The courtyard, paved with brick and stone planted with lime trees and acacias, contains a small garden surrounded by hedges, which are tightly wrapped in a pool of water that spouts into an arched column, which today is slightly unbalanced because of the wind. A few sparrows, two or three jays or thrushes chirped in the bushes, accompanied by a white plastic bag with the inscription "Complete Repair Tools", which hung from a thin branch, blown round by the slightest wind, like a small sail, and it trembled and shook like an organism, making crackling and reedworm-like music. Underneath it, lies a children's bicycle with a support frame. In the corner of the courtyard are three insignificant rearview mirrors, and on the gate of each villa, a video surveillance camera is fixed, staring at this small panorama with small eyes open Although the branches of the lime trees block the view between the villas, Bengatnell can distinguish the striped folding canvas chaise longue on the terrace, the teak table, the balcony in front of the doors and windows, the large glass windows, and the pretentious television antenna. In the distance, a long strip of plump apartment buildings can be seen, showing some architectural difference, but everything is fine, there is nothing incongruous: the style of 1910 stands side by side with the fashion of 1970, so matched, it seems that the harmony of peaceful coexistence, the power of money is so strong that it can drown out the historical errors of nondescriptry.

The occupants of these villas seem to have one thing in common, they are around forty-five years old and earn a lot of money in different audiovisual fields. A fat young woman, in a blue office with a large headset on her head, typed on her computer an article that was broadcast nearby, and at nearly eleven o'clock every day, Bengartner had already heard it on a national radio channel. There was a little brown-haired man, with a wandering gaze and a smile on his lips, and he was not seen leaving the bench on the platform, and he looked like a movie producer or something, but the young ladies were always coming and going around him, good fellow. There was a female war correspondent of a television station, who did not live here very often, but lived in all the places where there was conflict on earth, and with her satellite phone, she jumped from mine to mine, sometimes with the Khmers, sometimes with the Chechens, for a few days in Yemen, and then in Afghanistan. When she returned, she closed the windows and doors and slept day and night to adjust for the jet lag, which Bengatnell didn't see very often, except on the screen of her own television.

But right now, he can't see it alone. On this morning, behind the Vietnamese embassy, there were five or six diplomats in thick sweatshirts and trousers, doing tai chi as usual. But now, inside the embassy fence gate, there was no one except a basketball board nailed to a tree, a not-so-decent swing, a rusty safe, and an empty chair under the empty base of the tall concrete wall. It seems that behind the fence gate, the weather is hotter and more humid, as if the embassy has created a microclimate in Southeast Asia. In any case, Bengatnell is just watching the world from afar.

If he was watching people, he was isolated and didn't greet anyone, except that every Monday he would go downstairs to the retired dentist and pay him a lot of rent, because he rented the house from the old dentist on a weekly basis. One might have come to the conclusion that Bengatnell had told the dentist from the outset that he would not be staying for long and that he would probably be able to go. Most of the time, he kept himself in his suite without leaving the house, but that didn't stop him from occasionally coming out to breathe when he was bored.

Now, he's just going out for a walk, and lo and behold, this isn't a war correspondent, she looks like she's just woken up, yawning and hurrying to some editorial meeting. It was a tall blonde woman in a tiny Austin sedan, her car was white-topped emerald green, the radiator had been broken, and the glass was stuffed with small strips with notices telling her to immediately take the car to the police station's vehicle, and the police chief, a friend of hers, was going to blow it up. Because this is a wealthy neighborhood, there are a lot of celebrities living there, and these celebrities know a lot of celebrities, and this is some very beautiful neighborhood, and there are a lot of paparazzi photographers who often come here.

It just so happened that two photographers were hiding under a porch in a large gate in Via Milan, holding large rectangular machines of gray plastic that looked not so much like cameras as television cameras, periscopes, surgical instruments, or even weapons with infrared sights. These curious paparazzi are surprisingly young, dressed as if they were going to the beach, short-sleeved shirts, knee-length shorts, but their expressions are very serious, and they have been staring intently at the opposite porch, no doubt waiting for a superstar and a new good friend of the star. Bengatnell stopped curiously, and waited quietly beside them for a moment, showing no sign of interest, until they politely motioned him to move away. He wasn't the more serious kind of person, and he left.

