Just before we got into the bathtub the phone rang. It was Mathieu, breathless as if he’d run two miles through every department in Eaton’s, calling to say he’d got the contract for the milk commercial.

“They phoned me here, I left this number . . . I’m so wound up I don’t know how I’ll make it through the day . . . Do you realize what this means? Freedom! No more department store! I was on the verge of saying to hell with it anyway . . . I can’t take them any more, any of them! Salesmen or customers . . . Wow! Imagine Sébastien when he sees the billboards in the Métro . . . And the TV commercials . . . You know it’s going to be a close-up, with the big grin, the milk mustache—the works . . . I’ll be making money like I’ve never made before . . . Enough to start my courses again . . . and I’ll have enough time to look for real acting jobs! I know I’m naive, it’ll be rough, but at least I’ve got a chance! Wow! You think it’ll hurt me? You think producers won’t want me because I’ll be the guy with milk on his face? I hadn’t thought of that . . . Listen, sorry, I better go, my boss is breathing down my neck . . .”

I hadn’t been able to get two words in. I told Sébastien we’d be seeing his father on television, but he didn’t seem to understand. I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing my lover’s face plastered all over town, but it was a fantastic break for him. Here I was with another actor! Assuming that one advertising campaign can make an actor, of
course . . . And I could already see the expression on Luc’s face the first time he saw Mathieu’s billboards . . .

There was water all over the bathroom. Mélène had given Sébastien, among other things, a rubber duck that spat a powerful stream of water from its beak, and we’d been ­trying it out. Sébastien was sitting on my folded knees, attempting to keep his balance while he splashed warm soapy water in my face. I was about to say enough, we’ve been in the tub so long our skin’s going to shrink, when he asked me with utter candour, between two bursts of laughter:

“Jean-Mak . . . what does ‘touch’ mean?”

The question threw me completely. Normally a child his age would know the word. I reached out my hand towards his face and pressed the tip of his nose.

“There, I just touched you . . .”

Serious, concentrating, he filled his duck with water.

“I know about that . . . But the other day my Uncle Paulot asked me if you ever touched me . . . I said yes and he looked mad . . . Does it mean hit me? You don’t hit me, do you?”