I arrived at the hospital at dawn that day and, before I dropped in to say goodbye to Louis, I made a pact with Sophie Davant. She listened to me earnestly, staring at me as if I were an alien. Then she burst out laughing and told me that my idea was brilliant, and that of course she’d help me as much as she could. I hugged her, which surprised her, but she didn’t object. She asked if she could tell the other nurses, especially her friend who’s the spitting image of the TV presenter Catherine Laborde (you couldn’t make that up). I agreed, telling myself that this friendship between the two channels, TF1 and France Télévisions, augured well for my scheme, which relied heavily on audiovisual technology. I’d stuffed Louis’s mini action camera into my handbag, and I planned to study the instructions on the plane. Tokyo’s a very long way, and the twelve-hour flight would give me time to become a professional camerawoman. At least that’s what I told myself then, blithely unaware how totally useless I would be at film editing.

I explained to Louis the crazy project that had formed in my mind. My son remained beautiful, calm and still, but that morning something unusual happened. I knew my son inside out, and since he’d been in that hospital bed, nothing of his expression was new to me. I could describe his fine nose, his hairline, his delicate eyelids in perfect detail, and his eyebrows, which I smoothed each time the nurses washed his face. After telling him my plans for the coming weeks, my heart contracted and lurched at the same time. In the corner of Louis’s right eye, a tear welled up and then ran down his temple. Louis was crying, I was convinced. My heart began pounding, and I gave a shout, which brought two nurses rushing in. I wanted to share my excitement, have them bear witness: something had just happened on my son’s face! But the bubble burst. One of the nurses, one I didn’t like, and whose name and face I kept forgetting (each time, I would catch myself asking who she was, before recognizing her), snapped back that this sort of thing sometimes happened, that it was certainly not a tear, but perhaps a drop of water on his eyelid from when his face had been washed not long before, or a secretion, which meant nothing. ‘Your son’s readings are still unchanged, I’m very sorry, madame.’ I sat down and gazed fixedly at Louis. Waiting for more. Cry, please, my darling. Show them I’m not mad. Show them you’re fighting.