First thing this morning, I had a visit from Madame Karsminsky, Wenda Karsminsky – Ophélie’s mother. In another life, she was a white Russian, in this one she’s a diehard French bigot who’s completely forgotten her roots. I’d no idea, but the way she leans on the doorbell is enough to wake the dead – a brutal, endless ringing filled with reproach – only cops ring doorbells like that. One minute I was sleeping like the dead and next thing I was standing in front of the door wondering who I was. The panicked reflex of a sleeper. As I opened the door I still had my eyes closed. ‘Young man,’ her harsh voice spat in my face, ‘the least you could do is look at me when I’m talking to you.’ That was Madame Karsminsky for you. The Diva, Rachel used to call her. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ I said, rubbing my eyes. She shrugged and marched past me trailing a sickly cloud of perfume. I’m not sure what happened, but I ended up in the living room staring at the ceiling while she nosed about upstairs. I listened as she whirled around like a tornado, high heels clattering. Then she came downstairs and stood in front of me and started yelling, ‘My God, this place is a pigsty!’ She gave me the morning to tidy the place up, pack my stuff and move out. From what she didn’t say, I worked out Ophélie had decided to stay in Canada permanently and had asked her mother to sell the house and send her the money. ‘I’ve got power of attorney,’ she told me, taking a piece of paper out of her bag and waving it triumphantly under my nose. I had to believe her. I said, ‘Is it okay if I take Rachel’s books?’ She gave me a look of withering contempt. ‘Much good they’ll do you!’ I went into the garage, filled a cardboard box, heaved it onto my shoulder and headed for the door. ‘Who’s going to tidy up this mess?’ she yelled after me. ‘It looks tidy to me,’ I said, and I left. She ran after me and said, ‘You can take Ophélie’s car if you want.’ ‘I don’t know how to drive,’ I said. ‘And anyway, I haven’t got a licence.’ I never set eyes on her again. It was only the third time I’d met her, the first was at the party Rachel threw when he got his French citizenship, the second was the day he married Ophélie, today was the end of the story in which we had played minor but important roles, she the overbearing mother-in-law, me the little brother who’d gone off the rails.