Mathieu remembered this same kitchen, painted ­differently but with the same furniture in the same places, the same scalloped curtains and the same rather noisy refrigerator; but he also saw plates flying from one end of the room to the other and shattering against the stove or a wall, Louise’s jerky way of moving when she was on the verge of hysterics, their sorrow because they hated one another and couldn’t do otherwise; he heard Sébastien’s howls, his sole defense when presented with something he could sense but not understand being to cry, thereby ­drawing attention to himself. It was all so remote now, but still fresh enough in his memory that he felt briefly as if he were in the middle of one of those painful scenes, and he recoiled.

They both knew they had to create a diversion, that this room contained so many happy and unhappy memories it would be hard for them to be here together for very long without trouble.

Louise offered Mathieu a coffee, which he accepted ­eagerly.

“What time does Sébastien get back?”

The conversation could become normal again; Mathieu sensed that the ­danger of nostalgia had passed, like a storm you can feel in the air, but that hasn’t quite decided to come crashing down on you.

“He should be here any minute. He loves going shopping with Gaston on Saturday morning. What’re you going to do with him today?”

“Take him to the movies, as usual . . . Then we’ll go for a walk . . . and as usual end up at some wonderful McDonald’s . . . Unless I take him to Eaton’s, to show him off and prove my virility to my colleagues.”

Louise laughed, her head thrown back. Mathieu took advantage of this relaxed moment to make his big announcement.

“Would you mind packing a few things for him? Just ­pyjamas, some toys . . . those blocks he likes so much . . . He’ll be sleeping over at our place tonight.” Louise wasn’t sure she’d heard right and decided to play dumb.

“At your mother’s?”

Mathieu knew Louise well enough to understand her game so he decided to bring everything out in the open right away.

“You know very well I’m living at Jean-Marc’s now. And I think it’s high time they met . . .”

She’d brought the coffee pot to the table. Very slowly, she poured the thick liquid—she made some of the strongest coffee in Montreal and drank a good ten cups a day—and Mathieu thought: I know her, she’s playing for time, I caught her off guard, she doesn’t know what to say, either I’ll get a face full of coffee or she’ll pretend to be enthusiastic about my brilliant idea . . . He felt himself on a tightrope once again and wanted to shut his eyes and let things proceed without him.

“What does he have to say about that?”