If someone had asked Manuel when exactly they’d really become friends, he and Patrick, he’d have thought a long time, listed their countless joint memories, and, yes, perhaps he would have zoned in on that greasy, June ’92 afternoon when, having skipped classes to go and watch It in Patrick’s father’s bedroom, he had finally managed to go all the way with Nathalie in the next room – Patrick had been championing his friend to his cousin for weeks, using his own charm and showering his pal with an aura of mystery and charisma. Or perhaps he would have chosen one of the many times when Patrick had covered for him with Séverine, when he’d lost his day’s wages on lottery tickets at the bookie’s. Or that time, much earlier on, when, hammered, they had both ended up in the principal’s office, avoiding expulsion by a whisker, accomplices in drunkenness and defiance.

But if anyone had asked Patrick the same question, he would have said, without hesitation, that their friendship had become rock solid that day in November ’90 when he’d introduced him to his mother.

The student supervisor had walked in in the middle of the class and whispered a few words to the history teacher, who’d immediately looked at Patrick. “Bardin, you’re expected in the office.”

Her tone had lost its usual severity, ritualized by the daily confrontation with the savage horde that made up this class of adolescents whose testosterone was in constant competition with their foolishness. At that moment, she’d softened the way you lower your guard, the school stage fading, overtaken by life. After a slight hesitation, she’d said, “Gomez, go with him.”