“Even if I was the poorest thief in the world I wouldn’t stoop to burglarizing snobs like you! If your apartment’s anything like you, I hope I never have to set foot inside it. I’d be too afraid of catching your disease!”

As he was leaving the room he ran into Mélène, who was just arriving with our beers. He slammed the door and we could hear him tearing down the stairs four at a time. Mélène stood in the doorway, mouth agape. I apologized as I walked past her and went down to join Mathieu without even ­glancing at Johanne and Marguerite, who must have been simultaneously cursing and rejoicing.

“I don’t want anything to do with people like that, Jean-Marc! And I don’t want them as neighbours!”

“But you can’t leave me because of my neighbours!”

“I didn’t say I want to leave you! I’m happier with you than I’ve ever been in my life . . . But think for a minute . . . You aren’t risking anything . . . Your life’s going on exactly like it was before, except you’ve got somebody new in your house . . . But did you ever stop and think how my whole life is changing? I’m the one who’s moving, Jean-Marc, I’m the one who’s moving in little by little, I’m meeting new people that aren’t necessarily dying to meet me, I see less and less of my own friends—and I end up being insulted by yours . . .”

I was holding him very close, afraid he’d take flight. He was talking into my shoulder, a mixture of fury and pain, his voice halting like someone who’s been crying, but he hadn’t cried yet. His mouth was wetting my shirt at my right collarbone.

“I’ve told you a dozen times, Mathieu, those girls aren’t my friends. I know for a fact they weren’t even invited . . . We hardly ever see them . . .”