Once we reached the kitchen, she began speaking to me in a low voice. Visibly flustered, she issued a few standard words of warning before explaining that the book I planned to write about her mother would probably be complicated because she was losing her memory. Of course, I thought, everybody’s memories become a little fuzzy as they get older. But Valérie added: ‘She’s in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It’s still manageable, but I can see it getting worse day by day. She’s forgetting names, parts of her life …’ I hadn’t noticed this at all. For two hours, Madeleine had navigated the waters of her past with perfect clarity. Valérie mentioned that it was possible her mother’s mind had been stimulated by our first meeting, like those opening sessions with a psychiatrist that seem extraordinary: there’s an ecstatic feeling of relief as you let everything out, and then gradually you realise, over time, that you are sinking deeper instead of rising from your rut.

Perhaps Madeleine had been happy to go diving into the depths of her memory, as if to prove to herself that she was a book whose every page she knew by heart.

‘I think my project could only do her good,’ I said to Valérie.

‘I don’t doubt it. And it’s clear that it would be interesting for her to talk to you. But I’m afraid that after a while she’d be confronted with her inability to remember. Do you understand my anxiety? For now, my mother is fine. She doesn’t know she’s getting Alzheimer’s. I just don’t want your project to cause her pain …’

Just then, she suddenly stopped talking, as if overwhelmed by emotion. She had struck me as suspicious, even slightly hostile, but I understood now that she was defending her mother; she was defending her the way an army defends a territory attacked by an enemy, losing a little more of their homeland every day. I smiled at her compassionately, but I felt ashamed of that smile because I knew it was deceptive. The truth was that I was thinking about my book. It’s the same for any writer: the story is all that matters. My project had been to stop the first person I met and write about them, and the first person I’d met was someone who was losing her memory. The irony of this was not lost on me. But I immediately changed my mind; perhaps it would be fascinating to write about a person’s memory as it crumbled and disappeared. I could leave blank pages, write contradictory chapters …

I decided then that I would space out my visits, so as not to exhaust my heroine. I could simply spend time with her, without necessarily pumping her for information. We could take walks in the neighbourhood or go shopping at the supermarket; snatches of ordinary daily life; it might all be of interest. Valérie interrupted my mental ramblings.

‘Of course I think it’s wonderful that you want to write about my mother. I think it’s a bit crazy, but still wonderful. I can see it would be like a gift for my children, but …’