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years, not a day has passed without him thinking, She only chose me because I forced/blackmailed/threatened her, and I need to know if she will stay with me again, now, of her own free will . This is what is running through his head as he enters his office, where a woman is waiting for him, curled up in a chair and crying her eyes out. This is his life: violence. This is his life: a ten-square-meter office filled with people who come with or without an appointment, who enter and say hello my husband beats me my son beats me I’m here illegally my daughter is pregnant my son is in prison, who say they insulted me they raped me robbed me I’m living on the street, who say I’m on a credit blacklist I can’t afford to feed my children I only eat every other day, who say I’m alone I’m a widow(er) I’m old, who say I don’t have any children I have ten children I’m dying help me help us, who cry for help, and every time he knows what to do, he finds a solution. He likes being with these people, listening to them, talking to them, calming them down, explaining things to them, going out of his way for them, making phone calls to find them money or a place to live. His life is other people. He likes being useful—it gives his life meaning, it lifts him up—but not this morning, because his mind is full of Tahar, overflowing with Tahar, just thinking about it gives him a headache. So, no, today he doesn’t work—he just sits at his desk, head in his hands, and waits for Nina’s call. When the day is over, he still hasn’t heard from her. It’s five p.m. He goes home and finds her lying on the couch, reading a magazine. He walks up to her, kisses her, and asks if she’s called Samir. Yes, she did, but he wasn’t there—“His secretary said he’d call me back.” “That’s all?” “Yep, that’s all.” “So what else did you do today?” “Oh, I never stopped.” But he can see, in her worried look, that she spent the whole day waiting for that call.

10
    Nina Roche called . Samir pinches himself. He has to read the words three times over to convince himself that he’s not dreaming—it really is her name written on this Post-it note. Could it be a coincidence? Someone else with the same name? He leaps to his feet and runs out of his office, charging into his secretary and demanding: “What time did she call? Did she say anything in particular?” “No, nothing.” He is trembling. He feels like he’s going to faint, to collapse in a rush of emotions.s
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    It must be a joke. It can’t really be her. Impossible. Twenty years without a word, and now this? He goes back into his office, sits down, cradles his head in his hands, and laughs quietly to himself. I can’t believe it . Then he convinces himself that it really is her, that she wants to see him again, twenty years on and she’s filled with regret, he feels sure of it now. But how does he feel about it? Do I really want to see her again after all these years? To see her twenty years older? Has she changed? Why now? He’s trembling, confused. He wants to talk to her right now, out of curiosity, to hear her voice, and suddenly he remembers that he has lied—that he’s no longer Samir Tahar, that she must know nothing of his life here, he must never see her again, it’s too risky. How would he react if he saw her now, twenty years after she left him? He doesn’t call her, but he’s dying to. He can think of nothing but her, and then—realizing that it’s nearly one a.m. in Paris—decides that he has to call her now or never. It’s too strong—he can’t bear it anymore—he has to get back in touch with her. He can feel, he knows: You’re going to destroy your own life, your calm, ordered, perfectly structured life . And yet he says to his secretary, in a voice that