From the driver's seat, I could no longer hear the young man's voice. Bengtnell pushed a small flap valve located behind the driver's seat, flicked a latch, and opened the square peephole.

This hole can be used to communicate with isothermal carriages, and it is about the size of a ten-pack cigarette case:

If it allowed a glance backwards, it was too small to reach a hand.

Alright, Bengartnell said, it's over now. Wait a minute, the eel said, what are you doing? Don't be stupid, I beg you. Enough, Bengatnell repeated. Now, you can finally shut up for me. I've never done anything bad to you, and the eels are still begging for mercy stupidly. Let me out. I can't, Ben Gartnell said, you're going to get in my way. You may get in my way, so you will get in my way. Let me come out, the eel is still begging, or else this matter will be exposed, and it will cause you trouble. I don't think so, Bengatnell said. You don't have a legal social identity, you see.

People won't find out about anything. It is not even possible to arouse the interest of the police. No one knows you, except your drug dealer, and he won't go to the police to inquire about your whereabouts.

Do you want people to find out that you don't exist anymore? Who can notice the absence of a stranger?

Shut your foul mouth and stay inside. Everything will be done quickly, just a little heat and cooling.

Don't, don't, the eel said, don't, please stop boasting about your Haikou, please. He was still trying to convince Bengatnell, but suddenly he felt that he had run out of skills. Besides, he's still dying, but he's already discouraged, and your thing is just a lame trick. In all the TV series, that's how they kill people, and it's really nothing new. You're right, Bengatnell admitted, but I'm willing to accept the influence of the show. TV drama is an art like anything else. Alright, alright, now, you've said enough. He then tightly sealed the peephole, and as soon as he started the motor, he started the compressor at the same time. Anyone who has gone to college knows the thermodynamics that make an isothermal car or any refrigerator work: in the inner walls of the machine, a gas circulates and moves to absorb and carry away the heat stored inside. With the help of a small motor placed above the cockpit and a compressor that keeps the gas flowing, the hot air turns into cold air. In addition, there are two temperature classes to choose from: minus 5 degrees Celsius or minus 18 degrees Celsius. Bengatnell made a special reservation by phone the day before yesterday, and it was precisely this latter temperature grade.

The theft of antiques clearly marks a terrible loss. The budget for an expedition to the Great Arctic cost Mnusken a lot of money, but now it is running a deficit like a bamboo basket. It rained overnight – it was a bad season for art – nothing could be sold in the gallery, and of course, the creditors chose this period to remind you of their existence, artists came in to demand their final payments, and bankers confessed their worries. Then, when the end of summer came, as in previous years, all kinds of taxes came to express themselves, the threat of tax reform, miscellaneous donations of various names, lease renewals, and registered letters from the directors of the society. Mnusken began to feel cornered.

There are so many things that need to be called to the police, of course. Once the theft was confirmed, Mnusken called the 9th District Police Station, and a tired-looking judicial police officer arrived at the gallery a few moments later. The visitor confirmed the damage, recorded the case report, and asked for the name of his insurance company. Well, Mnusken said, these items haven't had time to be insured. I'm about to do it, but ...... You are a complete fool, and the officer rudely interrupted him, humiliating him for his carelessness, and making it clear that the fate of the missing items is hard to tell, and that there seems to be little hope of regaining them. Such cases, he says plainly, are rarely solved, because art trafficking is a highly organized network: even if the best is expected, the case seems to drag on for a long time. We'll have to wait and see what we can do, but the future is slim. Still, I'll send you a judicial expert, and the officer finally said to see if he could find out. In the time before he came, of course, you didn't touch anything.

A few hours later, the technologists arrived. He didn't introduce himself right away, but walked around the gallery a few times, perusing the artwork. It was a small, thin man with short-sighted eyes, blond hair, thin and soft, always smiling, as if he was not in a hurry to get to work. At first, Mnusken took him as a possible client—are you interested in modern art?—— but only then did the visitor reveal his professional credentials and reveal his identity – police officer Paul Sulpan, a judicial expert. This profession, Mnusken said, should be quite interesting. You know, another one said, I'm just a lab technician, and I don't know much about anything without my electron microscope. But yes, yes, all of that, I'm interested. Turning to Mnusken's studio, he opened his gear system, a toolbox containing traditional parts: a camera, a small glass bottle containing a clear liquid, powdered medicine and pliers, and a few pairs of gloves. Mnusken watched him work until the other retired. He was a little discouraged, he had to recover quickly, and he began to fever exaggeratedly.

