I. The Staircase
Madame A. did not greet me in the drawing room. She let me in through the service door, like a delivery.
"You know the rule. Shoes off. Phone on the side table. And down you go."
The stone staircase sank under the house. Twenty-two steps. I had counted them the first time. I still count them, every time, like a prayer.
Down there, the cellar was not a cellar. Walls draped in black felt, low ceiling, a single warm light above a leather bench. And the smell — always the same — of wax, leather, and a perfume I can never name.
She came down behind me. Without a sound. When I turned around, she was already in the armchair, legs crossed, a glass in her hand.
"Get into position. I have no wish to repeat myself."
I obeyed. Knees apart. Hands behind my neck. Forehead on the cold floor. And I waited, because that is all I had been taught to do.