“Oh, give it a rest! Don’t you ever scr— mess things up?”

She seemed to be thinking, as though weighing up her reply.

“Well, no, actually – I don’t.”

It didn’t look as though being perfect made her particularly happy.

“And anyway it was because of Dad’s piston pins, but obviously you wouldn’t understand.”

“Is that what you think?”

It was going round and round in my head: her name… Marie… Marie… Marie what?

“Definitely, trust me,” I replied at last.

I’d put on a serious expression, because at least on the subject of Panhard cars I knew I didn’t make mistakes and could even claim to be quite an authority. I was wrong yet again, as it turned out, but that’s for later. For a few minutes we couldn’t think of anything to say to each other. I was a bit distracted with trying to remember her name… It was on the tip of my tongue, but it kept slipping away. I snatched a glance at her. Her hair was reddish and incredibly curly. It flew around all over the place, hiding half her face. Apart from that, she seemed as neat and tidy as a Japanese doll and I remembered that I hadn’t had a shower for three days. I swore I’d have a good scrub that very evening, because self-respect is important. I tried to think of something to say to impress her a bit: the climate issue was bugging me and I have my pride. All at once an idea came to me.

“I’ve got a question for you… Have you read any books by Alexandre Dumas?”

“The father or the son?”

“What do you mean?”

“Alexandre Dumas the father, or Alexandre Dumas the son?”

I had no idea what she was talking about: once again things were getting complicated. But I could look into that later. Right now it would be better to change the subject. I tried to think of something that didn’t hold too much danger for me. By chance I caught a glimpse of her right hand. She was wearing a big ring, so I thought I’d pay her a compliment.

“That’s a superb gallstone you’ve got on your finger. Is it a real one?”

I couldn’t understand why she was looking at me like I was from outer space. She didn’t seem to know what to say next, as though we were speaking different languages. So I took the initiative.

“I get the impression you’re interested in intellectual things.”

She seemed a bit taken aback by this new change of direction and frowned. She must have been wondering if I was trying to catch her out or something.

“Why, aren’t you?”

I’d got it at last. Her name was Marie-José.

“Sure,” I said with as much conviction as possible, “intellectual things interest me too. Though not all the time.”