And what do we really care, Anouk, if a hundred years from now the Sacré-Coeur has become a mosque, or a synagogue, or something else altogether? Because by then we’ll all be sand, except for the One who has always been; the one that builds pyramids; raises temples; makes martyrs; composes sublime music; denies logic; praises the meek; receives souls into Paradise; dictates what to wear; smites the infidel; paints the Sistine Chapel; urges young men to die for the cause; blows up bandsmen by remote control; promises much; delivers little; fears no one and never dies, because the fear of Death is so much greater than honour, or goodness, or faith, or love . . .

So, back to your question. What was it again?

Ah, yes, the black piñata.

You think I found the answer in there?

Sorry, sweetheart. Think again.

You want to know what I saw, Anouk?

Nothing. That’s what. Big fat zip.

No answers, no certainties; no payback; no truth. Just air; a single belch of foul air rushing out of the black piñata like morning-breath from a thousand-year sleep.

‘The worst of all things is nothing, Anouk. No meaning; no message; no demons; no gods. We die – and there’s nothing. Nothing at all.’

She watches me with those dark eyes.

‘You’re wrong,’ she says. ‘There’s something.’

‘What? You really think you’ve got something here? Think again. The chocolate shop? Thierry will have you out by Easter. Like all conceited men, he’s vindictive. In four months’ time, you’ll be back where you started, the three of you, penniless and on the road.

‘Think you’ll have Vianne? You won’t, you know. She hasn’t the courage to be herself, let alone be a mother to you. Think you’ll have Roux? Don’t count on it. He’s the biggest liar of all. Ask to see his boat, Anouk. Ask to see his precious boat—’

But I’m losing her, and I know it now. She looks at me with no fear in her eyes. Instead there’s something I can’t quite make out—

Pity? No. She wouldn’t dare.

‘It must be very lonely, Zozie.’

‘Lonely?’ I snarled.

‘Being you.’

I uttered a silent howl of rage. It’s the hunting cry of One Jaguar, of Black Tezcatlipoca in his most terrible Aspect. But the child didn’t flinch. Instead, she smiled and took my hand.

‘All those hearts you’ve collected,’ she said. ‘And still you don’t have one of your own. Is that why you wanted me? So you wouldn’t be alone any more?’