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behaving carnivorously, or attacking bathers. The public suspicion of silurids seemed, to some extent, to have rubbed off on the men who fished for them; the small group of silurid anglers were not well liked by the larger family of anglers. They felt they suffered as a result and wanted to take advantage of this program to improve their negative image. It was true they could hardly suggest gastronomy as their motive—the flesh of the silurid was completely inedible. But it was an excellent catch, intelligent and at the same time requiring sportsmanship; much like pike fishing, it deserved a wider following. I paced around the room a little, unable to get warm; I couldn't bear the idea of sleeping in my father's bed. In the end I went upstairs, brought down pillows and blankets, and settled myself as best I could on the sofa. I switched off just after the credits of "The Silurid Demystified." The night was opaque, the silence also.

2
    All things come to an end, including the night. I was dragged from my saurian lethargy by the clear, resonant voice of Captain Chaumont. He apologized, he hadn't had time to come by the previous evening. I offered him coffee. While the water was boiling, he set up his laptop on the kitchen table and hooked up a printer. This way he could have me reread and sign my statement before he left: I made a murmur of approval. The police force was so completely snowed under with administrative work that it did not have enough time to dedicate to its real task, namely, investigation —or at least this was what I had concluded from various television documentaries. He agreed, warmly this time. This interview was getting off to a good start, in an atmosphere of mutual trust. Windows started up with a cheerful little sound.
    The death of my father occurred in the evening or the night of November 14. I was working that day; I was working on the fifteenth, too. Obviously, I could have taken my car and killed my father, having driven there and back overnight. What was I doing on the evening or the night of November 14? Nothing, as far as I knew, nothing significant. At least, I had no memory of anything, though it was less than a week before, I had neither a regular sexual partner nor any real close friends, in which case how can you be expected to remember? The days go by, and that's it. I gave Chaumont an apologetic look. I would have liked to help him out, or at least point him in the right direction. "I'll have a look in my diary," I said. I wasn't expecting anything to come of this, but curiously, there was a cell-phone number written in the space for the fourteenth beneath the name Coralie. Who was Coralie? The diary was completely meaningless.
    "My brain is a mess," I said with a disappointed smile. "But, I don't know, maybe I was at an opening."
    "An opening?" He waited patiently, his fingers hovering some inches above the keyboard.
    "Yes, I work for the Ministry of Culture. I plan the financing for exhibitions, or sometimes shows."
    "Shows?"
    "Shows . . . contemporary dance . . . " I felt completely desperate, overcome with shame.
    "Generally speaking, then, you work on cultural events?"
    "Yes, that's it. You could put it like that." He looked at me with a compassion tinged with seriousness. He had a vague but definite awareness of the existence of a cultural sector. He must have had to meet people from all walks of life in his profession; no area of society could be completely alien to him. Police work is a truly humanist calling.
    The rest of the interview proceeded more or less normally; I had watched a few made-for-TV movies, so I was prepared for this kind of conversation. Did I know any enemies my father might have? No, but no friends either, to be honest. In any case, my father wasn't important enough to have enemies. Who stood to gain by his death? Well, me. When did I last visit him? August, probably. There's never much to do in the office in August, but my colleagues have to go on