She turns around with the buggy and he takes that as a yes. They walk side by side without speaking. On the main square, Christmas lights are flashing in broad daylight; shooting stars hang between the walls, and stylized galloping reindeer are pulling a sleigh. It would be more bearable if it was raining. Outside the town hall, kids are doing skateboard and BMX tricks, huddled in anoraks with hoods lined with fake fur. There’s a poster advertising the function room and another giving Mass times. Patrick and Céline walk past the young people without paying attention to them and take the vineyard path that leads to the houses. She struggles a bit with the gravel under the wheels, so he says let me and pushes her aside gently so he can guide the buggy instead of her, not really giving her the choice. She puts her hands in her pockets and lets him. Patrick finds it moving to be responsible for the buggy and the child’s slumber. They walk slowly, as though they’re in agreement over how precious the moment is and need to make the illusion last a little longer. He thinks about that first time, in the hallway. It’s a thought filled with light and sorrow. About fifty yards from the house, she puts an end to their stroll. “You’d better go.”

He doesn’t answer, drops his head then lifts it again to search her eyes, waiting for a pardon or a confirmation that it all did happen. He wants to tell her it was important, baby or no baby. He wants her to know that he also still carries marks, under his skin and inside his head. That he hasn’t touched a girl since her, not for months. That he doesn’t really miss it.

The sound of wheels on gravel: Céline is already far away, her back to him, heading home. He watches her walk away and doesn’t know if he’ll see her again. Not for a long time, in any case.

He’s devastated – and also relieved.

Blaze

Blaze

There’s a murmuration of starlings, like a moving tableau, above the blaze. Manuel has gathered dry leaves in the middle of the garden and is using them to burn the legs of the Voltaire armchair. An opaque, grey smoke is rising in the approaching night. The racket the birds are making with every shift in position is deafening, an elegant swish while they’re flying and then the loud squawking when they land, like thousands of pairs of scissors slashing through the air, cutting up the sky.