“Listen, Johanna, you wouldn’t want to be responsible for something serious, would you?”

The policeman has taken on a deep voice to say that, and glances at the television that’s on, broadcasting the news on a loop. Nothing to do with the subject – the reporters are talking about the imminent presidential elections. But everybody understands very well what he’s driving at. Her parents’ presence is making Jo angry; this confession session is stripping her naked and she hates strangers calling her by her first name.

“We’ve been going out since January, but we haven’t done anything.”

Silence; the policeman smiles at her warmly. “Thank you, Johanna, thank you very much.”

The pair’s gratitude isn’t earth-shattering. As soon as they’ve left and said goodbye to everybody, the two teenagers shut themselves in their room. Séverine drinks her beer in small sips, her legs folded under her in the armchair.

The police won’t be back; they’ve got scraps of information, the bare bones of a personality, dozens of paranoid bits of gossip, but no evidence and no truth. Saïd’s file will be added to others, while the entire region will build a myth around the young man.

Manuel wishes he hadn’t heard anything, doesn’t want to know. What’s the point of knowing all this now? It sounds like childish play, clumsy kindness and patience – that’s not what he wanted to hear. The gap is too wide between the boy described by his daughters and the grown, arrogant man he took revenge on. Through totally insane mental gymnastics, he tells himself that the police are right, that Saïd kept his cards close to his chest, that he must have gone to Syria or joined a terrorist cell. And even if he hasn’t, he could have. This description would justify his hatred, but he doesn’t believe it for a second. Realizing he’ll never be bothered again, Manuel feels immense relief and at the same time a terrible weight on his solar plexus; he instinctively knows he’s going to have to live with it now. He tells himself that the lives of some men aren’t worth much. Himself included, even though he’s not dead.

How he wishes his mother was still around.

Old Things

Old Things