He was very leisurely, almost a little miserable, and he was going to go around the cemetery of Otteuil, which was very close, only a few steps away, and not very large, and in which many Englishmen, many barons, and captains of ocean-going ships rested.

Some of the tombstones were broken and abandoned there, while others were restored; One of the tombs, designed like a small pavilion, is decorated with sculptures and has the verses of the Creed inscribed on the carpet, which appears to be being renovated. Bengatnell passed by De Laai's grave without stopping—though he turned around and straightened a pot of overturned rhododendrons at the grave, past the grave of a stranger who was undoubtedly hard of hearing—the tombstone shouted loudly, and his deaf friends in Orleans missed him—and then, passing by the grave of Eubelrobe—the tombstone murmured, the dutiful son, the gentle husband, the kind father, the loyal friend—and then, something like that, enough: he walked out of the Oteuil cemetery and took Claude Brown. Rue Lorraine, towards Rue Michelangelo.

There, a little later, as the long-awaited superstar and his new lover emerge through the porch, two photographers begin firing at the pair. The little lover writhed and smiled like an angel, the superstar had a tiger face, and to hell with the photographer from the bottom of his heart, Bengatnell had just come back from the cemetery, and he didn't know what he was thinking, not realizing that he had actually broken into their lens on the way home. When he got home, he poured himself a glass of wine, and leaned down in front of the window to look at the view, and waited slowly for the twilight to come, and the daylight unhurriedly stretched and shadowed for the houses and plants, for the steps and the acacia trees, until these things themselves were immersed in a larger shadow along with their shadows, and the shadows dissolved their outlines, their colors, and at last digested them, drank them, and made them extinguish and disappear, and at that moment the telephone rang.

It's me, said the eel, and it worked out. Surely no one has found you? Bengatnell is still a little worried. Think about it, the eel said, and there was not even a shadow of a person behind it. To be honest, there wasn't even a single person in the store. It doesn't seem to be working very well now, you say. Shut up, stinky shit, Ben Gartnell said, and what else? Where is the goods now? According to the plan, everything is in the freezer, the eel replied, and it is parked in a small room in your rented garage near my house. Now, what do we do?

Tomorrow, we meet in Charenthorn, Bengatnell said, do you remember the address?

At this moment, Mnusken was still faced with a beer, the same glass and another glass under the sun, but if he hadn't left this neighborhood on the Left Bank, he had changed to a different bar. He now sits at the crossroads of Odéon, which, as is customary, is not the ideal place for a drink, although there are always loyal people who come here: it is an intersection, lively, profound, noisy, caught between red and green lights and traffic, and besides, the strong wind that runs through Dandong Street always blows cold. However, in the summer, when Paris becomes a little empty, the open-air seating of the café is worth a seat, the light is calm, the traffic is drastically reduced, and the sight of two exits from the same metro station is not blocked by anything.

Very few people walked in and out of the two subway entrances, and Mnusken watched them pass, particularly interested in the female pedestrians, who he knew were at least numerically outnumbered by the other half.

The same goes for the female pedestrians, he notes, and there are two kinds of people: one of them, when you watch them go up the stairs of the next subway entrance, and you just leave them, they look back at you, but not always, and there is, and there is, of course, not always, that they don't look back at you.

As for Mnusken, in the beginning, he always looked back to evaluate what class this new woman belonged to, whether it was the type that looked back or the type that didn't look back. Subsequently. If the other does not look back, he sees that it is useless for him to turn back more often, so he acts like her, retreating in her way, imitating her behavior and indifferently.

But no woman looked back at him to-day, and Mnusken would go home in a huff. With no empty taxi to find – the overhead lights are on, the monitor panel is off – and because time has generously permitted, it's not inconceivable to walk home. The road was quite far, but it was still completely walkable, and a little exercise seemed to clear up Mnusken's mind a little, and the jet lag that had not yet been reversed made his mind a little dizzy.

