“Maybe not, but putting the kid into a former pipe-­smoking French prof’s office that still reeks of tobacco, even the books and furniture, after I don’t know how many housecleanings and a move . . . The kid will be asphyxiated.”

Mathieu and I had scrupulously checked out all the possibilities in the apartment the night before, considering the various places to put his son where he’d be relatively ­comfortable: the living room couch doesn’t open up; the one in the dining room, an old stick I hang on to because it’s the first piece of furniture I ever bought—fifteen bucks in an antique store—and which now sits in the bay window, is too lumpy to sleep on; our bedroom’s too small to take a folding bed . . . I even suggested that Mathieu sleep with Sébastien in our bed, but he refused. He said he wanted Sébastien to get used to seeing us sleep together right away; he didn’t want to hide anything from him and it was ­essential for the child to realize from the outset that I was very important in his father’s life.

Mélène and I had folded up the hide-a-bed, cursing because the mechanism doesn’t work very well (I still have an ugly scar from the time I caught my right thumb in it).

“At four he’s too little for such a big bed . . . Just toss a sheet and a blanket on top, it’ll be fine and he won’t feel so lost . . .”

“No, I think he should have a real bed . . . And I’m going to buy a few things for the walls, for his next visit . . . This room’s too severe for a child . . .”

“Jean-Marc, that child’s going to spend one night here every now and then! You don’t have to turn your office into a nursery school! Or fill your apartment with Mickey Mouse!”

“Poor Mélène, you’re really behind the times! Mickey Mouse has been passé for ages. Nowadays it’s Goldorak or Transformers or He-Man . . . The department stores sell stuff you can hang on the walls—you know, pictures, posters . . .”

“You mean you’re going to redecorate your office every time he comes to visit? Hang up the He-Man, take down the He-Man, plug in the bunny rabbit night-light . . . Oh, you’ll do it at first, but after a few weeks you’ll get fed up and Sébastien’s room will be just like it is now . . .”

She was sitting at my desk, in front of the papers I’d started marking that morning. Incredibly bad compositions churned out on Sunday night or Monday morning, wherein the poverty of the style rivalled the banality of the ideas and from which any hint of inventiveness had been ­banished, as if writing a few pages on a given subject ­automatically killed off any possibility of, or desire for, ­creativity. After nearly two months I still hadn’t been able to motivate my students and the situation was profoundly depressing.