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clinic in Poissy. Lhostis sends the cops home so as not to miss the France-Georgia game in the early rounds of the World Cup.
    Now he’s driving.
    The dark ribbon of the forest of Saint-Germain stretches out before his eyes. His two combat knives are lying on the front seat.
    He thinks the boat will be a fiberglass Beneteau, an excellent brand. White with blue trim and a Yamaha engine to propel the whole thing.
    In Marseilles, the water is seventy degrees.
    Here we are . The Myosotis clinic. Lhostis parks his Honda Civic in a nearly empty parking lot. The first floor is splashed by the light coming from the hall.
    The cop puts on round glasses, a white smock complete with a stethoscope in the breast pocket, and hides a combat knife at his back, stuck inside his belt. The woman at the desk is not from Africa. She stops reading muck about stars in Voici .
    “Doctor Granger. I’m in charge of Vania, the young woman you placed in intensive care.”
    “She’s been transferred. She’s in a private room now.”
    “I’m so happy. Doctor Varant told me I could come by and visit her this evening. Is that okay?”
    “Certainly, doctor, but I don’t have anyone to take you there. She’s in room 24, on the second floor. Will you be able to find your way?”
    “No problem.”
    The second floor is drowsy. In front of room 24, Lhostis grabs his knife, holds it tight inside his arm, opens the door.
    Vania is lying in the dark. All wrapped up in bandages. Her mouth is free but her eyes are closed. The cop moves slowly forward, slipping the weapon into his hand.
    Keller’s Tokarev goes plok and its slug rips the policeman’s left eye out. A splash of blood, the body sinks down. The chauffeur takes two leaps forward, catches the cop, and drags him to the sink. What he sees there under the light satisfies him. He filches Lhostis’s wallet, then draws near Vania. He turns on a lamp that casts a subdued light. She’s not asleep. Leaning over her, he runs his finger lightly across her lips. That mouth lets out a murmur.
    “Keller … take me away.”
    The chauffeur nods, puts his gun away, and lifts the fragile body up in his arms. The rain has stopped, the scenery behind the window stands out sharply.
    Keller knows an island far away, east of Sweden.
    It rains all the time there and fish are a staple. For now, that will do.

THE CHINESE GUY
    BY C HANTAL P ELLETIER
Ménilmontant
    Translated by Nicole Ball
    I t’s the last thing Luc said to me on his way out: “Don’t be stupid, Sonia, take your pills.” I nodded. I should have started my medication again but I thought I was stable and I was sick of gulping down all that shit every day. Outside, along our windows, the first hyacinths were cutting through the soil in their ceramic pots. We went out in the courtyard and I felt a surge of affection for the two cherry trees that were dying in front of the concierge’s apartment and for the grass blades pushing their chlorophyll between the lopsided cobblestones. Even the faded look of the façades, I liked.
    “Don’t worry,” I said.
    He hugged me, or more exactly, I hugged him. That’s how we were, us two. An inverted couple. I was taller, heavier. Luc had nothing athletic about him, and I had been a swimming champ as a teenager. Eighteen years later, I still had biceps, shoulders, and thighs to show for it. I think this is what Luc had liked: the masculine side of me. But that day, everything was over. Luc was leaving to face another opponent. We kissed on the cheek.
    I watched him go. I knew I wouldn’t take the time to get used to someone else again. Too much work, no more patience. As for Luc, he had started a new slalom without even bothering to train for it. So between the two of us, I was the one who smiled the most. Luc knew that by leaving he was doing a bigger favor for me than for himself. Which didn’t prevent him from feeling guilty. That almost pained me.
    He stepped outside the courtyard gate. I pictured him