The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière

twenty nor five ten. The schedule for the automatic calls had changed, and the line crackled loudly. “Do not hang up; your call is being answered by one of our representatives who will be alerted to your call by a beep.” Soft music followed, accompanied by an advertisement that highlighted the significant energy savings to be made by a well-insulated house. Exasperated, Madame Préau finally unplugged the phones in the living room and bedroom.

30
     
    On Wednesday, leaving her house to go to Dr. Mamnoue’s, the old lady noticed some droppings on the paving stones between the front steps and the gate. A pair of blue tits had taken up residence in the large ash tree. She thought it was a promising sign and an incentive to hold out until Sunday. Not having seen the stone boy for ten days was weighing on her mind. She never would have imagined that time could pass so slowly and that the hours would grind against each other to spite her impatience. At night, Madame Préau had started to dream again. Her dreams were circus acts. Mice rode astride one-eyed cats; Mr. Apeldoorn writhed about in a jar of brine; Dr. Mamnoue, dressed as a clown, walked around the floor with a big “wrong way” sign, holding the hand of a naked woman; her son Martin was in tears holding cotton candy; and in the middle of the tent, Bastien juggled pebbles in a pool of blood.
    “Don’t you want us to talk about something other than your phone and this lacto-fermentation diet?” Dr. Mamnoue said with a sigh.
    The question surprised Madame Préau.
    “What should I be telling you, Claude?”
    “About your dreams, for example.”
    “I told you: I don’t dream anymore since I started taking sleeping pills.”
    “And the child?”
    “The child?”
    “Your neighbors’ child; do you still see him in the garden?”
    Madame Préau leaned against the back of the chair where she sat at each session. She would have to give him something.
    “An investigation is ongoing.”
    “Oh, right. So this is serious, then? You contacted social services?”
    “Yes. The parents have been called in.”
    Dr. Mamnoue scratched his left temple.
    “Ah! Good. Are you absolutely sure?”
    “Do you mean am I sure that the child is being abused? I am certain of it.”
    The man shook his head.
    “You’ll keep me informed?”
    “Of course. It also works well with Swiss chard and radishes.”
    “What works with Swiss chard?”
    “Lacto-fermentation. You put them in a jar in brine for two or three days in the refrigerator. It doubles the enzymatic potential of the vegetables.”
    Dr. Mamnoue gave a chuckle.
    “First it was gravel, now it’s vegetables in jars. Luckily there aren’t jars big enough to fit me!”
    Madame Préau smiled back.
    “Who could have the daft idea of pickling you, Claude?”

    9 October 2009
    Care of his publisher
    for the attention of Mr. Pascal Froissart,
    Paris VIII teacher and author
Sir,
     
I have just finished reading your book about rumors. You make the distinction between history and fantasy. You claim that the Internet plays the role of both memory and distributor but that it does not create rumors. I think that the Internet is the most monstrous invention that man has ever created. Our worst fantasies are found there. It is the largest vehicle of perversity. It is out of the question that a computer would ever be found in my home. For that matter, I have always refused to get a Minitel.
     
You also say that you do not know how to stop rumors. Sociologically speaking, the more you deny it, the more the rumor will spread, and the greater the number of people who will still doubt you. Of course. Nevertheless, I think that the rumors that are circulating currently about our President are carefully orchestrated and have one sole goal: to instil in the people an image of a man who could be undermined. Believe me, Mr. Froissart—and this is not a rumor but a statement of fact—that man is the opposite of chaos. And he knows how to play