But then he pictured Jean-Marc’s dazed look after seeing four films in one day, his indignation at Mathieu’s refusal to spend their mornings together, the shared joy of their lovemaking and the laughter they exchanged afterwards. He put out his cigarette and moulded his body against Jean-Marc’s. And immediately fell asleep.

Jean-Marc

Jean-Marc

Everything was fine that weekend. We got up fairly late, had breakfast in bed (a big meal that I prepared with pleasure if not talent, while Mathieu read with imperturbable seriousness the reviews of the Festival in Le Devoir and La Presse, which fortunately I subscribe to), then, calmly, without rushing around as we’d had to on the first day to be on time for the nine a.m. screening, we headed downtown to the Cinéma Parisien. The number 80 bus was less crowded than at eight-thirty, and faster too. With our passes we were able to go directly to the theatre we wanted, without having to stand in line.

We’d seen nine films in three days at that point, and to my amazement, with no pain on my part. On the contrary, I felt festival fever growing on me: I’d be more and more excited when we arrived at the Parisien, I’d listen to what people were saying about the first show, I’d underline the films they were raving about and strike out those we’d intended to see that were being panned, I’d get worked up over a Mexican film everybody else was ignoring, I had even caught myself snickering at the mention of one of the French blockbusters whose director I couldn’t stand; in short, I was becoming a full-fledged festival freak, to the great pleasure of Mathieu who kept saying: “I told you, ­didn’t I, the tension builds and you can’t resist the ­excitement . . .”

On the Sunday night, around half-past seven, we were coming out of a very fine Danish film that had disturbed us both deeply and we were lingering in the lobby, animated, overwrought even, trying to decide where to eat, when I heard a familiar voice:

“Jean-Marc! Jean-Marc! We thought you were dead!”