Summer goes on slowly, and the heat stains time with a sticky paste, as if its flow is stopped by the friction of the molecules that it rises to the heat. With the vast majority of the working population on vacation, Paris has become softer, more sparse, but not more breathable, because the air is stagnant and full of toxic gases, like a smoky bar before closing. People are taking advantage of the less congested traffic in the city, digging roads everywhere for repairs: the impact of steam hammers, the rotation of drill bits, the tumbling of concrete mixers, the smell of fresh asphalt in the foggy sun. Mnusken didn't pay much attention to all of this—he had so much to think about, and besides, he had traveled through Paris by taxi, going from bank to bank, borrowing money in vain, and even starting to think about mortgaging the gallery to raise money.

It is for this reason that he is seen on the sidewalk of September 4th Street at eleven o'clock in the morning, on a hot day that can bake people out of oil.

The street, called Fourth of September, was so wide and short that money made its pulse beat.

Its houses in the style of Napoleon's III period, almost all identical, are home to international and non-international banks, insurance companies, brokers, temporary employment agencies, editorial offices of financial magazines, stockbrokers' offices, asset managers' offices, joint property managers' companies, real estate exchanges, law firms, antique numismatic shops, and the wreckage of the Lyon Trust Bank, which was destroyed by fire. The only restaurant on the corner is called "Speculation". However, on this street one can also find the office of a Polish airline, as well as a copy shop, a travel agency, a beauty shop, a winner of the World Championship in Hairdressing and Barbering, and a memorial plaque in memory of a 19-year-old soldier of the Interior Army who died in the service of France.

On the 4th of September, there are still thousands of square metres of renovated office space to be rented, some of which have been renovated under close electronic surveillance: some old houses have been vacated, leaving only the walls, columns, statues of the goddesses and crowned heads hanging from the gates. The floors were renovated and, by executive decree, transformed into spacious rooms with double glazing and a panoramic view, so that they were still and always here Accumulating more and more capital: as can be seen everywhere in the summer in Paris, workers in hard hats are busy at work, with drawings in hand, sandwiches in their mouths, and talking on walkie-talkies. In two days, this was the sixth bank that Mnusken had run, and when he came in, hoping to raise a loan, he went out empty-handed, and the letter of request he carried with him was already stained with the wet sweat marks from his hands.

After this request was hit again, the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, revealing a very spacious hall, empty but with many couches and coffee tables.

Mnusken had neither the desire nor the strength to go home immediately as he traversed this space, preferring to sit on a couch for a while. I don't know if he is tired, pessimistic, disappointed, or courageous, how can people see his essence from the outside?

For example, in the heat of the present day, by the dress he was wearing, by staring intently at the little dust on his sleeve, and not bothering to dust it off with his hands, because he let a lock of hair fall down to cover his eyes, and did not want to brush it up, or, above all, he did not react in the slightest when a woman was clearly passing through the hall.

Given that this woman is beautiful and moving. This is even more surprising. As long as you know the slightest bit about Mnusken, according to the least logic, he should have been tempted. It was a tall woman, young and slender, with statue-like curves, lipstick on her lips, light green eyeshadow on her long eyes, and her hair curled and dyed bronzed. She wore a pair of high-heeled leather shoes and a fluttering black dress, with a low back and shiny herringbone knick-knacks dotted with shoulders and waist.

When she passed by him, if she had changed to anyone else, or to change himself in his normal state, she would have thought that the clothes were there just to take off for him to see, or even to show him. In addition, the blue scroll tucked under her arm, her pen that gently rubbed her lips thoughtfully, were props in an innocent form, and she herself was like an actress in some kind of movie, performing the opening scene, and in such a scene, people could say nothing and just wait for the scene to start to heat up.

In this way, she just didn't wear any costume at all. Mnusken had barely had time to notice this detail, though he was not more interested in it, at least not more than in the decoration of the hall, when he felt a feeling of weakness, as if all parts of his body were suddenly deprived of oxygen.

