By 4:23 p.m., Nora Valette had already moved the empty chair three times.
She had nothing against empty chairs. She had something against chairs that were not where they belonged.
As municipal clerk, she spent her days making discrepancies administratively tolerable. She much preferred them not to exist.
The wedding hall in Belvaux-sur-Rive was still cluttered from the morning meeting: half-full water bottles, cardboard name cards, an extension cord winding between two rows, and, at the back, panels for the municipal choir’s centenary exhibition leaning against the wall like unhinged doors. At five, the committee was to approve the captions before printing. At 6:10, Nora needed to be at the middle school to hear Lucie play three minutes of clarinet with her workshop. Those two times could coexist perfectly well, provided no one decided to become imprecise.
She placed the chair at the long table, to the left of the one reserved for Jeanne Laroque, president of Les Voix de Belvaux. The extra place was for the archives photographer. He had confirmed he was coming, then stopped replying.
“You know we can survive a meeting with one chair too many?” Yacine Roux asked from the doorway.
Under his arm he held a green clothbound register, too heavy for the casual way he carried it. Municipal archivist for four years, he had developed the irritating art of making everything about to fall look as though it could wait another second.
“We can survive a meeting without an agenda, too. That’s no reason to have one.”
“Hélène’s looking for you.”
“She knows where I am.”
“That’s precisely what’s bothering her.”
Nora reached for the register. Yacine did not let go immediately.
“Sign it out.”
“I work here.”
“You can steal an archive too.”
“I love how you treat everyone equally.”
“It’s the only way to stay popular.”
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