‘Evening, Monsieur.’

‘Good evening, Désiré. I’ll have a scotch, double, no ice.’

‘Very good, Monsieur.’

He really was an attractive young man, supple, precise in his movements, neither obsequious nor overly familiar, polite and straightforward.

‘There you are, Monsieur. Will Mademoiselle Anne be joining you?’

‘For dinner. Tell me, Désiré, what are your plans for this evening?’

‘Me? Well, I’m working, up till midnight.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Afterwards?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going home. Why?’

‘Just wondered.’

Marc downed his drink in one gulp, as Désiré looked on doubtfully.

‘Same again.’

‘Very good, Monsieur.’

Désiré brought over another glass which followed the same course as the first. Marc almost choked as he finished it. A ball of fire was yoyoing from his head to his toes. It was as if a white-hot iron rod had been plunged into his stomach. The barstool on which he was sitting now seemed twice as high.

‘Something wrong, Monsieur?’

‘No, no, everything’s just fine. Désiré, what do you think of my daughter?’

‘Um … she’s very nice.’

‘And?’

‘And very … simple. I mean, she doesn’t put on airs the way a lot of them do around here.’

‘Very simple … Do you fancy her?’

‘Excuse me? I don’t understand.’

‘Fill me up, please.’

‘Of course, coming right up.’

The barstool was getting higher and higher. Soon Marc’s head would be brushing the chandelier. Everything around him shone, sparkled and crackled, glowing in the dark like fish in an aquarium. Désiré suddenly reappeared out of nowhere.

‘Désiré, I’m going to ask you a favour, nothing more. A …’

Marc clutched the bronze bar counter with both hands as he strived to find the word. Where had it gone? There were others pounding his ears like towels against his head, words that were gradually seeping into the aquarium. Bodiless, pointless words, bubbles …

‘Are you OK, Monsieur?’

‘Yes, fine. Do you know Agen?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a lovely town. But it’s a long, long way away …’

‘I’m sure, Monsieur, yes. Excuse me, there are customers.’ Marc grabbed Désire by the wrist, as much to hold him back as to maintain his own precarious balance.

‘Would you like to sleep with her tonight?’

‘With whom, Monsieur?’

‘My daughter.’

Désiré’s eyes grew so wide that there was nothing left of his face besides two white saucers with a black olive rolling in the middle. Marc did not let go; his face was close to the barman’s.

‘This is very important – very! I’ll give you five hundred euros to spend an hour with her after your shift. Don’t turn me down – I’m asking as a father!’

Désiré’s mouth hung open, as if his bottom jaw had just come loose. Without lowering his gaze, he lifted each of the fingers gripping his arm, one by one.

‘Well?’

‘I have customers, Monsieur. Please excuse me.’