Mes soeurs, j’ai une idée pour un tour que j’aimerais que nous jouions.

Quel est le tour que tu as en tête, ma soeur ?

On trouve une cible et on la suit, on apprend ses allées et venues. Le jour du tour, on porte toutes la même robe, la bleue poudrée.

Oh, c’est une très jolie robe.

Je préfère la vert avocat. Mais si ça nous aide à jouer le tour, mes soeurs, je porterai la bleue.

Merveilleux, oui, ça nous aidera énormément. Puis je suivrai la cible dans le métro et m’assurerai qu’il me voit. Je peux apporter un livre ou un mouchoir que je laisserai tomber par terre pour attirer son attention.

Tu peux lui faire les yeux doux. C’est ma façon préférée d’accrocher une cible.

Nous avons des yeux si profonds et sombres, ils ne peuvent jamais détourner le regard.

Peut-être que tu peux engager une conversation.

Peut-être, mais seulement des plaisanteries. Nous devons garder une certaine distance avec la cible, ou le reste du tour ne fonctionnera pas.

Alors tu le suis jusqu’à sa destination ?

Oui, mais je ne quitte pas le train. Je le laisse partir, et lui fais un signe de la main quand les portes se ferment.

Puis il te voit disparaitre dans le tunnel. Partie.

Oui, c’est pourquoi il ne s’attendra jamais à te voir dans la rue, à la sortie d’un café, en bleu poudré avec tes yeux noirs comme les miens !

Délicieux ! Il pensera que je suis toi !

Oh, quelle surprise !

Est-ce que je lui parle ?

Tu ne dois pas lui parler, tu ne dois pas laisser entendre que tu le connais. Mais tu dois faire semblant d’être surprise aussi, au point de renverser ton café sur lui. Et tu dois crier !

Crier ?

Crier à glacer le sang ! Paniquer, trébucher sur une bouche d’incendie en s’éloignant de lui à reculons, terrorisée !

Il sera si bouleversé !

Et ensuite tu t’enfuiras, ma soeur, aussi vite que tu peux !

Quel merveilleux tour ce sera.

Ce n’est que le début. Car toi, ma soeur, tu dois être à l’affût, tapie sur son lieu de travail.

Dont nous aurons appris l’emplacement en l’observant précédemment.

Oui, et tu te cachera dans les toilettes des femmes.

Mais s’il y a plusieurs toilettes ?

Tu te mettras dans celles qui sont la plus proche de l’entrée, car il cherchera les premières toilettes pour hommes disponibles pour nettoyer le café sur son costume.

Et je quitterai les toilettes des femmes juste quand il s’approchera, et je le surprendrai en criant de toute mes forces!

Non, tu ne dois pas crier.

Oh, mais j’aimerais être une soeur qui crie.

Non, tu dois rester silencieuse et le traiter comme un parfait étranger. Il peut commencer par avoir peur, ou il peut crier, ou il peut essayer d’engager la conversation avec toi, ma soeur, mais tu dois résister, prétendre que tu ne l’as jamais vu avant. S’il te parle ou fait un pas vers toi, tu dois t’éloigner et réagir avec défiance.

C’est un rôle complexe à jouer, je vais m’en délecter !

Oui, c’est subtil mais pas moins important. Et puis tu t’en vas, et nous le laissons prendre place, confus, dans sa journée de travail.

Aha ! Et dès qu’il partira déjeuner, je serai là pour l’accueillir !

Non, ma soeur, le tour final sera bien plus savoureux si nous attendons. Il aura déjà vu la même femme trois fois, dans des endroits impossibles les uns par rapport aux autres. Laissé à lui-même, cela le rendra perplexe pour le reste de la journée.

Mais nous devons frapper lorsque sa confusion est au maximum !

Patience, ma soeur. Si nous le laissons reprendre sa routine, sa confusion se démultipliera lors de notre prochaine intervention. Toi, ma soeur, tu te placeras derrière une fenêtre visible depuis son bureau, de l’autre côté de la rue. À un moment dans l’après-midi, il s’arrêtera pour réfléchir et regarder par la fenêtre. C’est à ce moment-là que tu lui feras signe.

Avec un sourire figé sur mon visage ? Lent et effrayant ?

Non, ma sœur, avec un regard authentiquement joyeux. Tu devras être heureuse de le voir.

