‘There’s something not quite right in your book,’ said Christine. ‘I don’t know what exactly, but for me it’s not quite right.’
‘I feel the same way,’ I answered.
‘Listen,’ said Christine, ‘you always agree with my criticisms, I can’t stand it.’
‘But I really do agree,’ I told her, ‘honestly. It must be a bit like that photograph of yours, the blow-up falsifies the context: you have to see things from a distance. Méfiez-vous des morceaux choisis.’
‘How long are you staying?’ she asked me.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow.’
‘So soon?’
‘My dead mice are waiting for me,’ I said. ‘To each his own work.’ I tried to imitate that gesture of resignation she had made when talking about her work. ‘They pay me for it, like you.’
She smiled and fitted the key in the door.