“No one. Well, almost no one. But that’s not the point, these are very clever people. They’re called Doctors of Philosophy.”

Well, I was learning something new every day. Even if the enterprise didn’t do me any good, it wouldn’t do me any harm either: everyone’s entitled to choose how they spend their time. It was similar with Dad and Panhard cars. They were cars that no one bought any more. But they’d been successful in their time: Monsieur Panhard had been a pioneer of French car manufacturing at the beginning of the twentieth century. I think that’s what Dad liked about them – the fact that they were on their way out and it was essential to save as many as possible so that they wouldn’t be forgotten. Because the most important responsibility for human beings is to remember.

The thing we feared above all, in this business with Marie, was having to do a written assessment. Then I was in a cold sweat for three days beforehand. On the day of the damn test, I had to work really quickly, because I needed to make time to copy out my answers, imitating Marie’s shipshape handwriting. I’d really made progress as a result of taking on this job, and I was even able to slip some mistakes into my work so that it wouldn’t attract attention. I could see that the maths teacher was observing my improvement with a mixture of admiration, suspicion and amusement. She often smiled at me, and I smiled back. One day, after the lesson, she gave me a funny look and said, “You’re changing, Victor, you’re changing…”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “You too, Miss, you’re changing too. I’ve noticed, you have thingies in your hair, which you never had before, and your eyes are underlined in blue.”

Her blushes could have generated enough heat to save the school’s energy bills for at least a year. It was obvious that her romantic reactor was in meltdown. I didn’t dare mention it, but I’d also spotted her limping less. It wasn’t that noticeable yet, but my observation skills are second to none. I was pleased to see she was getting back on form. On TV I’d seen an oil spill that was threatening all kinds of animals and I’d told Dad that the maths teacher reminded me of those creatures stuck in the slick: she needed to be put in a de-oiling machine and then perhaps she would come out and take flight again, like the birds. He must have thought I wasn’t well, because he said, “You’re working too hard, I think. You’re overheating.”