Oh, je le serai, anticipant la suite de ce tour.

Oui, je pense qu’il sera bon.

Moi aussi.

Il ne croira pas que tu es réelle, et il sortira peut-être de son bureau pour aller chercher un collègue pour venir te voir.

Mais je me cacherai !

Exact. Tu ne dois pas être vue par quelqu’un d’autre que la cible.

Donc quand le collègue part et qu’il se remet au travail…

Avec une confusion accrue…

En effet, je réapparais et je fais signe à nouveau ?

Oui, et tu lui fais signe. Il se croira fou, mais avec un peu de chance, il quittera son bureau et viendra dans ton immeuble.

Je l’attends là-bas ?

Oui, mais nous devons trouver un bâtiment dont l’entrée est vitrée, afin qu’il te voit et sache par quelle porte entrer. Tu dois attendre dans le fond du hall pour pouvoir te glisser dans la cage d’escalier avant qu’il ne te rattrape.

Une course-poursuite ! Je prends les escaliers vers le haut ou vers le bas ?

Tu les monteras, ma sœur, mais sur un seul étage, puis tu t’accroupiras. C’est là qu’une sœur située à un niveau inférieur commencera à courir en descendant.

J’aimerais être cette sœur ! Je peux courir très vite.

Magnifique ! Alors il la suivra !

Il suffira d’apercevoir mon bleu poudré pour l’attirer vers le bas à ma suite !

En effet, et tu seras suffisamment en avance sur lui pour atteindre le dernier niveau et entrer dans une pièce sombre. Très probablement une sorte d’entrepôt.

Il me suivra et ouvrira la porte, bien entendu.

Et tu attendras qu’il le fasse, positionnée derrière la porte de façon à ce que dès qu’il sera entré, tu la refermes définitivement derrière lui.

Et j’allumerai les lumières ?

Oui. Et là, il nous verra toutes, mes sœurs. Les unes assises en haut des étagères, les autres debout sur des cartons empilés à différentes hauteurs, rassemblées en petits groupes ici et là, mais la plupart rassemblées en une foule autour de lui à la porte, nous toutes, les deux cents sœurs, toutes dans nos robes bleu poudré, le fixant de nos yeux sombres.

Oh, la tête qu’il fera !

Sisters, I have an idea for a trick I’d like us to play.

What is the trick you have in mind, sister?

We find a mark and follow him, learn his comings and goings. Then on the day of the trick, we all wear the same dress—the powder-blue one.

Oh, that’s a very pretty dress.

I prefer the avocado-green. But if it helps us play the trick, sisters, I’ll wear the blue.

Wonderful, yes, it will help enormously. Then I’ll follow the mark onto the subway and make sure he sees me. I can bring along a book or a handkerchief to drop on the ground to get his attention.

You could make eyes at him. That’s my favorite way to hook a mark.

We have such deep, dark eyes, they can never look away.

Maybe you can strike up a conversation.

Perhaps, but only pleasantries. We must keep a certain distance from the mark, or the rest of the trick won’t work.

So then you follow him to his destination?

Yes, but I don’t leave the train. I let him go, and wave good-bye as the doors close.

Then he sees you whisked away into the tunnel. Gone.

Yes, which is why he’ll never suspect to see you on the street, exiting a coffee shop, in powder-blue with your dark eyes just like mine!

Delicious! He’ll think I’m you!

Oh, what a surprise!

Do I speak to him?

You mustn’t speak to him; you mustn’t imply that you know him. But you must pretend to be surprised too, so much so that you spill your coffee on him. And you must scream!

Scream?

Scream bloody murder! Claw at yourself, tumble over a fire hydrant as you back away from him in terror!

He’ll be so overwhelmed!

And then you run away, sister, as fast as you can!

What a marvelous trick that will be.

That is only the beginning. For you, sister, must be lying in wait at his place of work.

Which we’ll have learned from observing him before.

Yes, and you’ll conceal yourself in the women’s restroom.

But if there are multiple such restrooms?

You will put yourself in the one nearest to the entrance, for he will seek out the first available men’s room to clean the coffee from his suit.

And I’ll leave the women’s room just as he approaches, and scream bloody murder at him!

No, you mustn’t scream.

Oh, but I’d like to be a sister who screams.

