Free Blood Wedding by Pierre Lemaitre Page A

of smoking: “Depends . . . What kind of information you looking for?”
    “I need papers,” Sophie says.
    “What papers?”
    “A birth certificate. The name doesn’t matter, all I care about is the date. Well, the year. I thought maybe you might know someone . . .”
    Playing out this scenario in her head, Sophie imagined that her request might be greeted with compassion, perhaps even complicity, but that was sheer fantasy. It was only ever going to be a business transaction.
    “I really need it. And it has to be reasonable. All I’m asking for is a name, an address . . .”
    “It don’t work like that, love.”
    Before Sophie can react, the woman turns on her heel and stalks off. She is left standing there. Then the woman turns back and says simply:
    “I’ll have a quiet word. Come back next week.”
    Thewoman holds out her hand and waits, her eyes fixed on Sophie who hesitates, delves into her bag and takes out a second banknote which is snatched away.
    *
    Now that she has settled on a plan, and since she can think of none better, Sophie does not wait for the outcome of the first step before moving on to the second. Perhaps it is a secret desire to tempt fate. Two days later, during a break in the middle of the afternoon, she goes on a reconnaissance mission. She is careful to choose a target far from both the restaurant and her apartment, on the other side of the city.
    She gets off the bus on boulevard Faidherbe and walks for some distance, using a map so she will not have to ask for directions. She goes straight past the agency, walking slowly to give herself time to look in the window, but all she can see is an empty desk, some filing cabinets and a number of posters on the wall. She crosses the street, turns back and goes into a café from which she can watch the office without being seen. From here it looks as disappointing as when she walked past: it is the sort of place where there is nothing to see, the sort of office that strives to be impersonal so as to discourage passers-by. A few minutes later, Sophie pays for her coffee, strides across the street and pushes open the door.
    The agency is still deserted, but a bell jangles above the door and a moment later a woman appears. In her forties, with dyed red hair in desperate need of attention and too much jewellery, she thrusts out a hand enthusiastically as though she and Sophie had known each other since childhood.
    “Myriam Desclées,” she says.
    Her name seems as fake as the colour of her hair. “CatherineGuéral,” Sophie says and, paradoxically, it sounds genuine.
    It is clear that the manageress likes to think she knows a little about psychology. She props her elbows on the desk, cupping her chin in her hands, and is gazing at Sophie, her eyes filled with a mixture of sympathy and pain intended to demonstrate that she has spent long hours dealing with human suffering. Long, billable hours.
    “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” she whispers gently.
    “A little . . .” Sophie ventures.
    “Tell me about yourself, Catherine.”
    Mentally, Sophie thinks through the notes she has patiently prepared, in which every element was weighed and considered.
    “My name is Catherine, I’m thirty . . .” she begins.
    The interview could have gone on for two hours. The manageress is using every trick of the trade to persuade Sophie that she is “understood”, that she has finally found the patient, worldly mentor she has been seeking, that she is in good hands, the hands of a universal mother, a sensitive soul who can intuit what is left unspoken, a gift she communicates through small facial tics that signify “No need to say any more, I understand,” or “I feel your pain.”
    Sophie’s time is limited. As awkwardly as she can, she asks for some information about “the nature of the process”, and makes it clear that soon she has to be back at work.
    A situation such as this is always a race against time. One person wants to leave, the other