A weight of five hundred kilograms seemed to weigh on his shoulders, head and chest at the same time.

A sour, metallic smell and a spicy smell of dry dust welled up in his mouth, filling his head, his throat, his neck, and turning into a mixture of suffocating people: rushing sneezes, intense hiccups, deep nausea. There was no way to react, his wrists seemed to be clenched tightly by handcuffs, and his spirit seemed to be soaked in a feeling of suffocation, extreme anxiety, and imminent death. There was a tearing pain in his chest, from his throat to his dantian, from his navel to his shoulder, through his left arm and left leg. He watched himself fall off the couch as he saw the ground rushing towards him, albeit slowing down at the same time. Then, as soon as he fell to the ground, he lost his ability to move, and then, as well as his balance, he lost consciousness—it was impossible to know how long he had been unconscious, but for the first moment, he must have remembered the warning that Dr. Deman had warned him that too cold and too hot temperatures were bad for the coronary arteries.

In addition, he quickly regained consciousness, although at the moment he could not even say a word: now, his eyes were not dark, not as dark as the screen when the television was turned off, no, his vision continued to function, like a camera, after its operator suddenly died, fell to the ground, but still continued to shoot, recording everything that fell to the camera in a fixed frame: a corner of the wall and the parquet floor, an unframed column base, a section of pipes, Machine cut a piece of bonded wool on the edge of a carpet. He tried to get up, but fell harder in the struggle. Others ran up, but it didn't seem like a young woman in blue, and he felt someone lean down at him, someone took off his coat, someone lay him flat on his back, someone went to find a phone, and then the ambulance crew arrived quickly in an ambulance.

The ambulance crews were a couple of young lads, quiet, strong, and reassuring, dressed in navy blue overalls with leather gadgets and snap hooks on their belts. They lightly lifted Mnusken onto a stretcher and carefully carried the stretcher into the carriage. Now, Mnusken feels protected. He didn't expect the seizure to be very similar to the one in February, only more uncomfortable, and he wanted to find something to talk about in the ambulance, but he was kindly signaled that it was best to keep his mouth shut until he reached the hospital. He had to keep his mouth shut. Then he fainted again.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing that caught his eye was a patch of white around him, just as he had seen on the ice floes. Mnusken lay on a single bed with an adjustable height, the mattress was firm and tightly wrapped, and he was the only one in the small room, except for the white, only a little green in the distance, which was a section of trees reflected in the frame of the window. The sheets, the quilts, the walls of the room, and the sky were all the same white. The only green idea, the distant tree, could be one of the thirty-five thousand plane trees planted in Paris, one of the seven thousand linden trees, or one of the thirteen,500 chestnut trees. But it is also likely to be one of those trees we can still encounter in the last clearing, and we may never remember what it is called, or it may not even have a name, but is just a giant weed, a wild flower that inexplicably sprouts. Despite its distance, Mnusken tried to recognize it, but the slight effort was enough to wear him out, and he closed his eyes again.

Five minutes later, or the next morning, when he opened his eyes again, the background remained the same, but Mnusken, this time, restrained himself from opening the tree's file. It was hard for him to confirm whether he was trying not to think about anything, or if he wasn't thinking about anything at all. When he vaguely sensed and made out that there was a foreign object hanging from his nose, which made him squint slightly, he wanted to reach out and touch it to see what it was, but his right forearm would not listen to the call.

It turned out that his forearm was tied to the bed gang with a bandage, and a very thick infusion needle was pierced on it, which was held in place with a large piece of translucent plasticine. Mnusken began to understand what was happening, and what he had confirmed was only a matter of form, and after touching it with his left hand, he figured out that the foreign object fixed under his nostrils turned out to be an oxygen tube. Just then, the door opened, and outside the door was a young woman, dressed equally white, but with dark skin, and she put her head in the door, and then turned to a woman who was supposed to be a nurse or something, and told her to inform Dr. Sara that the 43rd was awake.

