[Version française sur le site de La Recherche]
When I opened this email, six months ago, I had no idea where it would lead me.
A pillow mark still on my cheek, I was trying to dissipate with an espresso the limbo left in my mind by too short a night. The day before, I had once more lost track of time and been surprised, at night, by the lab’s alarm. The watchman had come running, recognized me, sighed, started to say something but remembered I didn’t speak Italian (so he thought), sighed again, waved at me and stopped the alarm. I had innocently smiled at him, wiped the bench with ethanol and left. After hours spent sitting, I could not resist the temptation to go running. The night had thus been short. Typical.
After a few sips of this strong Italian coffee, I could already feel my heart pounding in my chest. But more time would be needed before my eyes could fully open. I was thus half asleep when I opened this email.
I had no idea, then, that a few months later I would be writing from a room the size of a closet, in a white ...