We hurried off in different directions, because Marie had to practise her cello and I was already late for the rehearsal with Etienne and Marcel. It was funny, because we said goodbye quite formally. Intimacy is a complicated business. I didn’t mind leaving her when things had gone so well between us: in a way I was anxious to think it all over. And that’s something you can only do on your own, as Dad has often told me.

No one was at home, neither Dad nor Etienne and Marcel. Nor the Panhard. The place was deserted. I went up to my room under the roof and sat down at my desk. I was in the mood for meditation, which is the action of reflecting deeply and at length upon a subject. It’s something that never does any harm, in my opinion. My dear Egyptian was often a “Nile crocodile” and the meditative approach seemed to work pretty well for him, so it felt reassuring to follow his example. My first concern was how to get out of The Rattletraps’ concert without looking like a quitter and without wounding the Metro’s pride, and my second was whether I was up to helping Marie. Two big problems.

I heard the Panhard engine and then voices in the yard. Through the window I saw that Etienne and Marcel had come back with Dad, who’d taken them for a spin. I went down to join them. I could see straight away that something wasn’t right. Etienne gave me the news.

“It sucks at home!”

“Why?”

“It’s divorce.”

I looked puzzled, so Marcel explained, “He means our parents are divorcing. They’ve been yelling at each other all day long. I thought they were going to tear each others’ guts out. They can’t agree on what should happen. They’re going to court about our custody.”

“They can’t cut you in half. It’s impossible to cut a Metro station in half. There was a king like that once, who wanted to cut children in half and divvy them up, but I can’t remember his name.”

“It’s funny, though,” said Etienne. “I’d never have thought it was something they’d fight so hard about!”

He seemed deep in thought.

“It’s to be expected,” I pointed out. “All parents fight to keep their children with them. Well, almost all…”

The memory of my mother flitted across my mind. They stared at me wide-eyed.

“No, that’s not it at all. It’s the other way round. They’re so fed up with us that neither of them wants to keep us. So Mum’s taking Dad to court to make him take us, and Dad’s doing the opposite. They both want to prove that the other one would take better care of us. Dad’s bound to tell the judge that he beats us and Mum will probably say she makes us cook and clean while she has a wild time out clubbing.”