Mnusken was left alone again, and he tried to make out the distant tree again, but he couldn't make it out, but though he still couldn't make out, he didn't fall back asleep. Still cautiously looking at the background, he turned his head to look at the various instruments placed in front of his bed, as well as the computer and the screen, which should reflect the state of his heart: the numbers on the liquid crystal were trembling and changing, and the curves were moving from left to right, always repeatedly, like the back wave pushing the front wave, similar to each other, but different. A telephone was placed at the head of his bed, and an emergency oxygen mask was hung from a screw. Mnusken endured the pain patiently, and outside, the sun had set. The white of his room changed to a gray wool color, and the color of the distant tree darkened to patina, and then to the green of the carriage. At last, the door opened again, and this time in came Dr. Sarah himself, with a thick, black beard, and a wine-bottle green overalls, and a small hat of the same color:

So, time stopped in green.

Sarah, examining his patient, told him that after he was brought to the hospital, they had to put him through a series of resuscitation measures, but none of them could bring him back to consciousness, and now, everything seemed to be smoothly transitioning. But when someone came to change the dressing and bandage him, after the sheets were removed, Mnusken found that his entire left arm and left calf, as well as his chest, had been completely restitched.

The work was beautifully done, and it was indeed a master's work, a long, delicate English stitching, so neat that it was reminiscent of a drawstring with Renaissance lace, or the reverse of a piece of low-grade fashion, or a line of text.

Very well, the doctor made a concise summary after the examination. Recovering well, he added as he flipped through the nursing records hanging at the foot of the bed as the nurse was dressing Mnusken in a pajama that had been rigorously sterilized with sodium hypochlorite solution. According to Sarah, it would be better to keep the patient in the acute care unit for another three or four days before being transferred to the general ward. Then, if everything is normal, he can be discharged from the hospital after two weeks.

The next morning, Mnusken did feel a little better. He took a moment to ask himself which of the people around him he could tell about his illness. It seems that it is best not to inform Lu Qianqian, anyway, she has not heard from him for more than half a year, and besides, she is likely to be indifferent to his notice. Likewise, he did not want to frighten his family, which in any case seemed to him to be a very scattered, very distant archipelago, which was being submerged by the rising seas. Come to think of it, and to be honest, there was no one left in Mnusken's life, and in the end, he decided to at least hang up the phone to the gallery that afternoon. Although Elizabeth had quickly become accustomed to his brief absence, she would still be open every day as usual, taking care of the gallery's business, and it would be better to let her know where he really was. However, there is no rush in this matter. Also, it's best to keep the gallery closed for a few days until he's healthy, which might not be a bad thing in the current off-season. Let's call again tomorrow. At the moment, he didn't want to do anything, just planned to sleep well, but who knew that it was such a coincidence, at this moment, the female nurse reported that someone had come to visit him. Mnusken mechanically tried to lean out of bed, but no, he was too weak to move.

Then there appeared a young woman, whom he did not recognize, and who he could hardly recognize, as she had changed so much from the way she had been on the street on the Fourth of September: she was now dressed in a blue blouse with brown-red stripes, a dark blue skirt with a high slit, and flat shoes. One of the straps of the jacket is about to slip off. However, she still doesn't wear heavy makeup. After a few seconds of confusion, he finally recognized her, and for a moment Mnusken felt unsightly in his pajamas like this: he made a mechanical gesture and tuffled his dirty hair, which was a mess like starch from the electrical conduction plate of the electronic encephalogram during the routine examination he had received in the hospital.

Despite the fact that the young lady's strap seemed to slip off at any moment, and the slit of her skirt was so high, her posture was truly incomprehensible, and from the first second she saw her, she knew that things were not going to work out between them. The more he was able to look at the nurses with his feeble body and mind, with his half-open eyes, and wonder whether they were wearing or not wearing any other fabric under their overalls, the more the one in front of him could not arouse his passion more spontaneously than a nun of the Sight Society—and this unfatted practice was likewise of a religious nature. It may have been obvious to him that he had subconsciously recognized that she was too high for him, but no, she didn't have that much appetite for him.