No, you must remain silent and treat him as a perfect stranger. He may start with fright, or he may scream, or he may attempt to engage you in conversation, sister, but you must resist, pretend you’ve never seen him before. Should he speak to you or reach out to you, you must pull away and react unfavorably to the encroachment.

This is a complex part to play, I’ll relish it!

Yes, it is subtle but no less important. And then you leave, and we allow him to settle, confused, into his workday.

Aha! Then as soon as he leaves for lunch, there I’ll be to greet him!

No, sister, the final trick will be much tastier if we wait. He will have seen the same woman three times already, in impossible places relative to each other. Left to his own devices, this will puzzle him for the rest of the day.

But we must strike at maximum confusion!

Patience, sister. If we allow him to rejoin his routine, his confusion will multiply with our next intervention. You, sister, will frame yourself in a window visible from his office, across the street. At some point during the afternoon, he will pause to ponder and stare out his own window. That is when you wave to him.

With a frozen smile on my face? Slow and creepy?

No, sister, with a look of genuine joy. You should be pleased to see him.

Oh, I will be, anticipating the rest of this trick.

Yes, I suspect it will be good.

So do I.

He will not believe you’re real, and he may leave his office to fetch a coworker back to see you.

But I’ll hide from view!

Right. You mustn’t be seen by anyone but the mark.

So when the coworker leaves and he settles back into work—

With increased confusion…

Indeed, I reappear and wave again?

Yes, and beckon to him. He will think himself insane, but with a bit of luck, he’ll slip away and come to your building.

Do I wait for him there?

Yes, but it must be a building with a glass entrance, so he’ll see you and know which door to enter. You must wait far back enough that you can slip into the stairwell before he catches up to you.

A chase! Do I take the stairs up or down?

You’ll take them up, sister, but only one flight, and then crouch low. That’s when a sister on a lower level will start running downward.

I’d like to be that sister! I can run very fast.

Brilliant! So he’ll follow her!

Just a glimpse of my powder-blue will suffice to lure him down after me!

Indeed, and you’ll be far enough in advance of him to reach the bottom and pass through a door into a dark room. Most likely a storage space of some kind.

He’ll follow me through the door, naturally.

And you’ll wait for him to do so, positioned behind the door so that as soon as he’s entered, you’ll close it definitively behind him.

And turn the lights on?

Yes. And there he will see all of us, sisters. Some of us perched atop shelves, others standing on boxes stacked at various heights, collected in groups here and there, but most gathered in a crowd around him at the door, all two hundred of us, sisters, all in our powder-blue dresses, staring with our dark eyes.

Oh, the look on his face!

*

The first.

Arnold and the few other first-time losers were silent, lined up inside the curve of the elevated wooden racetrack painted white with red lanes. Down its length was an opalescent patina of dry slime in meandering streaks.

One shoe hung from Arnold’s fingers by its laces, his sweaty sock balled in its mouth. The floor was cool and rough under his bare foot and the pads of its five toes.

*

The guy next to me jabs my ribs with his elbow. He’s following number 3 or 27. But my 52 has stopped to curl and explore its shell, its number painted in blue. Against the push of the crowd, I won’t move until 52 moves.

*

The second.

The previous winners sat in cushioned risers. They all leaned forward, grinning when the race agent slipped his shears around Arnold’s second pinky toe.

The other losers behind him in line looked at the floor. But one man with six fingers folded his arms and watched.

*

Elbow guy shouts, “Come on! Go, go, go!” at whichever snail is his. He shouts so loud he coughs, with a mangled fist in front of his mouth.

When he coughs some of the snails jerk into their shells, a couple of them change course. Bettors scream.

I tell myself it’s a coincidence, avoid superstition. This guy has no more power over the race than anyone else.

*

The third.

They all watched as the race chief shook the winner’s hand and handed him a giant cardboard check.

Arnold imagined the heavy check pressing its edge into his own fingers.

A flashbulb timed perfectly with the thick snip of his bone.

*

Wesley or Leslie or something like that—I can’t remember—is still back at the starting box, punching the barrier wall and screaming at 95 to move. His face is hot and wet. He knows his chance of winning is slim now, but not zero. There’s still at least six hours to go.

I’m sure the winners in the risers love this guy’s desperation, watching his squeezed face through the binoculars they hold with precision-made articulated fingers. Clucking to each other with silicone servo tongues.

