Hélène Barnèche
In the bus the other day, a man — quite a corpulent fellow — sat next to the window on the seat across from mine. It was a while before I took any interest in him. I raised my head only because I could feel his eyes on me. He was scrutinizing me in an immensely serious, almost divinatory way. I did what one does in such situations, I boldly held his gaze to demonstrate my indifference and returned to other contemplations. But I was uneasy. I felt the persistence of his interest, and I even wondered if I might not toss a remark his way. I was giving this notion further consideration when I heard, Hélène? Hélène Barnèche? I said, do we know each other? He said, as if he was the only one in the world, which was moreover the case, Igor. It wasn’t so much the name itself as the way he pronounced it that I recognized at once. A way of drawing out the