She would not have stayed for more than five to ten minutes, in any case, she explained that she had learned the address of the hospital from the first responders and that she just wanted to see if he was better. Well, well, as you can see, Mnusken said, embarrassed, forcing a smile and gesturing with a general gesture to the oxygen cylinder and infusion tube. After that, there was no more substance between them, and she didn't seem to be good at talking, and stayed at the door, as if she was ready to walk away. Before she left, she said that she would come back to visit him again if he wanted to. He agreed, but he did not care much about this girl, and he really did not see the point of her visit, and he did not quite understand what she was thinking of him.

For the three days that Mnusken had to remain in the intensive care unit, the young lady would visit him every day, always at the same hour in the afternoon, and each time it would not exceed a quarter of an hour. For the first time, she would pull the bulky, not-so-clean-looking armchair with a blue-gray plastic belt in front of the bed and sit on it. Then, when she had stood up, she would stand for a moment in front of the window, which had always framed the distant tree, through which there would be a burst of bird's chirping from the tree, making the emerald green sparkle and flutter leisurely. On the second and third days, she would sit at the foot of the bed, which had been so densely embroidered on the sheets, that Mnusken would no longer dare to move as if she had been stuck, her instep arched into a bow, and her toes curled up under the sheets that were as taut as a tent cloth.

However, on the afternoon of the third day, before she leaves, he will ask her what her name is. Elena. Hélène, okay. Yes, a pretty name. What does she do in life? She will hesitate for a moment before answering.

At this time, Bengatnell was trying to park his car in front of a large hotel on the edge of Mimi Beach, on the edge of the fields that had been cultivated during the current normal cultivation period, in the north-west of the Pyrenees-Atlantic department. The hotel doesn't look particularly magical, but it's hard to find a decent place in the current season, and the house itself is full: its spacious parking lot is full of vehicles with foreign licences, thanks to Bengatnell's advance reservations.

So, he drove slowly along the path of the parking lot, and from time to time he came across a pair of brightly colored shorts, and the whole family walked towards the beach. The sun was sticking to the landscape, the tar was soft, and the barefoot children jumped and jumped on their feet. All the seats in this garden parking lot were full, not a single one was empty, row by row, row by row, all the same, Bengartner might be angry, but he had time, and finding a space allowed him to fill it. He was careful not to park his car on the ground with a wheelchair symbol on it, which indicated that it was a space for people with disabilities. In doing so, Bengatnell did not mean that he was particularly civic, nor that he was particularly sensitive to the fate of this part of the population, no, in the depths of his consciousness there was a vague fear that he would become disabled himself because of some kind of reincarnation that no one could explain, because of some kind of infection that no one could explain.

Once the parking problem was resolved, Bengatnell took his luggage out of the Fiat's trunk and walked to the entrance of the hotel. The walls of the front of the house looked to have just been painted, milky white constellations crept out in some of its corners, and the lobby was filled with the smell of lime slurry, astringent and fresh, reminiscent of spoiled and sour milk. Around the house, one can still make out some traces of the work that has just been completed, and some of the baskets on the edge of the parking lot are piled up with plastic waste, and the cement that has been glued together into slabs is piled up in a dead corner. The front desk, which was also covered with red spots, scratched his right shoulder restlessly while confirming Bengatnell's reservation in the register.

The room was dark and unpleasant, the fragile and stilted furniture looked like an imitation of a prop on a theatrical stage, the bed appeared to be bent into a hammock, and the closed curtains were out of proportion to the size of the window. On a hard, dejected couch, a mess of lithographs depicted something like a zinnia, but Bengartnell's attention was not on it: he put his luggage down and went straight to the phone, where he took off the receiver and dialed a number. The phone may be busy, because Bengatnell grimaced, hung up the receiver, took off his coat, and circled the suitcase without opening it.

