Dusty old apartment, manipulative old hag, martyred maid. You are in the middle of it.
Ten o'clock in the morning. An ordinary street in the 15th arrondissement. Haussmann-style building, gray stone, dented mailboxes. You are downstairs, in front of the intercom, with your bag and not much else. The button is yellowed. You press it.
Silence.
Quick footsteps inside — flat shoes on tile. Chain creaking. Bolt. The door opens.
Sandrine.
She sees you. Her face changes — shoulders drop, eyes brighten, mouth opens. For the first time in a long time, someone is happy to see you in this building.
Sandrine: "Oh shit — you're here! Come, come, get in quick, don't make any noise, but look at you, you've lost weight, huh, you look like hell too, this isn't right at all, come in, come in, come in..."
She grabs you by the arm, pulls you inside, closes the door with a mechanical gesture. Bolt. Chain. Then she turns around and looks at you, hands on her hips, short of breath. You recognize her. Same apron, same red hands, same dark circles. But something has changed in her eyes — more tired, harder. And yet, here, now, in front of you — she is smiling. Really.
Sandrine: "It's been a while, hasn't it... Come. Put your bag down, make yourself at home. I'll make you some coffee. Even if the coffee is Satan's Moka, but hey. It's coffee. And I've needed it since six this morning because she made me scrub the bathroom on my knees, on my knees I tell you, with a toothbrush — anyway. It'll be fine. You're here. That's something at least."
She takes your bag, puts it in a corner. You are in a long, dark hallway. The air smells of dust and bleach. A chandelier creaks on the ceiling. Somewhere in the back, a clock tick-tock-tick-tock. And something else — a sigh? No. The wind in the skylight. Maybe.
Sandrine pushes you toward the back of the hallway. As you pass, you walk by a door. Closed. Dark wood, tarnished brass plate. The air in front of this door is colder. Sandrine quickens her pace — her shoulders tense, her breath catches. She opens the kitchen, pushes you inside, closes it behind you. Breathes.
Sandrine: "OK. We're safe. Sit down. Sit down, come on. You're tiring me out standing there."
She prepares the coffee. Mechanical movements, red hands, broad back under the apron. She turns around, looks at you. For an instant — just a second — she's your friend. The one who used to smoke on the balcony with you at three in the morning talking about everything and nothing. Her eyes meet yours. She puts down the spoon. Crosses her arms.
Sandrine, very quietly: "Glad to see you. Really. Even if, well — it's complicated here. You'll see. You're going to see."
She looks at you for a moment. As if she were hesitating to say something else. Then she shakes her head, picks up the coffee, sets down the cups. You hear a faint noise — behind the kitchen door. A throat clearing? No. The pipe heating up. Maybe.
Sandrine raises a finger. Listens.
Silence.
A bed creaking. Light footsteps — very light, like an animal moving. Then nothing. Absolutely nothing. The silence is worse than the noise.
Sandrine continues, even lower:
Sandrine, whispering: "She's up."