THE CLIENT

A middle-aged couple is sitting on a sofa, their bodies resting comfortably on silk cushions. They have the very typical features of North Indian people of the beginning of the century. The room is spacious and simply furnished: a sofa, two armchairs, a small bookshelf, a counter with a drinks machine. No paintings or posters on the walls. The gigantic window covered with a thin mauve coloured sheer curtain gives a breath-taking view of a cloudless orange-yellow sky. Down below, huge buildings covered in a heavy cloud of red smoke. Even lower, vehicles, vehicles and more vehicles, silently moving their way onto the sinuous roads. Not a single pedestrian can venture under this radiating sun without risking death.

'Professor Akheeli,' the woman exclaims as she stands up to greet him with a gentle bow with their hands joined before their lips. The man next to her does the same. 'What an honour to finally be able to meet you.'

'The pleasure is mine,' Tempéra replies. He imitates the couple who invite him to sit down.

'Is this your first visit to India?' the husband asks, curious.

'I've worked for Indian clients before, but they didn't live in New Delhi,' the professor replies, wriggling his hands nervously on his lap. Such kinds of small talks always make him feel uncomfortable, and not just with clients.

'New Delhi is a shadow of what it used to be like many cities today, but we know you haven't come here for sightseeing. Nobody does these days,' the wife says.

The woman seems to have noticed the professor's discomfort so she tries as best she can to lighten the atmosphere with a bit of humour. However, Tempéra doesn't respond to the joke. He simply blinks, his face closed.

'What do you think of the decoration in the hallway?' the husband asks, leaning towards his wife to point towards the corridor behind their guest.

As if the question has pulled him out of a dream, Tempéra turns suddenly to look over his shoulder before responding without feigning the slightest interest, 'Original,' then he adds with a disdainful expression on his face, 'I'm not a fan of antiques. Our modern world has too much to offer.'

'You're right, professor!' the husband exclaims in a tone that seems to reflect more politeness than acquiescence.

'You may be wondering why a couple like us called on your services?' the woman asks.

'I never ask my clients this question. The less I know, the better,' the professor replies.

'Really?' the woman exclaims with a smile, 'That's fine by us, but my husband and I still would like to set one condition: be present during the whole process,' she says candidly.

'Your condition is accepted Mrs. Karim. Believe me, the less I know, the better,' the professor retorts, 'Okay, well, since that's that sorted out, let's get to work!' he says while clapping his hands with excitement.

The professor immediately jumps out of his seat to shake the couple's hands, embarrassed yet smiling, then he heads straight back towards the corridor. He walks through the fragrant passage at full speed, holding his breath, his gaze fixed straight on the closed blue door at the other end. He opens and closes the door immediately behind him. He joins Prashant and the laboratory team who are silently waiting for him. They haven't moved an inch since he left them a few minutes ago.

'Well, we can start!' he exclaims, out of breath, but smiling triumphantly.