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reacts, the weather is always fine, excessively fine, and the horizon never deviates from an overheated and blinding whiteness which can also be observed in metal foundries during the third phase of treating the iron ore (I am speaking of that moment when there blossoms forth, as if suspended in the atmosphere and bizarrely at one with its intrinsic nature, the newly-formed flow of molten steel). That is why most pilots clear this obstacle without let or hindrance and are soon sailing in silence through the calm, iridescent and limpid waters of the Gulf of Aden.

    Sometimes, though, such things happen, occur for real. It's Monday morning, the first of December; it's cold and I am waiting for Tisserand by the departure gate of the train for Rouen; we're in the Gare Saint-Lazare; I'm getting more and more cold and more and more pissed off. Tisserand arrives at the last minute; we're going to have difficulty finding seats. Unless he's got himself a first-class ticket; that would be quite his style.

    I might have formed a tandem with four or five other people from my company, and in the end it's come down to Tisserand. I'm not wildly excited about it. He, on the other hand, declares himself delighted. `We make a terrific team you and me,' he promptly declares, Ì reckon things'll work out just great.' He describes a sort of rotating movement with his hands, as if to symbolize our future mutual understanding.

    I already know this young man; we've chatted many a time around the hot drinks machine. He generally told dirty stories ; I have the feeling this tour of the provinces is going to be grim.

    Moments later the train is moving. We install ourselves in the midst of a group of garrulous students who seem to belong to a business school. I settle myself near the window to escape the surrounding noise, at least a bit. From his briefcase Tisserand extracts various coloured brochures dealing with accounting software; these have nothing to do with the training we're going to give. I hazard the remark. He interjects vaguely, 'Ah yes, Maple, that's good too,' then goes back to his monologue. Where the technical aspects are concerned I've the impression he's counting on me one hundred per cent.

    He's wearing a splendid suit with a red, yellow and green pattern - a bit medieval tapestry, you'd say. He also has a fancy handkerchief which sticks out of his jacket pocket, `Trip to the Planet Mars' style, and a matching tie. His whole outfit evokes the ultra-dynamic business management type, not without humour. As for me, I'm dressed in a quilted parka and `Weekend in the Hebrides' chunky pullover. I imagine that in the play of roles that's gradually falling into place I represent the `systems man', the competent but slightly oafish technician who doesn't have the time to worry about his appearance and is completely incapable of dialoguing with the user. That suits me fine. He's right, we make a good team.

    In getting all his brochures out, I ask myself if he isn't trying to attract the attention of the young girl sitting on his left - a student at the business school, and very pretty. His discourse would only seem, then, superficially directed at me. I permit myself a glance or two at the landscape. Day is beginning to break. The sun appears, blood red, terribly red above the dark green grass, above the mist-shrouded ponds. Small clusters of houses smoke far away in the valley. The sight is magnificent, a little scary. Tisserand isn't interested by it. Instead, he's trying to catch the glance of the student on his left. The problem with Raphaël Tisserand - the foundation of his personality, indeed - is that he is extremely ugly. So ugly that his appearance repels women, and he never gets to sleep with them. He tries though, he tries with all his might, but it doesn't work. They simply want nothing to do with him.

    His body is nonetheless close to normal. Vaguely Mediterranean in type, he is certainly rather fat; `stocky', as they say;