked open the two clasps with his thumbs to release the dusty lid. He contemplated the copies of Gardens and Kitchen Gardens of Bygone Days with a smile. Eighty-five – enough to keep going for a good twenty years, he thought. He grabbed the first copy that came to hand. Then, with the help of an oil-soaked paper towel, Guylain painstakingly smeared the right-hand corner of the back cover.

11
    Giuseppe lived on the ground floor of a brand-new apartment block, less than ten minutes away. Guylain didn’t even need to ring the bell – Giuseppe yelled at him to come in from the kitchen where he had been watching out for him, his face pressed to the window. The place smelled clean. Guylain took his shoes off in the hall and, following an unchanging ritual, put on Giuseppe’s old slippers, two orphaned slippers which always seemed happy to feel two feet in them again. The bookshelves ate up an entire wall of the living room. The 758