France BOUVIER

— "So you're the one who sells parrots?"

Some might have found the question innocuous, but not Jack Brown. Undeterred by his caller's silence, he repeated, with the same gentle manner and a strong Asian accent, "You're the one who sells parrots, right?" He had to play along, betraying no hint of excitement, and reply with a curt "yes." The voice on the other end sounded young, perhaps in his thirties. Then came the click of a lighter lighting a cigarette, followed by a long silence during which the man must have taken a few drags.

— We need to meet today at 6pm at the Beijing crossing.

Jack was about to answer, but the man hung up before he could. He glanced anxiously at his watch as his thoughts raced wildly, contorting his face and paling his complexion as if he'd just glimpsed a ghost he thought had vanished into the recesses of his memory. Without hesitation, he headed for the front door and locked it behind him. He didn't take the bus as usual, probably to minimize the risk of being late. The packed subway left no seats available. The succession of stations certainly wasn't fast enough for Jack to be staring at his watch, his brow furrowed, his hands sweaty, looking like an automaton whose mechanism had just been wound up. The streets crisscrossed, forming a convoluted labyrinth beneath his feet where getting lost would have been child's play were it not for the buildings clipped together like Lego bricks with sharp angles, their vanishing points guiding him toward his final destination. Breathless, he leaned against a dirty wall next to a shop closed off by graffiti-covered metal shutters and observed for long minutes, like a profiler, the comings and goings of ordinary passersby.