Unravel the Plot

Proof of their visitation can be found in the antique carpet section in the basement of the Museum of Civilization. There are two of us who know about it: Laura Morelli and me.
The basement is our turf. The most valuable carpets are here, stored in almost total darkness to keep their colours from fading. The public isn't allowed in here and there are so few specialists working in the field that we often find ourselves alone for weeks on end.
Laura chose me for her assistant after a surprisingly brief interview. I was under the sway of her charm from that first contact. She has an exceptional voice, rich in nuance and timbre, as gorgeously woven as the carpets she handles; carpets whose stories and secrets she is teaching me, in my turn, to unravel. I believe that she wants to pass her heritage on to someone. Time is catching up with her; soon enough she'll be forced to retire and leave her work behind. It's not so much losing her job that terrifies her, but losing access to the most beautiful pieces in the collection.
Everything here is organized to suit Laura: the labyrinth of racks where the most beautiful samples hang, open to her sensual, almost reverent caresses; the stand where every hook and every needle is arranged in precise order. This is her domain, but she started sharing it with me, little by little, when she realized that I loved the carpets for the same reasons she did.
Every wool carpet from Upper Kurdistan holds a slice of life in its tightly knotted weft. These carpets are so large and so complex that a weaver only completes one, two or - very rarely - three in a lifetime. Collectors look at them and marvel at the complexity of their patterns and the beauty of their shades. We examine them from the rear, where their tight stitches press against one another like the grains of sand in an hourglass. Laura guides my clumsy hands along the knots, showing me where, one day, we'll have to replace a worn strand with a new one.
Our relationship, while friendly, remained formal until last autumn. I used "vous" in addressing her, although she casually used "tu". Our fingertips frequently touched as we restored the carpets and I had learned to read the discreet murmur of her breath in the subterranean quiet. My hearing was better than hers; for her benefit, I'd make a lot of noise as I moved about - which prompted her to tease me about my clumsiness.
Then, one morning in October, I heard the mouse.

[…] 

Translated by Ann Cale and Sheryl Curtis