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go that far. Let’s say that I’m wondering about him.”
    Madame Préau answered in her soft and somewhat broken voice. Dr. Mamnoue hardly spoke louder than she.
    “He is no doubt looking for some peace and quiet.”
    “Yes, no doubt. But it’s never a good sign, which I say from experience. A child who doesn’t play with others in the playground is a child with problems half the time.”
    Madame Préau often made reference to her experience as a teacher in her discussions with Dr. Mamnoue. They covered fascinating subjects to do with the education and psychology of children. During her working life, Madame Préau had had to come face-to-face with a few cases of maltreatment: there was one little girl, for example, who, after having been no doubt loved and wanted, grew up in an environment that was hugely psychologically violent. Isolated and criticized by her brothers and sisters who refused to play with her, the little girl suffered from bed wetting until she was ten years old. Exhausted, her mother eventually stopped washing the sheets, making do with just drying them on the line. She was hit by her father for her poor marks, even though she was clearly unable to concentrate in class. The child was so afraid of her mother that when Madame Préau called them both into the headmistress’s office, the little girl fainted.
    “So you think that by simply observing a person, you can find out everything about their life?” asked Dr. Mamnoue.
    “No. These are only warning signs. Then you have to confirm them.”
    The man, who was slightly older than his patient, interlaced his fingers across his stomach and tipped his neck back in his leather armchair. A flyaway strand of hair fell coquettishly across the crown of his head.
    “And am I to suppose, dear Elsa, that’s what you intend to do?”
    Madame Préau smiled. She liked it when he called her by her first name, just as she liked that he felt the same way. They had begun this ritual many years ago, well before she treated herself to a relaxing break at Hyères les Palmiers.
    “I have no idea at the moment, Claude. We’ll see. First I have to get rid of all that dust.”
    “Yes, it’s incredible.”
    Dr. Mamnoue picked back up the glass jar filled with ochre dust and gravel. He weighed it in his hand.
    “You wouldn’t think that trucks would leave behind so much dirt.”
    “That is three months’ worth, though it has eased up a bit since the beginning of August. They’re a sight to be seen, driving down the road like madmen. Sometimes you can hear the gravel bouncing all the way up to the windows. The whole house shakes from it. Worse than the night freight train that passes at two forty-five.”
    “Two forty-five?”
    “Except Sundays and holidays.”
    Madame Préau produced the little moleskin notebook from her handbag to prove her point. She had the look of a schoolgirl who knew her recitation off by heart. Dr. Mamnoue nodded his head, then returned the jar to his desk, making the pebbles tinkle against its surface. The wrinkles across his brow were like furrows waiting for planting.
    “That reminds me of when I was a little boy. I had an incredible collection of stones that I put in a jar just like this. Didn’t you?”
    Madame Préau responded cheekily that the only thing she had collected didn’t fit in a jar.
    “Oh really? So what did you collect?”
    “Poltergeists. Or hairbrushes belonging to my classmates at boarding school. Whichever took my fancy.”

    15 August 2009
Dear Mr. Mayor,
     
Allow me to direct your attention to the troubles that the residents of Rue des Lilas, among whom I number, have been enduring of late. Our road, which is close to the town train station, is not supposed to be used for parking by RER train users. Yet this is now the case, and every two weeks, we are reminded of this fact by a concerto of car horns. As you know, the parking is on one side of the road only, and twice each month, cars must park along the path