Dad thought I looked peaky. I think he suspected my exiled state, but didn’t like to ask about it, because it’s not always easy for fathers and sons to open up to each other. Some nights I took my place next to him in the Panhard, on the meandering journey through small towns and suburbs, drifting together towards Paris until it swallowed us up. Every single time I wondered if we would ever get out of the city again. I remember driving up wide avenues, no one but us, as if the city was deserted after an air raid. Disused train tracks … an old railway bridge… On the windscreen, I imagined I could see a reflection of the Paris map pinned up in Dad’s office. I wondered how Dad had got to know all these bizarre people who wanted us to stay and listen to stories of their long-distant pasts. I always ended up falling asleep in the car and it felt like a miracle to wake up outside our ramshackle house. I’d go and see my blackbird, who was getting fatter, filling more and more of the shoebox, and scratching around in the yard with his beady little eyes darting everywhere. Maybe his troubles were over. At school, mine were very far from over. I had a go at trying to make Marie laugh, with a return to the wit that had once made me legendary. For example, one day someone asked what a stereotype was, so I said, “Someone who likes listening to loud music!”

But my heart wasn’t in it and everyone had got out of the habit. No one laughed, least of all Marie.

One day, when I was wandering the corridors looking for the register for the maths teacher, I bumped into Lucky Luke. He came up to me, carrying a big book under his arm.

“Don’t tell anyone… I’m going to hide in the gym to read for a while… If anyone’s looking for me, you haven’t seen me. I’ll owe you one…”

“What’s the book?”

“Don Quixote. I’ve finished The Three Musketeers, you see. I should think Don Quixote is roughly the same sort of thing. Have you read it?”

“I know there are windmills in it, but that’s all.”

“Windmills? Are you sure? I thought it was about battles and horses. And knights.”

He looked disappointed.

“Anyway,” I said, “it must be a very famous book, since even I’ve heard of it. How’s the cycling going?”

“I came third last Sunday. Because I was completely worn out from reading too late the night before. It’s crazy how tiring a big book is! Like climbing the Alps. Literature is hard work.”

“Maybe I’ll come and watch you race next Sunday… I’m quite bored at the moment. I need something to do. Perhaps I could sell chips to the spectators…”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t want to offend you, but you wouldn’t understand…”

“Are you sure about that?”