A few minutes later, when he went into the bathroom to wash his hands, the faucet turned on and off, causing the water to rush and stop, causing the entire house to crash with an earthquake-like crashing sound, and then, when he came out of the bathroom, Bengatnell nearly slipped on the brick floor. When he returned to the room, he drew the curtains, stood in front of the window, and saw that the window was facing a patio, a pillar of dim air, and a small diameter chimney with dirt on the top. It was too much, and Bengtnell, who was sweating profusely, picked up the phone again, called the front desk reception, and asked to change the room. The receptionist tickled and told him the number of the only empty room upstairs, but the hotel staff was so listless that no one came to help him carry his luggage, so much so that he had to carry the suitcase upstairs himself. Upstairs, the same scene unfolds, all the same: Bengatnell still wants to make a phone call, but the line is always busy on that end. He almost had another seizure, but he held back his breath as he opened his suitcase and placed his clothes in the black-rumbling closet and pine cupboard. Then he looked at the new room, which was a ridiculous stand-in for the first room, as if it were a reprint of a lithograph on a couch: only this time, the saffron on the pattern drove away the zinnias. If its windows were monotonous and open to the parking lot, it would at least let in some sunlight, and at least allow Bengatnell to see his car from the window.

As it happens, I'm also a doctor, and Hélène will reply later, but that's not true. Besides, not anymore, I mean, I'm not practicing medicine now. In addition, she had never healed anyone, and she preferred basic research to duplicate patients, but, in any case, an inheritance plus a living allowance allowed her to finally abandon medical research two years ago. Her last job was at the saltpeter hospital, doing immunology research, I looked for antibodies, I observed if they were there, I counted them, I tried to see what they looked like, I analyzed their activity, you understand? Of course, anyway, I think I understand, Mnusken said hesitantly. After Bengatnell changed rooms, two days later, it was Mnusken's turn to change rooms, as Dr. Sara had promised, and he moved to two floors down.

It was quite similar to the previous room, but it was one and a half times larger than before, because it had three beds. There were far fewer medical devices in the room, the walls were a very light yellow, and the windows no longer opened to any trees, but to an ordinary brick building. Mnusken's next bed, on the left, was a sturdy ox-like man from the Ali region, who appeared to be in good health, and Mnusken, who had never known what was wrong with him, and to his right was a slightly frail Breton, much like an atomist with farsightedness, who was always leaning over to read a pictorial magazine, tormented by an irregular heartbeat. They were not often visited, the mother of the person with an irregular heart rhythm came twice (I could not hear their whispering at the base of their ears, and no information was intercepted), and the brother of the Ali region came once (commenting on an unusual game with a loud voice, with very little information). The rest of the time, Mnusken's relationship with them will be limited to the choice of television programs and the control of volume, bargaining.

Hélène came to see him every day, and Mnusken, as always, did not appear to be particularly warm to her, and when she pushed open the door of the ward, he did not show the slightest hint of happiness. It's not because he has a grudge against her, not at all, but because he's absent-minded. The opposite bed in the same ward was the opposite, and from the first appearance of the young girl, they seemed very excited. Then, in the days that followed, they stared at her in their own way—the direct gaze of the people of Ali, the sideways of the people of Morbion, their squinted glances. But the greed of his neighbors does not fall on him simulatingly, and it is a common thing to say - you know what I am saying: you did not have any special desire for one person at first, but the second person desires him instead of you, and gives you the idea and even the permission or even the command to desire the first person, and such things sometimes happen, which is obvious to all, but not here, such things are not seen here.

At the same time, it's quite convenient, and if someone is willing to care about you, you can buy something, which automatically brings you to everyday topics, which you can then revisit with the Bretons. If flowers were allowed to be brought into the hospital, maybe she would have brought some flowers as well.

On each visit, Elena inquired about Mnusken's condition and examined the curves and charts hanging from the bed frame with a professional eye, but the scope of their conversation did not go beyond the boundaries of this diagnosis.

However, apart from her previous professional activities, she never spat a word about her past.

The key points of inheritance and living expenses mentioned above, which have potentially rich biographical significance, have also become topics that should never be explored.

For his part, Mnusken never remembered to talk about his own life, and anyway, he felt that in the present period, the previous life was really not so eloquent and not so enviable.

In the early days, Hélène came every day, as if this was her profession, as if she had a kind of volunteer visitor's mission, and when Mnusken began to ask herself what she wanted to do, he was obviously afraid to ask her. She's unbiased, almost cold, and even though she seems to be completely at your fingertips, she makes you feel overwhelmed. What's more, the possibility at your fingertips is not everything, and it doesn't necessarily stimulate desire. In any case, the weary Mnusken feared his bankruptcy in particular, not of the doctor but of the banker, and that he was constantly anxious that he could not care about romance. Of course, he was not blind, and of course, he could see clearly that Elena was a beautiful woman, but he always looked at her through a glass mirror that resisted temptation and impulse. It's just a little abstract or very concrete communication, it doesn't leave room for emotion, it locks the valve of emotion. It's a bit disappointing, but at the same time it's quite reassuring. Soon, she probably admitted it herself, for she had reduced her visits, only visiting once in two or three days.

