Three light knocks on the window woke him with a start. Anne’s face came into view like something out of a Bacon portrait. When the door opened, a pocket of air seemed to rush into the car with her.

‘OK?’

‘Of course I’m OK. Let’s go.’

‘All right. What’s that?’

‘A present. A statue from his country, a lucky charm with nails in it.’

The 30cm-high statuette represented a squat little man, his legs slightly bent. His left hand was pressed against his stomach and his right – missing an index finger – open at shoulder height. His jaw was clamped around a metal disc chained to a kind of cannonball between his feet which he seemed to want to wrench from the ground. His head and back, bristling with rusty nails, bowed slightly backwards. The model was made of wood, covered in red clay like coagulated blood, and metal. Its hollow eye sockets stared at Marc, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, unable to take his eyes off it. You could not appraise the statue in the same way as the curiosities Chloé picked up at flea markets, nor even as a work of art. There it was, in the corner of the table, irrefutable, emitting a raw energy that banished all aesthetic considerations. After staring at it for more than an hour, Marc’s muscles had hardened so that he seemed to be making as much effort as the little man pulling on his chain.

‘Why are you sitting there fully dressed? Didn’t you go to bed?’

‘Yes, I had a bit of sleep.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Ten past seven.’

A milky early light seeped through the curtains. Boudu and Anne yawned in unison.

‘Can you order breakfast? I’ve got the gwamba.’

‘The what?’

‘The gwamba. I heard about it from Désiré. It’s an illness, a kind of fever you get in Africa when you’re craving bush meat. It drives you so crazy you’d eat anything, even humans.’

A ray of sunlight lent a glossy sheen to the croissant crumbs strewn across the tray. With deliberate tongue strokes, Boudu ate them one by one, as if he were a mechanical toy. Anne came out of the bathroom, steaming and wrapped in a towelling bathrobe that made her look like a giant spring roll.

‘Still no rain?’

‘No, I think it’s actually going to be a lovely day.’

‘It must be weird to see this place in the sunshine.’

‘Do you still want to go back to the hospital?’

‘I don’t know. Yes.’

‘Then here’s what I suggest. We make the most of the good weather to go for a walk on the beach, have lunch here and then I’ll take you back this afternoon.’

‘OK.’

Anne bumped into the table on her way past and the statuette wobbled. Marc caught it just in time.

‘Don’t worry, it’s fine.’

‘I don’t care. It’s ugly. Things like that bring bad luck. Look, there’s the proof – you’ve cut yourself on it.’