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being made to talk to washing machines, or fire hydrants, or robots with whom she had no common language. Then her phone rang. For the first time in days it was a relief. Excusing herself with an apologetic gesture, she ran out.
    It was only a journalist who’d dug up her number and wanted to know if the abduction story was true.
    No comment, she said, but if he would wait until tomorrow, there might be a story.
    He asked in a hostile way if that was all. Was there nothing else she could give him?
    “Not right now,” she said, “sorry.”
    Back in their hotel room, Leo immediately began to complain. These people! Did they have to be so stupid ?
    “Their lives aren’t easy,” she said. “None of them has had the career they hoped for. None of them is living where they wanted. Do you think they actually want to be here?”
    She looked out of the window. Ralf Tanner’s face was staring at her from the poster on the building opposite, so gigantically enlarged that it was no longer human. She found herself thinking about the scandal she’d just read aboutsomewhere: Tanner had been set upon in a hotel lobby by a woman who screamed at him and slapped his face. Several tourists had filmed it and now it was on YouTube. And if Carl, Henri, and Paul were shot, beheaded, stoned, or burned alive, there was a good chance people would be able to see that too.
    “I can’t go on!” said Leo. “Do you know how often I’ve been asked today where I get my ideas from? Fourteen. And nine times whether I work in the morning or the afternoon. And eight times people have told me what trip they were on when they read something of mine. And the food was disgusting. Next month I’m supposed to be in Central Asia. I just can’t. I’m going to cancel.”
    “Where are you meant to go?”
    “Turkmenistan, I think. Or Uzbekistan. Who can tell the difference? Some writers’ junket.”
    “Why ever did you accept?” she asked, incredulous.
    He shrugged. “You’re supposed to see the world. Confront things. You’re not supposed to avoid all dangers.”
    “Dangers?”
    He nodded.
    Of course her reaction was too extreme, and once it had passed, she had to ask herself what had come over her, since they had never had a fight before. But just at that moment she could no longer control herself. What did he think he was talking about? He’d never once been in danger in his entire life, he needed help even to tie his own shoes, he was afraid of spiders and airplanes and went topieces if a train was late! Driving through cities in cars under the protection of bureaucrats wasn’t dangerous, it was a joke, and she couldn’t take his whining for one more minute.
    He didn’t say a word, but watched her attentively, almost with curiosity, arms crossed. She didn’t stop until she lost her voice. Her fury had exhausted itself. She looked around for her suitcase. Time to leave. It was over.
    “Exactly!” he said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “This is how it could go. Two people traveling together. She has real responsibilities; he is always sniveling, and a pain in the ass. Lara Gaspard and her new lover. A painter. But …” He fell silent for a moment and seemed to be listening to some inner voice. “But she knows he’s a genius. In spite of everything.” He sat down at the little hotel writing desk and began to scribble.
    She waited, but he’d obviously forgotten she was there. She lay down in bed, pulled the covers over her head, and was asleep in a matter of minutes.
    When she woke up, he was still there—either he hadn’t moved, or he was back there—at the desk. Pale predawn light was filtering through the window. She vaguely remembered that they’d made love during the night. He had come to bed and turned her onto her back, and in the half dark under the bedclothes they’d come together in exhaustion and a strange state of rage. Or had she dreamed it? Her memory wasn’t too reliable, probably posttraumatic stress disorder,but it