Translated from French by Eponine Howarth.‍

Extract from the beginning of La maladie de l’eau by Adrien Lafille (Éditions Corti, 2026).‍

When one breathes in air, for a few moments everything remains unchanged, hands do not change, reveal nothing, nails cling to the skin.
As soon as the air is exhaled, fingers stiffen, the skin peels off in patches, nails crack, a little more with every exhalation.
Without air, only water remains.‍

Tim is watching a television set on the floor, the sun is rising over the ocean, he tries to count its rays, the water sparkles.

Outside, the light has gone out, his watch says 2 a.m, he is sitting in the only armchair in his flat, a cup of scalding coffee in his hands, the heat seeps into his palms, into his fingers, touching his bones.

He shivers and thinks of someone whose memory is hazy, the warmth of the cup is like another skin touching him, a skin that is very warm and far from here.

On an autumn night, long ago, hands appeared whilst he slept, he never knew whose they were, he was somewhere other than home, by a swimming pool, all the light was gone, he could see nothing. A little air brushed his cheek, a faint breath moving across his face, his two palms touched two other very soft palms, exactly the ones he had been waiting for.

And his eyes opened to face the smooth ceiling.

The day was there but showed nothing.

After that night, everything changed for him, Tim pinched his skin between two fingers, as he did every morning, it cracked for the first time, the sky was grey and the air dry. He heard, felt that crackling, with a shiver, an immense thirst passed through his mouth. He drank water, a first glass, a second and a third, a fourth. It was the first time he’d had a drink before midday.

Ten minutes later his face was distorted, his skin had gone limp, swollen from beneath, his fingers, his arms puffy, his neck wide and very soft, air could barely pass through his throat anymore.

He phoned, lying in bed, speaking with difficulty, dying, because of the water beneath his dry skin.

Someone came, wrapped him in a warm sheet, took him to a warm room to drink hospital coffee. Everything in him deflated, shrank, his throat, his arms, his thighs, his belly button, his glands and lymph nodes, the inside of his skull, his thoughts about himself and his surroundings, everything visible and invisible that makes up the body. Electrodes were placed on his chest, then removed, he lay down in the middle of a large tube, to understand the problem in his fluids, from the inside of his head to the inside of his toes, his blood was taken. Is it transparent, is there still any red in it, he asked that, but those weren’t the real questions, he wasn’t given an answer.

The specialist in soft tissue diseases said: the problem is the water, it will grow inside you, every day it will try to multiply to kill you, it will prevent you from sleeping, resting, living, the nights will be dangerous, never touch anything cold again, never drink water again.

Since then, heat has been essential for Tim to survive, as much heat as possible, a fiery heat, the water evaporates thanks to this unbearable fire. Before the final farewell, before he returned home, they said once more: remember this well, sir, you will burn, if you do not burn you will suffocate.

Right now, Tim is awake, it’s 2 am, he’s been holding his breath for ten seconds, on the eleventh second he downs the cup full of smoke in one go. The liquid burns, the pain peels the skin from his mouth, the same pain as every night. He waits without moving, then feels his body all over, it isn’t swollen, his skin is dry but without cracks, he can still live.

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