‘What the hell are you doing jiggling around like that?’

‘It’s my legs.’

‘What about them?’

‘It’s ridiculous. I can’t get them to move.’

‘Oh. Wait a bit, maybe you’ll get the feeling back.’

‘Maybe … they’re not hurting. See, everything down to my middle is fine.’

Marc was swinging his arms from left to right and turning his head from side to side, so that everyone could see for themselves how perfectly the top half of his body moved. Zoltan, convinced he was indeed witnessing a local custom, took it upon himself to begin imitating Marc, throwing his arms wide and moving them about with a grin that showed all his teeth, which were as yellow as a donkey’s and wide as spades. Marc immediately ceased his grotesque choreography.

Anne was picking her teeth, looking uncertain.

‘So we’re not going to Agen?’

‘It doesn’t seem likely at the moment. Maybe I should have a lie-down on the bed?’

‘Maybe … Do we have to carry you?’

‘Well, yes, I’m afraid you might have to.’

‘Zoltan!’

With Anne holding him under the arms and the Hungarian under the knees, Marc let himself be hauled into the camper van like a piece of furniture and left lying in the foetal position in the middle of the bed.

‘Thanks. We’ll just have to wait a while.’

‘If you need anything, I’ll be outside.’

‘OK, Anne … What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘You’re all red. You look like the doll, curled up, waving your finger in the air. See you later.’

He couldn’t lie on his back or front, but he could switch from side to side. If he chose his left, his gaze confronted the wall of the vehicle; his right, the white expanse of the fridge door. His immediate future held no prospect of more distant horizons. In the course of Marc’s installation, Boudu had allowed himself to be moved to the foot of the bed without in any way abandoning his constant search for perfection.

His purring sounded like a wood-burning stove. Anne and Zoltan’s muffled voices reached Marc’s ears, repeated words, bursts of laughter … She must be teaching him some basic French. A tractor passed by and he listened to the engine gradually revving up and then slowing again.

‘Life without me …’

There was a scratch at the bottom of the fridge door as if someone had angrily kicked it shut. The grim grey carpet was almost threadbare in one area. A stain in the shape of Spain had been rubbed at too vigorously. What had happened here? A drunken evening? To celebrate buying the camper van, perhaps … Yes, this place had a past. People had eaten, drunk, slept, made plans, lost illusions, loved one another – here, on this bed. What had led them to sell the camper van only six months after they bought it? The vehicle raised so many questions it was worthy of paleontological study, like a modern-day Lascaux which Marc was discovering, face to face with the traces of the previous inhabitants of this destabilising black hole. People like him, like anyone, like the ones he had undressed with his eyes this morning at the café, Tinettes … What traces would he leave behind? Tyre tracks … People like him, like anyone …