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chance, Jacques will be standing in front of the lift when she gets out or waiting at her office door. He will have been looking for her everywhere and won’t have kept quiet about it – even though he hasn’t said a word to her for three weeks – he’ll be looking at his watch, with a frown and a doubtful expression. Because Jacques watches her timekeeping closely, her absences, he’s on the lookout for slip-ups. Because he lives a five-minute drive from the office and couldn’t give a damn about the journey she makes every day like most of the employees on site, nor the number of external factors that could prevent her from being on time.
     
    For the moment, her aim is to stay in the right place on the platform: not to let herself be dragged to the back, to hold her position. When the train comes, it’ll be packed full of irascible people. She’s going to have to fight. According to an unwritten law, a form of underground legal precedent that has applied for decades, those who are first remain first. Anyone who tries to flout this law finds himself being heckled. In the distance there’s a grumbling, a vibration that sounds like the long-awaited train. But the tunnel remains dark and empty. The electronic display still gives nothing away. The female announcer is silent. It’s hot. Mathilde looks at the others, men and women, their clothes, their shoes, their hair, the shape of their buttocks. She looks at them from the back, from the front and in profile. You’ve got to do something. When she catches someone’s eye, she looks away. Even when it’s busy, there remains on public transport both a certain intimacy and a sense of reserve; limits imposed on the eye since they can’t be imposed on the body. So Mathilde looks at the platform opposite. It’s almost empty.
    On the other side the trains are running normally, one after another in their regular rhythm. There’s no point trying to find an explanation. In the opposite direction people are getting on the metro and arriving at work on time.
     
    Finally Mathilde is aware of a rumbling sound to her left that grows ever louder. Heads turn expectantly, impatiently. At last! It’s time to take a deep breath, flatten your bag against your hip and check that it’s closed properly. The train slows and stops. It’s here. It disgorges, regurgitates, releases its flood. Someone shouts: ‘Let people off.’ There’s shoving, trampling. It’s war. Every man for himself. Suddenly it’s a matter of life or death, getting on this one and not having to wait for the next one, which may never come, not risking getting to work even later. ‘For fuck’s sake! Let people off!’ The crowd parts grudgingly. You mustn’t lose sight of the door, you have to stay near it, not let yourself get dragged back by the sheer number of people. You have to position yourself to one side, close to the door. Suddenly the horde surges forward, getting ahead of her, she’s not going to make it. The carriage is already full, there’s not a square inch left. However, she knows that she can get in. She’ll have to force her way. She’ll have to stretch her arm out, grab the pole in the middle, ignoring the cries and protests, and hold tight and pull. Pull with all her might to propel her body inside. They’ll just have to budge up. In the face of her determination, they yield.
    The signal indicating that the doors are about to close sounds. Apart from her right arm, which is sticking out, she’s almost there. The door judders shut, indifferent to the groans and protestations.
    Mathilde gains an inch or so with her left foot, pushes one last time and she’s in.
     
    On the platform the female voice is announcing that trains are running normally again on line 9.
    It’s all a matter of perspective.
     
    At the following stations, Mathilde gets deeper into the carriage, gains a few extra inches, hangs on so as not to have to get off.
    You mustn’t give an inch.
    The air is heavy.