The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Read Free Book Online Page A

beg you, she might be insane, or a murderer. Hurry, I’m very frightened.”
    The agent took down her name and address then assured her that in five minutes a patrol would be there.
    â€œHello? Hello? Are you still there?”
    â€œHmm . . .”
    â€œHow do you feel, Madam?”
    She didn’t reply.
    â€œStay on the line, don’t hang up. There. That way you can let me know if anything happens. Repeat in a loud voice what I’ve just told you so that this person will hear and know that you’re not helpless. Go ahead. Now.”
    â€œYes, you’re right, Officer. I’ll stay on the line with you, so that this person can’t try anything without you knowing about it.”
    She’d shouted so loudly that she couldn’t hear her own voice. Was it distinct? She hoped the intruder, despite the distance, the door, and the coats, had heard what she’d said and become discouraged.
    Nothing moved in the dark recesses of the apartment. Such tranquility was more alarming than any amount of noise.
    Odile murmured to the policeman, “Are you there?”
    â€œYes, ma’am, I’ll stay right here.”
    â€œI . . . I’m feeling a bit panicky.”
    â€œDo you have anything to defend yourself with?”
    â€œNo, nothing.”
    â€œIsn’t there some object you could wave that you could use to frighten this person if she gets the wrong idea and starts acting aggressive?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo cane, or hammer, or a statuette? Have a look around.”
    â€œOh, yes, there’s my little bronze statue . . .”
    â€œGrab it and pretend it’s a weapon.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œCall out that now you’ve got your husband’s gun in your hand so you’re not afraid of anything. Say it loud.”
    Odile took a deep breath and bawled in a somewhat hesitant voice, “No, Captain, I’m not afraid because I have my husband’s gun.”
    She sighed, and fought a strong urge to piss on herself: her threat had sounded so feeble, no intruder would ever believe her.
    She heard the voice again on the telephone: “Well, how did they react?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œFine. She’s frightened. She won’t budge until our men get there.”
    A few seconds later, Odile was speaking to a policeman on the entry phone, then she opened her door and waited for the elevator to bring them up to the tenth floor. Three big sturdy men emerged.
    â€œOver there,” she said, “she’s hiding in the closet.”
    Odile shivered when they pulled out their weapons and headed down the corridor. To avoid watching a spectacle that would be devastating for her nerves, she preferred to take refuge in the living room, and from there she heard a vague commotion of threats and orders.
    Instinctively, she lit a cigarette and went to stand by the window. Outdoors, although it was early July, the lawns had turned yellow, the trees were losing their reddened leaves. The heat wave had struck the Place du Trocadéro. It had struck all of France. Every day it was fine-tuning its labor of death; every day the evening news lengthened its list of the latest victims: homeless people lying on the burning tar, old people in the hospices dropping like flies, babies expiring from dehydration. And that didn’t include all the animals, flowers, vegetables, trees . . . And wasn’t that a dead blackbird she could see just down there, on the grass in the square? Stiff as an ink drawing, his feet broken. Pity, blackbirds have such a lovely song.
    Consequently, she poured herself a tall glass of water and swallowed it down, just to be on the safe side. True, it was terribly selfish to be thinking of her own welfare when so many others had succumbed, but what else could she do?
    â€œMa’am, excuse us, ma’am?”
    The policemen, at the door to the living room, had trouble rousing her from her meditation on