The house was reasonably tidy, regularly vacuumed and dusted, but it was astonishing what was hidden between the fibres of the rug – tiny crumbs, fine threads, hairs from body and head, particles of more or less identifiable materials which took on extraordinary proportions through the convex lens of the magnifying glass. It would take days on end to cover this pseudo-Persian expanse depicting everything from turbulent rivers to tropical forests and arid deserts. As he crawled over the carpet, he began to feel as if he were returning from a very long journey. It was his childhood he was tracing, hidden in the intricate swirls of the carpet. He saw it surge from the thread like a spring gushing through a clump of watercress. When exactly had he lost it? We wake up one day and all our toys which were so magical and full of life are suddenly nothing but inert, futile, useless objects …

‘What on earth are you doing crawling about on the floor? Have you lost something?’

‘Yes … no. I wasn’t expecting you till later.’

‘I managed to get out early. You’re already in your pyjamas?’

‘I felt a bit under the weather this morning. I haven’t been out.’

‘Have you called the doctor?’

‘No, I took an aspirin. I feel OK now.’

‘You still haven’t had the flu jab, have you?’

‘I’ll go next week, I promise.’

‘You really should. Now you’re over sixty … Especially in this weather. Everyone in the office has got a cold. It’s a hotbed for germs. I’m drenched. I think I’ll have a nice hot bath.’

‘Shall I make some onion soup for dinner?’

‘Good idea.’

*

The onions were browning in sizzling butter. He poured in a glass of white wine, added water, salt and pepper, turned down the heat and covered the pan. He was dying to tell Chloé about his revelation on the motorway bridge, and how he had rediscovered his childhood amid the patterns on the carpet. But would she understand? No: she would be concerned. He would have to explain. It would take hours, and even then … It was school that had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself. From the first day, he had realised he would have two lives, his outward existence and the inner one he could never share. Chloé appeared with a towel wrapped in a turban around her head.

‘Mmm, that smells good!’

She looked so beautiful with the bath steam rising off her skin. Why couldn’t he tell her about the bridge and the rug? Tears formed in his eyes.

‘What’s the matter, darling? Why are you crying?’

‘It’s the onions.’

‘Sure? Not even a glass?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Suit yourself. Now, where was I? … Oh, yes! So, Elsa fucked off on that fateful September 11 and thanks to those bastard terrorists I couldn’t even complain about it. Collateral damage, you might say.’