Louise spoke first. I didn’t hear what she was saying but it seemed to strike Rose full in the chest. Her head drooped; Louise took it in her hands and kissed the brow which I imagined to be hot with emotion. Rose burst into great, almost childish sobs and threw herself desperately into the arms of her former daughter-in-law.

Sébastien looked on in amazement.

We, the three men, not knowing what to do, escaped to the kitchen where we sat around the table, awkward and silent.

I wished I could reassure Mathieu—and myself—but Gaston’s presence inhibited me and I think he felt ill at ease with us too. We didn’t know him and there was a world of prejudice separating us. On both sides. Did we represent to him lousy faggots playing fast and loose with his happiness? I knew very well that to me, he represented the good guy who’ll try to be understanding because he has to, but who’d much rather be somewhere else.

Mathieu scratched the edge of the table with his fingernail.

“What do we think we’re doing, in this day and age? What a turkey—one hint of trouble and I run!”

I moved my hand towards him but didn’t dare to touch him.

“We didn’t run, Mathieu . . . Anyway, it’s better to leave them alone . . . Your mother’s had quite a day . . .”

Gaston got to his feet as if to leave us to our conversation and leaned against the dishwasher. He lightly punched the arborite counter.

“I can’t stand situations like this . . . I should’ve just ignored my brother’s crap and finished my spaghetti!”

He looked at the refrigerator.

“Anything to drink? I could use a cold beer . . .”

I was in no mood to play host.

“Sure, help yourself . . . Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Empty chatter, banalities, while in the next room ­something was taking place that I sensed to be tragic and desperate. Of which I was partially the cause.

Sébastien swept into the kitchen.

“Why’s Mummy and Granny Rose crying?”

Mathieu and I exchanged a look. Neither of us felt like embarking on a long and risky explanation. Mathieu took his son on his knees.

“They haven’t seen each other for a long time . . .”

“Aren’t they happy?”

“That’s just it, they . . . they’re too happy!”

“How can you be too happy?”

The mood of the evening was deteriorating into an uneasy tension that was, if not growing, then constant. For me anyway. Two or three times they mentioned leaving. We’d felt obliged to hold them back, they’d felt obliged to stay.