When his daughter Anne was little and he was feeding her, he had played the same game with a spoon instead of a pen. She too had fixed him with an impenetrable stare, wondering how far she could push him before he gave in; he never did, having no trouble with his back in those days. For years she had tried everything to make him crack, without ever succeeding in shaking the monolithic calm of this father who was as smooth and upright as a wardrobe mirror. She had finally given up at the age of twenty-five. She was now thirty-six. Once a year on her birthday, he went to see her in Wing Four of Perray-Vaucluse Hospital. He did not much like going and she never seemed especially pleased to see him, but neither of them would have missed marking the anniversary of the end of the game. If time allowed, they would go for a walk in the gardens, sit on a bench and stare straight ahead without exchanging a word until one of them got up, signifying there was nothing left to share.

Boudu jumped off the desk with a growl. He had had enough of the game or was hungry or needed a poo. Marc inspected his nails and decided they were too long.

The click of the nail clippers cut through the silence. He swept the clippings into the bin. What if he went to see Anne today? This was not their usual day, and a change in routine might unsettle her. Besides, with this rain, it was not the weather for it. Nevertheless, he put on his coat and armed himself with an umbrella.

‘It’s not your day, Monsieur Lecas. It’s not the 14th.’

‘I know, but I’m not sure I’m going to be able to make the usual day.’

‘Anne’s having occupational therapy. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘She’ll be taken by surprise. You should have phoned.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Well, since you’re here … I’ll send someone to get her.’

‘Thanks.’

A man in pyjamas was sitting with his legs wrapped around his chair, playing with his fingers, mumbling and drooling. Two nurses could be seen sniggering behind the screen at reception. The recently mopped checkerboard floor was drying in patches and the smell of bleach hung in the warm air. Anne appeared at the end of the corridor. She had put on even more weight. She had inherited a solid frame from her mother, but unlike Édith, who was always dieting to improve her figure, Anne had let herself go. She was wearing a shapeless sweater and black trousers that sagged at the knees. Her slippers made no sound on the tiled floor, as if she were gliding on roller skates. Without saying a word, she sat down beside her father, head bowed, her bobbed hair screening her face.

‘Hello, Anne.’

‘Who died?’

‘No one.’

‘Are you going to die?’