In the afternoons, Mémé Catherine would take her down to the sea for a swim, and Saturday evening, after Mass, her grandmother ironed while Rat watched TV. There are certain smells—the toasty smell of ironed cotton, the ecclesiastical reek of melting candle wax—that remind Rat of her grandmother with an inexplicable mixture of comfort and unease, as if there were a heaven after all, but not for you.

In Rat’s recollections, it’s always summer in Mémé Catherine’s house, the rooms dark because the shutters are closed to keep in the cool. The house is more exposed to the Tramontane than Mas Cargol: there is a little hook to latch open each door and window, so it doesn’t slam in the wind.

Whenever they pass Collioure, Rat tries to catch a glimpse of Mémé Catherine’s housing complex. She wonders what Mémé Catherine and Vanessa would do if they met by accident. Would they stare right through each other? Would Mémé Catherine even recognize Rat? Would she think Rat had turned out to be a bad seed like her mother?

“Mémé Catherine? She was a typical military wife. Never a day sick, no complaints allowed. Unfailingly cheerful. Me, I hate cheerful—it just stinks of suppressed rage.” Vanessa mimics Mémé Catherine’s bright tones. “‘So we’re moving again? Wonderful! I always wanted to live on an army base in the middle of fucking Alsace. Girls, pack your bags. No back talk.’ Our dad came first, second, and third. I couldn’t stand her hypocrisy. There was this whole world out there, some of it very ugly and miserable, some of it very exciting, and all your energies were spent pretending it didn’t exist. The only thing that counted was what the neighbors—the other army wives—did. It made me swear, I’m never living in a ghetto, not a middle-class ghetto, at least. I’d rather be poor than uptight.” After a moment, she says, “I’m sure glad I don’t have to eat that bitch’s jams and pickles anymore.”

They laugh, but Rat feels disloyal.

“And your daddy?”