The Watcher in the Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page A

simple, but underneath it had more twists and turns than the road to hell. The best thing to do was to go with the flow, listen to the villagers and allow them to guide you through all the formalities newcomers had to complete before you could say you lived in Blue Bay.
    That is why, every time Simone went to the village to collect the post for Lazarus, she dropped by the bakery to get an update on past, present and future news. The ladies of Blue Bay received her warmly and soon began to bombard her with questions about her enigmatic employer. Lazarus led a secluded life and was seldom seen in the village. That, together with the torrent of books he received every week, had turned him into a source of endless curiosity and suspicion.
    ‘Imagine, Simone, dear friend,’ Pascale Sardé, the chemist’s wife, confided in her one day, ‘a man all alone – well, practically alone – in that house, with all those books . . .’
    Simone would usually smile when faced with such words of wisdom, but never breathed a word. As her late husband had once said, it wasn’t worth wasting your time trying to change the world; it was enough not to let the world change you.
    She was also learning to respect Lazarus’s complex demands concerning his correspondence. His personal letters had to be opened one day after they arrived and answered promptly. Commercial or official post had to be opened the day it arrived, but should only be replied to one week later. And he was adamant that any mail sent from someone called Daniel Hoffmann in Berlin should be handed to him in person, and never, under any circumstances, be opened by her. The reason behind all this was none of her business, Simone concluded. She liked living in Blue Bay and it seemed a fairly healthy place in which to bring up her children. The matter of which day letters should be opened on was something she felt gloriously indifferent about.
    For his part, Dorian discovered that even his semi-professional dedication to map making still allowed him time to make a few friends among the village boys. None of them seemed to care whether or not he was a newcomer; or whether or not he was a good swimmer (he wasn’t, but his new friends made sure he learned how to stay afloat). He also learned that pétanque was a game only those on their way to retirement played and that running after girls was the domain of petulant fifteen-year-olds at the mercy of hormonal fevers that preyed both on their complexion and their common sense. At his age, apparently, all you were supposed to do was ride around on your bicycle, daydream, and watch the world go by, waiting for the moment when the world would start watching you. And on Sunday afternoons, a visit to the cinema. That is how Dorian discovered a new and unspeakable love, next to which map making and the study of moth-eaten parchments paled in comparison: Greta Garbo. A divine creature whose very name was enough to make him lose his appetite, despite the fact that she was basically an old woman, just past thirty.
    While Dorian debated whether his fascination for such an old woman meant there was something seriously wrong with him, it was Irene who bore the full brunt of Hannah’s attentions. A list of single, desirable young men was top of Hannah’s agenda. Her fear was that if after two weeks in the village Irene didn’t begin to flirt, even half-heartedly, with at least one of them, the boys would think she was strange. Hannah was the first to admit that in terms of physical appeal the list of candidates passed the test reasonably well, but when it came to brains they were barely functional. Even so, Irene was never short of admirers, which provoked a healthy envy in her friend.
    ‘If I was as popular as you, I’d be making the most of it!’ Hannah would say.
    Glancing at the pack of boys milling around nearby, Irene smiled timidly.
    ‘I’m not sure I feel like it . . . They seem a bit foolish . . .’
    ‘Foolish?’ Hannah