Saïd realizes between spasms of pain that his mates are going to arrive too late. What he still can’t understand, on the other hand, is why these two guys hate him, and what they really want from him. It’s true he’s made some money, but for sure nothing to buy a villa with. Side gigs, little somethings that are better than nothings, but not heaps of money either. There’s his car, of course. He wasn’t trying to show off, it’s just that he’s always liked cars and it’s the first time he’s been able to afford one that wasn’t shit. And yet his contacts have always told him: don’t act clever, keep your head down, and it’ll be all right. Mustn’t change your habits, especially in a village. People don’t like it when you get out of your box, it reminds them they’re in one.

They drive for quite a while, in silence. Saïd is in pain. He catches his breath but it’s still hurting. He touches, strokes, weighs: everything is still where it should be, and it’s an odd kind of relief.

The road becomes rougher, the wheels bite into slopes of dry grass that would catch fire at the first cigarette butt. Manuel seems to know where he’s going. He finally pulls up to a large, imposing, outrageously elaborate gate. He takes out of his pocket the jangling bunch of keys with the horseshoe at the end – his hands are shaking slightly – and activates the gate to open.

It’s about 11 p.m. when, after driving slowly down the carpet of gravel, the pick-up truck parks by the garage door.

Céline is laughing at everything Côme says. He’s full of humour, but she doesn’t get all his jokes. He knows this and is doing it deliberately. He likes it when this girl cracks up every time he comes up with something. He suddenly feels alone but enjoys being outside the situation and making himself laugh. He enjoys his superior solitude, it’s his fix. Besides, this pregnant girl who’s popped out of nowhere is very attractive. Not one of his own kind, of course, and he, a boy from a good family, is oddly excited by that. And since his intelligence affords him the luxury of somewhat despairing cynicism, he allows himself to think that, yes, it would be fun to fuck her, with that big belly and that coarseness that surfaces whenever she laughs. It would be great, decadent, new. He’s so bored.

“What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Céline chuckles and starts on the third beer Côme hands her.

He feels disgusting, and he finds that delicious.