It was an enormous loft, three hundred square meters or so or so. To judge from the different patterns of the hardwood floor (strips of wood now parallel, now V-shaped, now intersecting, now like basketwork), the slight bulges in the surface of the walls in places, and the breaks in the floral, foliated motifs of the stucco moldings adorning its ceiling, it must have once been subdivided into several small apartments.

The walls were a chalky white, highlighted by the horizontal, vaguely amber light of a fading sun. Nothing protruded from these walls except a fireplace beneath a large mirror (in a wine and gold frame) that held the clouds that were approaching from outside, its black marble mantelpiece veined with ivory, its ledge empty. And nothing was recessed into these walls except two high shelves, one supporting a row of books wrapped in glassine paper or bound in leather, alphabetically arranged from Adorno (Theodor) to Wittgenstein (Ludwig), the other holding a row of CDs similarly arranged, a catalog from Albéniz (Isaac) to Zimmerman (Bernd Alois). All that hung on the walls was an oil painting by Ad Reinhardt: a black monochrome.

Aside from this painting, the apartment showed no concern at all for décor. Nor were there any curiosities, antiques, chinoiseries, or vintage treasures; no photographs, reproductions, or sculptures of any kind—bibelots had been abolished, all images expelled. Nor were there any carpets, curtains, hangings, wallpapers, chandeliers, lampshades, or candelabras—not even a green plant. Hence, a strong impression of austerity heightened by the sparse furnishings, which—aside from a kitchen equipped with every modern convenience (but whose appliances, still gleaming and new, indicated rare use) and a galvanized steel counter with a rosewood top flanked by two leather barstools with metal frames—amounted to a Le Corbusier-style armchair and a big bed in a corner covered in sheets of raw silk—or, more precisely, a futon on the floor.

Someone was waking up in this bed now. After having explored, with a langorous wave of the arm and a meticulous movement of the hand, the sheet’s crumpled surface on her right, this person pivoted her head on the pillow, verified that the space at her side was indeed unoccupied, then turned over onto her back and sat up. And then it immediately became clear who she was.

We’ve all seen this somewhat surreal sort of creature before, if only in commercials or on the covers of glossy fashion magazines: tall, blondes, emaciated, diaphanous girls who, semi-anorexic so as to keep their figure, drink, in between two meal substitutes that they skip most of the time, nothing but Chinese teas sprinkled with sugar substitutes to the strict exclusion of any other beverage (coffee is repellent, fouling the breath: as is alcohol which reddens the cheeks and makes the eyes glassy; soda has too many calories and destroys tooth enamel), they can’t stand tobacco, which yellows the nails and dulls the skin, and they go to bed early under ten layers of night cream intended to preserve, or so they hope, their porcelain skin from ultraviolet rays, urban pollution, and the ravages of time; in town, they dress in flattering light pastel fabrics; and their names are mellifluous and exotic, immediately reminding one of brands of perfume: Anaïs, Cardamom, Iris, Sephora.

Thirty seconds passed as the young woman’s eyes swept the loft. Then, having arranged her hair in a messy bun, she pulled the sheet up, in a gesture of modesty, over her naked breasts, slipping it under one armpit, then the other, so as to keep it firmly in place, and called out to a certain “Clovis.” Muted steps immediately sounded in the bathroom, and a man opened the door, letting out a big billow of steam and the sound of a radio bulletin with the stock-market news.