The Reader on the 6.27 by Jean-Paul Didierlaurent

well.’
    Guylain had never managed to call Yvon by his first name. It was nothing to do with their age difference. He had no problem calling Giuseppe by his first name, even though he was older than the security guard. It was more a mark of esteem for his art. Yvon responded enthusiastically to the idea of exporting his voice beyond his tiny hut. Taken aback by his eagerness, Guylain, however, expressed some reservations as to the audience’s ability to follow the rule of classical theatre’s three unities. Yvon reassured him:
‘ Fie on wars of power, and on treasons sublime,
On all these dark princes, who will concoct their crime.
History won’t matter, as long as sings the rhyme
And a hope still lives on to reach the peak in time. ’
    As Yvon was already beginning to plan a programme of play readings going from Pierre Corneille to Molière and Jean Racine, Guylain reminded him that all this was still just a suggestion and that he would have to negotiate the arrangement with the Delacôte sisters. Guylain glanced at his watch and left hurriedly. He had an appointment at the occupational health clinic for his annual check-up at 1.30 sharp.
    A pasty-looking healthcare assistant greeted him and asked him to remove all his clothes except his underpants. She weighed him, measured him, gave him a hearing test and an eye test, took his blood pressure and dipped a little stick in the bottle of urine he’d brought in. Five minutes later, a sun-bronzed doctor the colour of gingerbread called Guylain in for a summary check.
    ‘Right, everything’s fine, Monsieur . . . Vignolles . . . is that right, Guylain Vignolles? No particular problems to report? You appear to be in good shape, even though you are close to the lower limit of the curve.’
    No, everything’s not fine , Guylain felt like replying. I’m waiting for the return of a father who died twenty-eight years ago. My mother thinks I’m an executive in a publishing company. Every night I tell a fish about my day. My job sickens me to the point that I sometimes puke my guts out. And to crown it all I’m falling under the spell of a girl I’ve never met. In a nutshell, then, no problems, except that in every single area of my life I am ‘close to the lower limit of the curve’, if you see what I mean. Instead, Guylain gave a laconic ‘I’m fine’. After a few recommendations on the importance of a healthy diet, the doctor scribbled his verdict at the bottom of the file. It was summed up in three words – three little words that entitled Guylain to continue the massacre with impunity: Fit for work.
    That evening, Guylain went over to Giuseppe’s. Sometimes he needed more than a goldfish to share his feelings. For nearly half an hour, he talked about the USB stick, explained how he had devoured the seventy-two documents it contained. He told Giuseppe excitedly about Julie; how the young woman wrote about her day-to-day life in little notebooks surrounded by 14,717 white tiles. The old man listened attentively and took in every word of what his friend was telling him.
    ‘How can I find her? I don’t know anything about her,’ lamented Guylain. Giuseppe smiled.
    ‘You know a lot more about her than you think. Don’t be so defeatist,’ Giuseppe reassured him. ‘Do you think my legs grew back in a day?’ he said, pointing to the shelves bowing under the weight of the Freyssinets. ‘Have you got the stick with you? Download those files for me and I’ll have a good look at them. There can’t be that many toilets in shopping centres that have attendants.’
    When Guylain left, Giuseppe pumped his hand profusely. ‘I’ve got a feeling in my bones that you too will succeed in your quest,’ murmured the old man with a smile.

18
    Every Thursday evening, as the flashily dressed celebrity presenter with his smug, smart-arse face appeared on screen, Guylain telephoned his mother. Why Thursday and not another day, he couldn’t say. That was just how it was, for