The woman’s gaze grows more insistent, and sheds some of its benevolence. Her smile remains fixed, like that of dolls in horror films, Céline thinks. She looks around; the other customers aren’t paying attention to them. Céline feels as though the world has taken on a menacing dimension and could swallow her whole, something she’s never felt before. She puts a hand on her belly. Pity suddenly appears on the woman’s face, a revolting pity that extends to the child. The teenager could scratch her eyes out. And, for the first time since she found out she’s pregnant, Céline wants to protect the baby growing inside her. She can’t put it into words, it’s beyond her, and she wants to find her mother.

“My mother’s waiting for me.” Céline rouses herself, commands her legs to resume their course, to extricate themselves from this face-to-face.

“Wait! If you need anything at all —”

“I don’t need anything. And nobody. Fuck you!”

The teacher is suddenly upright, frozen in her astonishment, offended and stuttering.

Céline pushes her trolley in front of her like a shield or a ram to smash enemy doors down. She finishes her shopping quickly, throwing items into her trolley with methodical rage. She reaches the tills out of breath, as tense as a cornered animal, her back rippling with haste. Her mother is already in the queue and looks at her blankly, but Céline smiles at her.

One Day, on La Rambla

One Day, on La Rambla

“Will you go to Spain for me?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Go to La Rambla, Jojo, it’s so beautiful, you’ll see. There’s always people dancing there. And at the very end, almost at the harbour, there are stone lions. Will you go and see them?”

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Say hello to them from me.”

“Yes.”

“My father was very proud, Jojo. You’re like him, you know. He always had that look, like you, always a little angry, on alert, as if somebody was about to take something away from him that he cared about. I remember he used to tell me about when he arrived at the Argèles camp, the stagnant water, and his sister getting ill. She died there, you know, my aunt. I never met her… Her name was Pepita, and she survived the war to then die in France because of dirty water, imagine that?”

Jo smiles at her grandfather; she knows the story but is quite happy to hear it again. It’s better than silence. It’s better than this wet chewing sound he makes when he struggles to breathe, and the nasal vibration, the hiccups – his entire body falling apart.