The first lesson was history. Luckily, I was sitting near the window. A breath of spring air stroked my face. While the others were delving into the depths of the past, I could keep an eye on the playground. The minutes ticked by and still there was no sign of Marie. I didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved. I pictured her barrelling into the middle of the go-karts, bikes and road signs as if she was entering a hostile little town. She wouldn’t have a clue where she was. She would be utterly humiliated – disgraced even – and it would be the end of all our hopes.

I completely lost track of what was going on in the lesson. I think it was about some period when kings and princes spent half their time trying to assassinate each other, the other half trying to escape, and a further half trying to have sons or win wars. A total fiasco in fact, which didn’t make me feel very hopeful for the future of the human race. But these were my own views and wouldn’t have interested the teacher: he was a very serious man who wore a hearing aid, which made him look as though he was in constant communication with the ancient kings of France. I called him Beethoven, on account of the ear trouble.

Then I heard the school gate squeak. I was sure it was Marie, arriving late again. It must be taking her longer to get to school, counting all her steps in the way she’d explained to me. Maybe she even got lost sometimes, without me there to be Ariadne’s thread. I imagined her alone in the empty streets, trying to find her way by groping around everywhere. Thinking about that made my heart shrivel like a withered apple, all wrinkled and empty.

I watched her as she came into the playground, walking mechanically like an automaton. But her steps were hesitant: she must have sensed that everything was in disarray. One, two, three, right… one, two, left. She bumped into a cone, stood motionless for a few seconds like a robot recalculating its route, and set off again purposefully in the opposite direction – only to stumble straight into a go-kart. At the back of the playground a policeman was watching her suspiciously. I don’t want to sound smug, but I’d seen the catastrophe coming. Mind you, catastrophes aren’t that hard to predict, you can usually bank on there being at least one in the offing. Experience has taught me that, too.

Marie was hopelessly lost between a fake red light and a fake one-way sign. Everything around her was fake. She was going round in circles: she must have been calculating and recalculating, but she wasn’t getting anywhere. She was like a pinball bouncing off one thing after another. The worst of it was that the other kids in the class, and presumably in all the classes that looked out over the playground, were beginning to enjoy the spectacle, like ancient Romans at the arena, waiting for a bloodbath. They were nudging each other, sharing their amusement. We were done for: it was glaringly obvious that she couldn’t see anything. And then, as if I was spring-loaded, I jumped to my feet and before I had time to think I was standing stiffly in front of the teacher.