In the confusion, in the confusion of his memory, his thoughts were settled on the insurance company and the safe deposit box merchant, it was time for him to call, there was an estimate of the foundation stone of the statue that needed to be renegotiated, and Martinov, who had to be re-introduced, for at the moment he was the only artist in his hands who was a little bit of a sharp starter, and besides, the lighting of the gallery should be completely rethought, for now there was the new batch of antiques; In the end, he really didn't know if he should call Soni again. He swayed down the pavement, swaying between the shit, and as he approached Eminem Street, the cityscapes came flooding his face, a guy in sunglasses pulling out a drum from a white Lowell, a little girl yelling at her mother that she had chosen a swing after much consideration, and then two young women were arguing over a parking spot and wanted to swallow each other alive. A refrigerated pickup truck behind them flew away.

Arriving at the gallery, Mnusken was caught up in a conversation with an artist who had come from Rajep to show Ferre his plans. This is a mocking young sculptor, very confident, he has many friends in the art world, and he has many plans, and this is something that Mnusken can see. This time, instead of hanging a painting on one wall, he was going to use nitric acid to erode the collector's wall in place of a painting: he was going to make a small square of 24 centimeters by 30 centimeters, 25 millimeters deep. It might as well be said that I developed the concept of a negative work, that I was going to reduce the thickness of the wall, the artist explained, rather than adding to it. Sure, Mnusken said, it's interesting, but I'm not moving much in that direction right now.

We may be able to talk about some things in the future, but let's talk about that later, not for now. Well, we'll have to talk about that later, you leave your pamphlet here, and I'll look for you. As soon as Mnusken got rid of the Eclipse Master, he was going to settle all those outstanding questions with the help of a female assistant, and he had hired a young woman named Elizabeth to replace Draai, a man with anorexia but an overdose of vitamins, who was only doing probationary work and had to test her abilities. He had already entrusted her to start doing small things.

Then it's a matter of calling: Mnusken has found an insurer and a merchant who sells safes, both of whom will be coming tomorrow.

He reconsidered the estimates of the statue's cornerstone and called the cornerstone dealer again to schedule an interview this week. He didn't find Martinov directly on the phone, but left a mixture of wisdom in the recording of his message, mixed with admonitions, encouragement and reminders, in short, let him do a good job. He spent a long time with Elizabeth discussing the best way to improve the lighting in the gallery so that the polar artworks could be exhibited.

To make his mind clear, Mnusken suggested going into the studio and finding a piece or two, and let's do this, Elizabeth, experiment with ivory and a mammoth tusk, and you will see what I mean. With that, he walked towards the back of the gallery, and when he unlocked the studio, everything was in front of his eyes:

The door to the cupboard was pried open and wide open, and it was empty.

Now, I don't have to ask myself if I want to call Soni anymore.

Bengtnell had two large, locked suitcases in the doorway, and the suite was neatly packed as if he were going to vacate the room soon. He suddenly locked the door and walked out. Like a tuning fork, like the sound of a telephone ringing or a subway door before it closes, this dry, dull click produces an almost perfect tuning, and the strings of the Beshstein grand piano resonate at once: for ten to twenty seconds after Bengtnell leaves, the specter of a major chord wanders through the empty suite, then slowly disperses into wisps and finally disappears.

Bengatnell crosses the boulevard of Ike, then follows the boulevard towards the Seine, then turns onto the rue de la Gache, Chardond-l'Agache. During the hot summer months, the 16th arrondissement is even more desolate than usual. So much so that some corners of Chardon-Lagash Street show a picture of the decadence after a nuclear war. In the underground parking lot of a modern apartment building on Avenue Versailles, Bengtner found his car and drove towards the Seine, taking the fast lane along the riverbank until he left the fast lane just before the Pont de l'Sully.