Three weeks later, however, when it was time for Mnusken to be discharged from the hospital, Hélène offered him that she should take care of him and return home. It was a Tuesday, and it was near noon, and Mnusken was a little weak, carrying a small bag in his hand, and his legs trembling as he walked. She showed up and they called a taxi.

And he, incorrigible, though Hélène sat quietly in the back seat with him, and behold, he had already begun to look at the girls on the sidewalk through the windowpane of the taxi, until she brought him home, or rather, to his door, and Hélène did not enter. But isn't it a no-brainer to invite her to a meal, the next day, or a day later, this week, I don't know, I, I seem to think it's pleased. Mnusken made an appointment.

Well, then, tomorrow, it is better to determine the matter as soon as possible, and then they should think about which restaurant to meet suitably: after a moment of hesitation, Mnusken suggested to her a newly opened one, on the rue du Louvre, next to the church of Saint-Germain, which I don't know if you are familiar with. She was familiar. So it's decided? See you tomorrow night!

But first, from early the next morning, Mnusken resumed his work. Elizabeth had reopened the gallery two days earlier and told him the few things that had happened during his hospitalization: not many new works, not many letters, not a single telephone message, not a single half-page telex, no e-mails. A normal backwater murmur in the off-season. There was no activity among the collector regulars, and it seemed that everyone was still on vacation, except for Rybala who had just called, and predicted his visit, and lo and behold, while he was talking about him, he came, and the glass door opened, and Rybala came to him, as usual, he was dressed in a navy blue flannel suit, and his shirt was embroidered with small initials. I haven't seen him in a while.

He arrived, shook hands, and shouted how good he felt after buying Martinov's work at the beginning of the year, you remember, the tall young Martinov. Of course I remember, Mnusken said.

All of them are still young, more or less. Do you have any new works from him after that? The merchant was troubled. Of course there are, Mnusken said, some small works, but I haven't had time to hang them all out, have I, I've just reopened. You've seen most of my works here. But I'd like to take another look, Rebala claimed. With that, he wandered around the gallery, with a puzzled look on his face, moving his glasses around the bridge of his nose, or biting the legs of his glasses, hurried past most of the works, and finally stopped in front of an oil painting, a 150 cm × 200 cm oil painting on canvas, showing a scene of a group fight, hanging in a large iron frame with barbs at the beginning of summer. After twenty seconds of contemplation, Mnusken walked over to him. I think this one is very appealing to you, he said. Interesting, huh?

Well, perhaps, Rebala said thoughtfully. This, I think I enjoyed hanging it in my home.

Obviously, it's a bit too big, but what makes me especially awkward is the frame. Couldn't it be changed to a different box? Wait a minute, Mnusken said, you've seen it, it's a bit violent after all, and you must think it's a bit rude. This framework, the artist made it specifically for this, isn't it, because it's also part of it. It's all part of the work. If you say that, I'll understand, says the collector. Obviously, Mnusken said, plus, it's not expensive. I'm going to think about it, Rebala said, I'm going to talk to my wife. It's also because of the subject matter, you know, which is kind of sensitive. Because there's a little bit of that, after all, I don't want it to cause anything. I totally understand, Mnusken said, think about it. Tell her all of this.

After Rebala left, no one else pushed open the gallery's doors until it closed, and the gallery closed earlier since Elizabeth came to do things. A little later, Mnusken would have seen Hélène again in the appointed restaurant, a spacious, darkened dining room with small round tables covered with white cloths, brass lamps on the tables that exuded intimacy, bouquets of flowers tied up with great care, and exotic young waiters offering attentive and tender service.

Here, Mnusken often meets people he knows a little bit of, but he doesn't necessarily greet them, but he always has a good time with the exotic waiters.

