I went down to Barbès. Just like last time, people, crowded together, were waiting for the above-ground metro. They walked slowly on the sidewalk holding the characteristic pink plastic bags from the cheap Tati stores. I took Boulevard de Magenta, recognized Billy, a clothing store, which had anoraks hanging outside. A woman was walking towards me; through her black stockings with bold patterns, strong calves were outlined. Ambroise-Paré Street was almost deserted until you reached the vicinity of the hospital. I followed the long, vaulted corridor of the Eliza wing. The first time, I hadn’t noticed the kiosk in the courtyard that stretched along the corridor with the large glass windows. I wondered how I would see all this soon, when I would leave. I pushed the door with the number 15 and went up two floors. I arrived at the reception area of the laboratory testing department. I gave the clerk the little paper with my number. She searched through a card file and took out a brown envelope containing various papers. I reached out my hand, but she didn’t give it to me. She left it on the desk, telling me to sit and wait for her to call me.

The waiting room had two connected spaces. I chose the one closest to the doctor’s door, where there were also the most people. I started correcting the papers I had brought with me. Right after, a very young girl with long blonde hair handed over her little paper. I was sure that she, too, wasn’t given the envelope and was told to sit and wait. Others were already waiting, sitting at a distance from each other: a stylishly dressed man in his thirties with early balding, a young black man with a Walkman, a man around fifty with a worn-out appearance, slouched in his seat. After the blonde girl, a fourth man appeared, confidently sat in a chair, and took a book out of his briefcase. Then, a couple: she, wearing tight leggings over a pregnant belly, he, in a suit and tie.