His hands and feet were cold. This Sunday was already rendering him numb. The insidious stench of chip fat had infiltrated his lungs and the cries of stallholders felt like cuffs to his frozen ears. Browsers rummaged from row to row carrying everything from floor lamps to beaten-up picture frames, tinplate horse heads and bizarre utensils Marc could not even name. All these thingamajigs, whatsits, gizmos had passed through so many hands, been recycled so many times, it was as if they would last for ever. It had been a long time since they had truly belonged to anyone. They were just passing through, take them or leave them. They were sanded down, repainted, given new handles, and off they went again. He had been in a similarly transient state when Chloé had picked him up after his divorce. She had stripped him down, polished him up and found a cosy place for him in her home. After seventeen years of purgatory with Édith, it was a miracle to find himself so refurbished, and he thanked his lucky stars every day. Still, he had resolved to let bygones be bygones and put any resentment of his first wife behind him. His memories of her were mixed, evoking the same combination of dread and fascination as a natural disaster. When Anne was born, Édith handed the baby over to him like a cumbersome gift, something wished for but now surplus to requirements, and ran off with an absolutist Chilean poet. Having never wanted children, Marc cared for the little one out of duty more than love, while Édith flitted moth-like back and forth according to her romantic whims. He approached his fatherly responsibilities in much the same way as his nine-to-five, ploughing on like an ox without complaint. Anne, who was endowed with a temperament as unpredictable as her mother’s, had in turn put him through the wringer until both women eventually left home for good, devoting themselves to dubious experiences somewhere else, somewhere he was not. Marc had been thrown by the wayside, rusted, dented, put out for recycling, just like the curious objects that now surrounded him.

‘Done! Fifteen euros! It’s in great nick. A bit of a polish, a new knob on the door and … what’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. It’s a bargain.’

They walked away, she holding him by the arm, he clutching the ninth nightstand to his chest.

The house was still filled with the aroma of Sunday lunch. Wearing dungarees and rubber gloves, Chloé had disappeared into the garage to work on her bedside table. Boudu was snoring in the corner.