“Yes, how did you kn—”

“It’s on the third shelf of the bookcase in your bedroom. About three books in from the left-hand side.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” she says.

“I have my uses,” I say.

“I miss you.”

Silence from me. I don’t know what to say. “Mum?”

“Yes. Sorry. I’m here,” I say. “And there’s no need to miss me, I’ll be home. Soon.”

“But what are you doing?” Anna says.

“Didn’t Kate tell you? I spoke to her on the phone.”

“She doesn’t have a clue either. It’s all very...strange. It’s like you’ve gone a bit mad.”

“Well,” I say, “madness is rare in individuals, but in groups, parties, nations, and ages it is the rule.”

“Are you quoting Nietzsche now?”

“Sometimes I flick through your books when I’m dusting the bookshelf.”

“He went mad too, you know,” Anna says.

“I’m in good company, so,” I tell her.

25

Avoid using personal entertainment systems which
can distract you, and may prove dangerous.

“Let’s go downtown,” Iris declares after dinner.

“I’m not sure there is a downtown,” I say.

“Well, it would be a shame to deprive the locals when I’m all dressed up like a dog’s dinner,” she says, standing up and assuming a pose.

“You’re a very pretty lady,” Dad tells her.

“And you, sir, are a very charming man,” Iris says, offering Dad her elbow through which he threads his hand.

Iris bears Dad away and he glances behind to see if I am following, which I am, for what else is to be done when Iris is at full tilt?

Madame Lalouette is in the kitchen, doing the dishes. “Can I help?” I asked her earlier.

“Non,” she said. Then added, “Merci,” as an afterthought. I could tell she was taken aback by the idea. I could also tell she wanted me to leave the kitchen, which I understand, the kitchen being my territory at home.

Monsieur Lalouette is in the garden, sitting beside Joan of Arc and smoking a cigar.

“We’re going downtown,” Iris tells him, and, after I translate, he nods, as if this is not a ridiculous notion in a village of this size.

“We may be late back,” adds Iris, which is news to me. “I will leave the back door open,” Monsieur Lalouette tells us, batting smoke away from Joan with one of his hands.

The village is quiet.

Dead might be another word for it. There isn’t a sinner, as Dad used to say. On the road, no cars.

On the pavement, no pedestrians. We seem to be the only ones here.

It is so quiet you can hear the tick and tock of the clock suspended above the door of the church.

We pass the garage, deserted. The workshop doors are locked.

“I wonder if Lucas has sticky-taped the car back together again?” says Iris, grinning.

“Or poached an egg on the radiator,” I add. Even Dad laughs.

“There they are,” calls Lucas, from behind us. My face flushes at the thought that he might have heard our flip comments about his mechanical skills. He’s been so kind. We turn to see him with his massive arm draped across the shoulders of what must be the Wise Woman, whose hand doesn’t quite reach all the way around Lucas’s waist. The woman is not small, but appears diminutive beside Lucas. She oozes vitality from her shiny black hair, her bright brown eyes, her sallow skin, unmarred by freckles, her long brown besandaled feet tipped with naturally pink toenails. She is a sturdy woman. You would trust her to bring your baby. She is wearing a long, loose dress covered in beads and sequins, and she jingles when she moves.