Manuel squints and sticks his chin out at the boy, waiting for what’s next.

“Next time, think twice before you insult me.”

“Are you threatening me? You’re a kid, Saïd. I’ve known you since you pissed in your pants.”

“I’m just saying: think twice. I’m not a snitch but don’t piss me off too much either. Maybe your mate Patrick would be interested to know that you help yourself from the villas. Maybe he’d like a slice of the cake, too … just saying; I’m not saying anything.”

“Then you’d better not say anything.”

The builder turns around abruptly, gets behind the wheel of his pick-up and drives off. A flock of mallards scatters in front of the vehicle, which speeds up before disappearing behind the weeping willows.

Saïd stands motionless for a moment, dust in his eyes, slightly disappointed that no bird has ended up under the wheels.

He grabs his cigarettes from the glove compartment before locking the car. He heads briskly to the river, walks down three steps and sits on a stone, huffing and puffing as if he’s just run the hundred-metre hurdles. The willow branches are dangling into the green stream. It’s so quiet. Two branches of the river come together and merge, speed up into a waterfall that’s wide rather than deep. A few hours from now, in addition to Parisians enjoying themselves, the riverbanks will be heaving with a bunch of kids in swimming trunks and sneakers who’ll leap into the river, screaming. He was one of them not so long ago. With the same bunch of little morons and girls. Dozens of girls with golden or even dark skin. The ones he never dared chat up at high school and lost touch with when he became a seasonal worker and started all this wheeling and dealing. Other stuff was allowed here in the summer. You were strong and fearless; your courage was measured by the height of your leap and the audacity of your dive. The girls would jump out of the water, screaming it was freezing, their skin mottled, shivering in their towels. Some of them could dive as far as the boys while others would stay on the bank, feeling the cold, eyeballing them, sarcastic, assessing. It was for their benefit that the boys showed daring; after all, nobody was really interested in girls who were too brave. Except for Saïd. He remembered the slender bodies walking on the top of the waterfall, one foot in front of the other like on a tightrope, across the bank, all smooth and swaying their hips, arms spread out to keep their balance. The guys would be there drooling over their bottoms and the stretched fabric of their swimsuits. He used to drool too, especially when he thought about them afterwards.

You could play-fight in this water so you’d touch each other: catch a body and throw it in, sink, grab flesh with exquisite fervour, mess about and make-believe. Pretend anger and real slaps – thighs, shoulders, buttocks – the tiny sounds made by manhandled flesh, and insults: You bastard, I can do that too! Go on, if you dare. The giggling. Saïd would go and pick up Céline and Jo, they’d get into the car in swimsuits and flip-flops, sarongs tied at the back of their necks. He’d drive bare-chested, proud of the muscles clearly rippling under his skin – the incidental benefit of working in the fields. He’d still driven them back to the estate even as recently as last year.