That was a long time ago. Back then, he’d put a mattress on the bodywork and she’d find it romantic to sleep there with him, in Saintes-Marie-de-la-Mer or even on the scrubland, in those secret little spots only he knew. The indelible recollection of these trips is etched in his memory: Séverine liked to sweat and their clammy bodies to slide and stick. She liked this southern heat she’d never left, which burns even rocks. She liked the slap of flesh meeting flesh. A litre of water for every hour of lovemaking was the minimum. Afterwards Séverine would always get up to pee, and he can still hear her footsteps, the leap from the bed of the truck, the sound of leaves crushed by her bare feet, twigs snapping, and especially that of her urine spurting onto the ground a few feet away from the pick-up. A sound he’s never forgotten, charged with excitement and tenderness. For Manuel, intimacy is that sound. That was a long time ago. Sometimes, looking up at the sky and squeezing his fingers, she’d say she wanted kids, many kids, but didn’t specify if she wanted them with him. They were too young to know. And then the first pregnancy came much sooner than expected. Perhaps his little girl was conceived here, in the back of his pick-up truck. His eldest.

Manuel drives off quickly and makes a U-turn. He heads towards Bonnieux, thinking about his half-baked business, about Saïd, whom he was fond of when he was a kid – shit, kids should always stay kids. He thinks about his pregnant little girl, about the money he hasn’t got or which he owes. About his father again; he must go and see him soon. And he remembers the nights of the past, when everything made sense and the future belonged to him. He thinks about it as though it’s about someone else instead of him, and looks at what he has been.

The Way of the Cross

“What kind of career do you have in mind, Johanna?”

Jo shrugs, but without insolence. She forces a smile as she stares the careers adviser straight in the eye, hoping to make her feel uncomfortable. But it doesn’t work with this one. Her two-tone look doesn’t seem to bother the woman. Jo would quite like to leave, as it’s the last day before the summer holidays, before she quits middle school for ever – is this really a good time to talk about this?

“You’re very capable, you know, despite being a year behind.”

Jo smiles. You’re supposed to smile when you receive this kind of compliment. Gratitude and all that. It’s true that she stuck out like a sore thumb among the other pupils this year, so it was time to quit. Too old, too mature, and harbouring that almost shocking brutality. She’s never pissed anybody off, but none of the shitfaces carrying their Eastpaks in the school corridors would dare make the slightest remark to her. She spreads her legs under the table and pulls on her sleeveless T-shirt. Her breasts are so small she doesn’t wear a bra. Her mother yells at her because of that, because it’s indecent when your nipples stick out. As far as decency is concerned, there are far worse things that bug Jo. If guys – either pupils or teachers – want to ogle her 32A bosom, it’s hardly going to rock her world or give her goosebumps. Jo’s not Céline.