America was smart, he said, they let in Asians who knew how to bust their asses to succeed, whereas France only let in Arabs and Africans, who saw themselves as victims of colonialism. You can’t run a country on guilt and apologies, he said. People get tired of bowing and scraping in their own country, saying Sorry, sorry, and when they’ve had it, they’ll vote for a strong leader who’ll clean house.

At first, the other grown-ups tried deflecting Thierry by teasing, but he wasn’t teasable, so then they started talking among themselves, chatting about the new administrator at the clinic where Marielle worked or the sailboat Michel, Jean-Luc’s boss, had just bought. Until finally Thierry, pissed off that nobody was listening, picked up Jean-Luc’s bottle of eau-de-vie and the box of chocolates Vanessa had brought, and walked out of the Cabreras’ house, without a word. When Vanessa and Rat and Morgan got home later that evening, he was passed out on the living room sofa, melted chocolate all over the cushions.

And now when Thierry and Jean-Luc crossed paths in the courtyard, they barely nodded.

But Vanessa was unflappable. She was in love with this man, she told Marielle, even if he wasn’t always easy. He’d been badly hurt in his life, an abused child who’d never known a parent’s love, and if it weren’t for them—meaning Vanessa and Rat and Morgan and the Cabreras and even Laurent and Cristel—he’d be lost.

You have no idea how sweet he can be, how tender, how thoughtful, she said. He’s just like a little boy, so remorseful when you show him he’s been an asshole. He says and does those things to shock you, but he doesn’t mean it, he’s just trying to get a reaction, it goes back to childhood when his father wouldn’t acknowledge Thierry’s existence except to whack him.

Marielle seemed unconvinced. “Look, it’s really not your job to make up for someone’s unhappy childhood. And it’s not possible, anyway.” Silence, then she asked, abruptly, “You’re not still thinking of having another baby?”

Rat, who’d thus far been pretending to be busy doing her homework, now swung around, outraged. “Mama! A baby? With that creep? You mustn’t.”

Vanessa laughed. “I’m thinking,” she said. “I’m allowed to think. Course, when a guy’s downed half a bottle of pastis, baby-making tends to remain in the realm of thought.”

Middle of the night. A bitter howling night.

Rat is curled up in her bed, knees hiked to her chin, hands tucked between her thighs to keep warm.