I could see she was trying to understand, which was very kind and thoughtful of her. So then, I don’t know what got into me: instead of stopping right there and keeping my dignity, I chose to ramp up the emotional content. Lowering my eyes and speaking in a solemn voice, as though I was making an important statement, I said, “My life in truth only began the day I met you.”

“So you’ve heard of that?”

“Heard of what?”

“Well, that quote from Louis Aragon, ‘My life in truth begins…’”

“Oh? That’s by him? What’s he called, did you say?”

“Louis Aragon. A great poet. Sometimes a little sentimental and overblown, but still…”

“That’s funny, I could have sworn he was an aviator. It just goes to show it’s not difficult to come up with fancy phrases. You just have to let yourself go a bit…”

We walked on for a few minutes in silence. The trees and houses all around seemed to be in sharp focus, as sometimes happens at the beginning of summer. I thought about how I could put my feelings across.

“The thing is,” I sighed at last, “next year, my heart will be written in Braille.”

I was quite pleased with the way I’d put it, because it perfectly expressed everything that was in my heart and everything that I feared in the future. Marie stopped in front of me and squeezed her little eyes tightly as though she was praying for them to see one last time. And then, something amazing happened. She slipped her arms around me until she could clasp them behind my back, and gently, very gently, she pressed her face to my chest, bending her knees a little because she was taller than me. “No one will ever say anything so beautiful to me,” she said after a few minutes. “For as long as you say things like that to me, I’m sure I’ll be able to play music that will make the stars tremble in the sky.”

“Do you think so?” I replied, like an idiot.

“Yes.”

And then we burst out laughing, because we were still at an age when laughter and tears are easily confused. Later on our hearts teach us to understand the difference.