Dad was fascinated by the film. I don’t know if it was the empty city flooded in sunlight or the love story between the man and the model that enthralled him, but he seemed to be trying to hypnotize the television: he was almost licking the screen. Anyway, the film gave me an idea and although it was slightly hazy at first, I’d got it all worked out by the next morning. At dawn, I was down in the cellar hunting around for Dad’s fishing equipment. The size twelve hook looked enormous to me, plus it was covered in rust. I made myself think of Paris in the Month of August and Aznavour with the fish hook stuck in his hand. It was in a good cause: I was really doing this for Marie, so that she wouldn’t have to hear me braying at the concert and wouldn’t be disappointed in me. It’s all very well to be a figure of fun, but once you’ve learnt to see things in a slightly more dignified and high-minded way, you get fed up with it, that’s all I can say.
I closed my eyes and stuck the hook into my left hand. I screamed out loud, my eyes dimmed and luckily Dad turned up just in time to catch me before I crashed to the floor. He wrapped my hand in a big cloth that kept getting redder and redder as we drove in the Panhard to the hospital. There were Christmas decorations in the A&E department and a big Father Christmas who seemed to be watching over the patients.
While we were waiting, Dad said, “I still can’t work out what you were doing trying to fish for your own hand in the cellar at dawn…”
To shut him up, I gave a couple of extra groans.
“Now you remind me of that big pike I caught in the Loire twenty years ago,” he said.
“Dad,” I said, “Don’t worry, Dad, I did it for love, which is the end of being exiled from oneself…”
I felt his hand on my head, and I knew he understood. And then I passed out.