I never kill on Mondays. It's a matter of personal requirement and pace. There should be no superstition or old celibate habit. I have always preferred weekends to do this part of my work. Laszlo Dumas: renowned pianist, but long said without genius, without ardor, without that little nothing that makes the strength of the greats. Until the day when he begins to make fine voluntary errors, and to slay the one who, in the front row of the concert hall, spots them. Immediately, his playing improves and little by little, the critics agree to see in him a new virtuoso. His crimes remain in the shadows. But one day he meets a woman, Lorraine, who also, he believes, notices his mistakes... A novel built like a sonata in counterpoint, intermingling the voices of Laszlo, Lorraine and her son Arthur. A breathless meditation on the loneliness of the purist, with elegant suspense and assured writing.