He came to the Place de la Bastille, from where he turned on, long on the long Charenton Street and headed south-east, straight for the town of Charenton. In this way, he traveled the entire block along the vertebrae of the 12th arrondissement, which in this period was slightly more popular than the 16th arrondissement, which did not take as many vacations as the people of the 16th arrondissement. On the sidewalks, we can especially find some immigrants born in third world countries and some expats in the third age stage, slow, lonely and confused.

In the population of Charentham, the Fiat turned right into a small street named either Molière or Mozart, Bengartner never remembered which of the two street names, but he knew that it would eventually meet vertically in another fast lane, and beyond that fast lane was a small industrial area on the banks of the Seine. In this area, there are rows of warehouses, small rooms with metal plates, and some of them are painted with the name of the company, some of which are spray-painted and those that are not. There are also a number of rented storage warehouses, ranging in size from two square meters to 1,000 square meters, with a large sign in front of you that reads "Floppy disks for computer software". There are also three or two very quiet little factories here, which seem to be using only a fraction of their potential, and there is a filtration station, all of which are scattered around a stretch of road that seems to be nameless.

In the heat of summer, the area was emptier than anywhere else, almost silent: the only audible sounds were faint rumbles, low hums, echoes of unknown things in the distance.

No one came here all year round, and only two couples with their dogs walked to the site. Some of the instructors of the car driving school also took a fancy to the land, and they all came to take advantage of the zero degree of traffic and to improve the driving skills of the students without risk, and occasionally there was a tourist, a cyclist, with a machine on his shoulder, crossing the bridge and crossing the Seine to Ifri. From this pedestrian bridge, one can see many other bridges lying horizontally on the water. Just at the confluence of the upper reaches of the river with the Marne, a huge Indian city rises, and the buildings of this tropical-style commercial center face the flow and also face bankruptcy.

However, today, there is nothing here, not a trace of people. There was nothing but a small refrigerated truck parked in front of a storage warehouse, and there was no one except for the eel sitting in the cab of the car, equipped with a King's temperature control system. Bengtnell parked his Fiat sedan side-by-side on the side of the refrigerated van and rolled down the window, but instead of getting out: instead the eel jumped out of his van. The eel was hot enough to choke on it, and the eel complained. The sweaty look accentuated his scruffy appearance: his hair was a greasy mess of grass, stains of sweat were overlaid on his advertising T-shirt, and stripes of dirt crisscrossed his face like premature wrinkles.

It's done, said the eel, it's all here. What to do with them now? You move them here, Bengatnell replied, handing him the keys to the trunk of the car. You've got all the goods for me. You have to be careful and keep your hands and feet steady. Look at the weather, and the eel is talking again. Move for me, repeated Bengartnell.

Bengtnell remained behind the wheel, not leaving the cab, keeping an eye on the scene to make sure no one saw the scene, and he watched the cargo in the trunk of the car while putting on a pair of sheepskin gloves that were soft and light to the touch, sewn with linen thread. It was really hot, there wasn't a hint of wind, and the eels were sweating profusely. His drug-wilting muscles still trembled slightly under his T-shirt, and Bengatnell didn't like this, didn't like to look at this, didn't like to look at this, didn't like to still like to look at this. Then, as soon as the work was done, the eel returned to Fiat. It's done, he said. Do you want to take a look? Hey, you're still wearing gloves.

It's because of the weather, Ben Gartnell says, it's because of me, it's because it's hot. This is because of skin diseases.

It's none of your business. Are you really all off? It's all unloaded, said the eel. Wait, let me check, Bengatnell said, jumped out of his car and tapped the contents of the trunk.

Then he looked up again, frowning. One less, he said. A what? The eel said. A box, Ben Gartnell said.

There's a chest that's not in it. What are you kidding, drug addicts shouted, when they came, it was seven, and now it is seven. That's right. I don't think so, Bengatnell said. You go to the refrigerated truck and take a look, you must have forgotten one.

The eel shrugged his shoulders in confusion, and then, as he climbed up the back door of the truck's cold room, Bengtnell snapped his hand behind him. The eel's dull voice, which was giggling at first, then changed its tone, and then became uneasy. Bengtnell closed the latch, bypassed the cold compartment, opened the cab door, and sat down at the wheel.