Tonight, he had better restrain himself a little in this regard, so as not to annoy Hélène, who was still so bad at words, and wore a light gray dress with thin white stripes to-day. If this outfit was, alas, not so bare-chested, Mnusken had noticed that around the young woman's neck, strung by a thin white gold necklace, hung a bow and arrow-shaped pendant, and the arrow was very clearly pointed at her breast, which attracted attention and maintained your alertness.

Whether it was naïve or skillful, Hélène rarely spoke, but at least she was a good listener, and inspired her interlocutors with a precious monosyllabic word or two, asking the right little questions at the right time to avoid too long silences. Mnusken's gaze fell on the bow and arrow on her chest at regular intervals, trying to lift her spirits, but not ensuring success, as she had done when she came to visit him in the hospital, which gave birth to and held on to some greed in his heart - for this could not be explained well, as those present at the time could attest to that Hélène was a woman who could make people think about it - so Mnusken talked about his profession to make sure that the basic points of the conversation were: the art market (which is very quiet in these times), the artistic tendencies of the present day ( It's a little complicated, it's very subtle, if you will, we can go all the way back to Duchamp), the current art debate (Hélène, you can imagine that art and money collide violently when they come into contact), collectors (who are becoming more and more suspicious of each other, which I know very well), artists (who don't understand each other more and more, which I understand very well), models (there are no more classicist ones, I think this is completely normal). To avoid making a fool of himself, he resisted not telling about his travels in the Great North and the bad things that followed. But, in spite of the superficial nature of his words, and the fact that all the doors were open and deep, they did not seem to annoy Hélène, and Mnusken, as was his custom, suggested that he should go for his last drink after dinner.

However, it is often under these conditions — coming out of the restaurant and having the last drink — that a man kisses a woman with his heart, and of course he has to be careful not to eat garlic and red cabbage beforehand, and not to drink too much alcohol. It's fashionable, and it's perfectly possible, but at the moment, there are still no such conditions.

It was never known if Mnusken was too shy, or if he was worried about rejection, or if he just wanted to go so far.

It is not excluded that Dr. de Man, who had worked psychoanalytically before becoming a cardiologist, would say to him that myocardial infarction and subsequent hospitalization will lead to a temporary narcissistic tendencies in you, but not immediately a fundamental psychological rupture, I assure you, but potentially some small inhibitions. Narcissistic tendencies are bullshit, Mnusken will answer him, and for now, he slips away in the face of a hug, but he still invites Hélène to visit his gallery someday, since it all interests her. The day she came to the gallery, it was raining, it was nearly evening, and she was wearing neither an oil-blue or light-gray dress, nor a suit with a low neckline, but a white shirt, a pair of white jeans, and an oversized raincoat. They talked for five minutes, and Mnusken, who was still not at ease, explained a few works (a small painting by Bukele, four piles of things by Estrela) and then left her alone in the gallery. Ignoring Martinov's small paintings, she spent a lot of time admiring the photographs of Mary and Nicol Kimar, placing two fingers on a bellows installation of Schwoz, at the end of the gallery, and then, only slightly slowing down before the painting of the group fight. Mnusken followed her with the eye of his eyes as he leaned on his desk, pretending to be with Elizabeth looking at the binding layout of the upcoming exhibition of Martinov's catalogue. At this time, Sputini suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Ah, Mnusken said cheerfully, it's you, Spontini. Which gust of wind brought you here?

At the end of the gallery, Elena finally understood that the man named Sputini had not come to introduce his work, nor had he been blown or blown by the wind, but had come to complain. The word contract comes out of the mouth. The term clause is mentioned. Percentages are debated. Hélène stood too far away to listen to the full conversation from beginning to end, and suddenly, she seemed particularly interested in Bukele's recent work, which hung behind her desk. You see, I, Mnusken said, I have a certain idea of my work, and I think it's worth fifty percent of the work. Now, you, you think it's only worth 40 percent, let's say, then we can't talk about it anymore. I think that's too high, Sputini said, I think it's too big. Indeed, I find it too huge. Out of proportion.

To put it bluntly, I don't know if I'll treat Abipol better, but he's just waiting for me, Abipol, whom I saw the day before yesterday at the opening of Castagnier's exhibition.