Their minds have erased the memory of ever having been him.

*

The fourth.

With the previous loss of one ring toe, Arnold’s balance had changed. But then losing the other restored his equilibrium.

*

Tom always promised if he won, he would never sit and jeer with the winners. “I wouldn’t do that to you fellas,” he said.

We all say that.

But we haven’t seen him since his win; he’s kept his promise.

If a day comes when we do see Tom in the risers we’ll lose all hope, because we’ll know that spiritual poison is inevitable, even for the most resolute.

*

The fifth.

It hurt Arnold to run with only two toes on his right foot. He had to stop.

*

Elbow guy is wearing a threadbare brick-red corduroy jacket. He’s jabbed me so much I start to think the jacket might’ve been brand-new at the start of the race, and he’s worn it down against my washboard ribs.

*

The sixth.

Arnold despised stairs. He bought a cheap plastic cane, and while using it he imagined the fancier cane he’d buy when he won. He’d use some of the winnings on replacement toes with fine titanium bones sheathed in padded silicone. TV said those were the most comfortable. He might spring for the “real skin” texture.

Even after adapting to the step of his new toes, he’d continue to use the fancy cane. He’d wield it like a trophy.

The cane would be real ivory with a spiral of gold inlay, topped with a polished sphere of green and white marble.

*

Elbow guy coughs again, and some bits spray out his fingers into my eye. It stings.

I stab him back with my elbow for room to rub my eye, and little crystalline grains come away stuck on my finger.

A guy with his head floating between our shoulders sees this and grabs elbow guy. “Cheat! Cheater, cheat!” he screams. He points at the track, where the snails nearest to us have again retracted into their shells. Number 79 is foaming.

*

The seventh.

Arnold bet on number 16 in honor of his son Ethan’s birthday. 16 placed second.

Tom’s won.

Tom didn’t look at Arnold, and was quiet as he left with the check under his arm.

*

Elbow guy struggles in the man’s grip. I grab his other arm, the elbow he kept putting in my ribs, to help hold him.

The crowd noise has changed.

A race agent in red and white stripes runs behind the barrier to us.

I hold elbow guy’s arm against the barrier, and the agent handcuffs his wrist to an iron ring. That’s when we all see that elbow guy’s palm is covered with crystalline grit.

*

The eighth.

Standing outside the arena at dawn on uneven achy feet, Arnold heard another bettor say the slime is thick enough for a snail to slide along a razor’s edge, unharmed.

*

Someone shouts, “Checkiz pockets!”

The agent reaches over the barrier into elbow guy’s jacket pocket and removes a baggie of salt.

With his other hand the agent wields a hatchet and swings it into the guy’s wrist, freeing him from the handcuffs with a hard, wet sound.

Cheers from above. Binocular eyes shine.

Cheers among us below.

I’ve got the guy’s blood in my eye, which stings a little less than the salt.

*

The ninth.

Arnold brought Ethan, who was finally old enough to attend a race. They both placed their bets on snail 31.

Ethan stared at the previous winners in the risers as his pinky toe was clipped. Seeing his son’s stoicism, Arnold wiped away a proud tear as the agent bandaged the fresh absence of his right big toe.

*

Elbow guy crumples holding his wrist, and the crowd closes around him to press against the barrier.

The agent waves the dripping hatchet like a flag of surrender while young trainee agents in smaller red-and-white-striped outfits pluck the snails from the track into buckets, and another brushes the salt from the track with a hand broom and dustpan.

The hatchet agent shouts, “The incident of malfeasance has been dealt with! Snail 79 has been injured! Bettors favoring snail 79 are disqualified!”

A few curses from the crowd, the sound of tickets ripping.

Number 79, foamy and puckered, is removed from the track and placed on the center podium, where an agent crushes it with a brick.

“We request your patience while the track is reset!”

79’s bettors are ushered from the arena. Elbow guy squeezes out through the crowd’s legs to find a medic. The rest of us wait and rub our foreheads and put hands on hips. Muttering.

The snails are put in the starting box. A trainee mists them with a spray bottle, and we cluster next to the gate.

In the tumult, my son appears at my side. Other bodies push me off-balance and my last toe strains to keep me up. I put an arm across my son’s shoulders, and he puts an arm across my back.

All hush. The gun fires, and the gate lifts.

52 starts to move.

*

The last.