Because, obviously, in the course of the week I’d caught some unambiguous, even frankly mocking, stares: other gay men, especially ones my age, watched us go by appreciatively, because he was good-looking; they were probably envious of my good luck, but they were always ironic and not often friendly, as if our casual manner didn’t shock but provoked them. In contrast, the guys of Mathieu’s age seemed totally indifferent to me and openly cruised him as if he were alone. A few even gravitated around us for days, I’m not exaggerating, in the hope of some sign from Mathieu, thinking it was impossible that he wouldn’t show duplicity at some point. As no such sign appeared, they must have thought Mathieu was just weird, turning down their proferred charms in favour of an old man, so they left us to our discussions and didn’t push it.

At a few screenings of gay films, where we were of course the majority, the straight men—and this was both amusing and very revealing—would scowl a little in their seats, as if afraid of being taken for one of “them.” Or they’d clutch at their dates as if they were lifebuoys, or irrefutable alibis. I thought it was funny but Mathieu, in whom I was beginning to sense a fairly lively intolerance, grew impatient. His bad faith was quite simplistic in fact: “Should I worry about passing for straight when I go to a film by Sautet?” But then he saw the difference and shrugged, laughing. “Anyway, they’re the ones with hangups . . .”

The days sped by at a dazzling rate; the summer holiday was ending in a final sprint that was new to me, I who always stretch out the last weeks of August by sleeping as much as possible, slowing down my activities, adopting an almost vegetative rhythm, because for too many years now the resumption of classes has become so loathsome.