Every day Mathilde takes the subway, sees the same corridors, catches the same trains. She reports to work, goes unnoticed, watches time go by. Her hours feel useless to her, wasted.
Thibault works for the Parisian centre for Medical Emergencies. Every day he drives his car to the addresses he receives through dispatch. The city spares him no grief : traffic jams, elusive parking spaces, delivery trucks. He visits lonely patients, becomes acquainted with their symptomatic illnesses and personal disasters.
Before this day in May, Mathilde and Thibault had never met. Two anonymous silhouettes in a crowd, pushed and shoved by the loveless, urban world. Les Heures souterraines is a novel on quiet violence. Within the ceaseless movement of a metropolis, it’s easy to get lost without a sound.
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