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spend a few minutes being pleasant, keeping up a conversation. She doesn’t want to remember that Mr Delebarre is widowed and alone and ill, that all he’s got to do is listen to the noise coming from upstairs, exaggerating or even inventing it. She doesn’t want to imagine Mr Delebarre adrift in the silence of his big apartment.
    She knows herself. She knows where that will lead. She always has to look for excuses, explanations, reasons to be indulgent towards other people. She always ends up finding that people have good reasons for being the way they are. But not today. Oh no. Today she would like to be able to tell herself that Mr Delebarre is an idiot. Because today is 20 May. Because something is going to happen. Because things can’t go on as they are. The price is too high. The price to be paid for having a swipe card for clocking in, a card for the canteen, an insurance card, a three-zone metro card, the price to be paid for taking part in the onward rush of life.
     
    In the cool morning air, Mathilde walks along the side of the garden in the middle of the square. At this hour of the day the streets seem washed clean, renewed. In the distance she can hear a dustcart. Mathilde looks at her watch and hurries up; her heels click on the pavement.
     
    As soon as she gets to the metro platform she notices it’s unusually crowded. People are standing bunched together, but without crossing the rubber strip that marks the limit beyond which it is dangerous to go. The few seats provided are taken, there’s something both gloomy and febrile in the air. Mathilde looks up at the digital display. The waiting times for the next trains have been replaced by two bright lines. The sound of a female voice suddenly invades the platform: ‘Due to a technical fault, the Mairie de Montreuil service is seriously delayed.’
    Anyone who uses public transport regularly masters its peculiar language – its subtleties, its idioms and its grammar. Mathilde knows the different scenarios and their probable impact on her journey time. A ‘technical failure’, a ‘signalling problem’, a ‘timetable adjustment’ mean moderate delays. More worryingly, a ‘passenger taken ill’ means that someone somewhere in another station has fainted, pulled the emergency alarm or has had to be evacuated. A passenger taken ill can seriously affect the flow of trains. And much more worryingly, a ‘serious passenger incident’, a term commonly reckoned to indicate a suicide, can paralyse traffic for several hours. People need to be evacuated.
     
    Every four days in Paris a man or woman jumps in front of a train. Mathilde read it in the paper. The authorities are discreet about the exact figures, but there have long been psychological support services for drivers who are affected. Some of them never get over it. They are declared unfit for work, reassigned to ticket counters or the back office. On average, a driver encounters a suicide attempt at least once in his career. Do people in cities commit suicide more than elsewhere? She’s often wondered about that, without going to the trouble of finding out the answer.
    For the past few months, when Mathilde is on her way home from work, she has found herself watching the tracks, fixing her gaze on them, staring at the stones that cover the ground, the depth of the hole. Sometimes she feels her body inclining forward, almost imperceptibly, her exhausted body seeking rest.
    Then she thinks of Théo, Maxime and Simon, their images superimposed on top of all the others, bright and moving, and Mathilde steps back, moves away from the edge.
     
    She tries to carve out a space for herself amid the crowd. You have to earn your place, your territory. You have to respect the order of arrival and observe the minimum distance between people, which shrinks as the platform fills up.
    There’s no train announced.
    She’ll miss the 8.45, and the 9.00, and even the 9.15. She’s going to be late. And by complete