I didn’t want them to think me a slob, so I didn’t ask about the array of cutlery. Frankly, just one fork would have been more than enough for me. So while trying to follow the conversation, I kept a watchful eye on Marie and attempted to use the cutlery like she did, in the same order. It was a bit complicated, especially for the starter, which was a kind of wobbly savoury mousse that you had to pick up with a big spoon, helped along by a smaller spoon, and then grab with a sort of tapered spatula. I found it as difficult as managing my compass in maths: it always slid away at the last moment too. Marie’s mother put the dish of lasagne down on the table.

“And what’s your favourite subject at school?” she asked, as she took my plate.

“Oh, you know … it depends!”

“What does it depend on?” she wanted to know as she handed me back my plate, which now looked as though it had the whole of Italy piled on it.

“On which day it is. Yes, it depends on which day it is. On the whole, I like art best.”

This came to me out of the blue, like a brainwave, because of the room’s artistic decor.

“Abstract art?”

I’ve never really understood this word. Precisely because it’s too abstract.

“Of course,” I said. “It’s the most beautiful kind.”

Then I was able to relax for a few moments, because they began to talk to each other about modern art exhibitions taking place in London and Paris. I wondered what Dad was doing, and I imagined him with his nose under the Panhard’s bonnet and his hands all oily. He was probably balancing his sandwich on the carburettor so as not to waste any time. Then I tried to get a handle on the conversation again. I no longer had any idea what they were on about and it reminded me of the way I dipped in and out of some lessons at school.

Then, while waiting for dessert, we settled down on a sofa and leafed through some exhibition catalogues, showing paintings covered in multi-coloured crosses. After looking at them for a while, I actually began to find them quite interesting.

“All things considered,” I observed, “I find that if you look at something long enough it becomes interesting.”

“Hah! Flaubert!” said Marie’s father, absent-mindedly.

“What?”

“It was Flaubert, the writer, who said that. About a tree, I think.”

I’d always thought that Flaubert was a journalist. I couldn’t get it out of my head, since it was my dear uncle Zak who once told me so.

Still, it’s funny to think that it’s possible to have the same ideas as people who are famous for being seriously brainy. It’s an odd thing: it’s hard to tell if it makes you feel bigger or them seem smaller. But I was beginning to feel confident now, so I carried on sharing my views on aesthetics.