He laid down the felt pen, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, stretching. His mother, who’d been vigorously punching the remote-control for a good half hour because there was nothing decent on TV, heaved an exasperated sigh.

“You’ll ruin your eyes with that schedule, the print’s so small! Anyway why don’t you just wait and see those movies when they come out? You’re going to waste your holidays again, shut up in the dark for ten days! You haven’t got a brain in your head!”

He rolled onto his back, hands behind his head.

“The ­ceiling needs painting.”

Rose rolled her eyes and shrugged.

“Don’t change the subject, Mathieu.”

“Ma, we’ve had this conversation a hundred times! Not all those films are released commercially . . . There’s some you never get another chance to see . . . And if I enjoy seeing four or five films a day . . .”

“I don’t understand you . . .”

“How many films do you watch on TV? How many hours do you spend in front of the box, punching your remote like a fanatic as if you wanted to smash it because there’s never anything good?”

“I don’t punch like a fanatic . . .”

The phone rang, interrupting a conversation they’d had all too often; it was a relief to both of them. Mathieu grabbed it on the first ring.

“Hello?”

“May I speak to Mathieu, please?”

He had trouble hearing the person at the other end, because the background noise, conversations, laughter, dishes, seemed to be in the foreground, masking the voice.

“Speaking . . . But can you talk louder please, I’m having trouble hearing you . . .”

“It’s Jean-Marc . . . I’m not sure if you remember me . . . We met Friday night, at La Cachette . . .”

His mother watched him turn pale, take the receiver from his ear, and stare at it as if he’d never seen one before.

“Oh . . . yes . . . I remember . . . Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

Mathieu held out the phone to his mother.

“I’m going to take it in my room . . . Don’t hang up till I start talking.”

Rose put her hand over the receiver.

“Maybe I watch two or three on Sunday, but weekdays I work, I don’t go waste my time at festivals!”

When he recognized Jean-Marc’s voice, Mathieu had been tempted to hang up. He’d been deeply humiliated by the events of Friday night: he’d spent Saturday wondering what it was he’d said or done to make Jean-Marc take off like that; he even found himself wondering if it was the glass of milk and the lemon pie that had turned him off . . . He’d suffered his share of rejections, but never one like that, so incomprehensible and so sudden—and after such a good start.