Mathieu moved in with me little by little. I began to find his underwear in the laundry, then a pair of jeans, then shirts, socks, T-shirts. I washed them all, folded them, put them away on the same shelf in the pine armoire where I’d always put Yves’s things, and Luc’s, and the others who’d been only passing through or who’d been part of my life for a little while or longer. At one point, in fact, that shelf had become a sort of treasure trove; you could find everything, in every size and every colour, for every taste. I dipped into it myself occasionally—I remember in particular a fabulous black leather belt with a silver buckle that I wore for a long time, until its owner, whom I hadn’t seen for years, confiscated it one night at Bud’s—or made presents of some of the finest items to guys they suited particularly well.

By early October, Mathieu started doing his own laundry, then mine. On the Saturday mornings when he didn’t have to work he’d get up before me and stuff all the dirty clothes in the machine while he fixed breakfast. I’d be awakened by the wonderful aroma of coffee and the hideous sound of the old Inglis I’ve had for ten years. Of course I didn’t tell him that I couldn’t stand so much noise first thing in the ­morning; he was so proud of himself when I came into the kitchen, yawning and dishevelled, I couldn’t scold him.

One Saturday morning when, as a matter of fact, the old Inglis was making the kitchen walls shake while I was spreading a quarter of the contents of a jar of Nutella on a slice of toast, the phone rang. It was the Mother of Us All complaining that she never saw me any more and inviting the two of us to a family dinner that night. I figured it would give me a chance to make my relationship with Mathieu official in the eyes of my friends—the rest of the family ­hadn’t seen him again since the film festival, and they were probably thinking he’d gone up in smoke some time ago, like his many predecessors. So I accepted.

Mathieu seemed cool, but he said nothing, only stuck his nose back into Le Devoir. I was going to ask if he’d rather spend the evening alone, or go out to a play or a movie, but then I thought selfishly that I felt like seeing my friends, so I poured myself another coffee and made no comment either.