I began to shape the elements at my disposal. The colours of my characters were gradually becoming clear. After a while, however, I asked myself: am I really fascinated by this family? Or am I forcing myself to feel interested in them to prove the truth of my initial premise? Perhaps, to avoid going back on my promise to myself, I am refusing to see their banality. Perhaps I am trying to dress reality in clothes of wonder. I had felt I was on the verge of an exciting literary truth, but now I was beginning to have doubts. Then again, I was used to it. Every book I write is built around my rejection of what I’d loved the day before. I have never been blessed by certainty when I write.

That’s where I was on the rollercoaster of my mind when the sound of the intercom brought it to a halt. Usually, I don’t answer. When I’m writing, I play dead.¹⁰ But I had a hunch that this interruption was connected to my project. And I was right: Madeleine was waiting for me outside my apartment block. I quickly got dressed and went down to meet her. She knew I lived in this building (I’d pointed it out to her during our first encounter). She hadn’t thought to ask her daughter for my phone number, but she wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. What was so urgent? I was about to ask her up for a coffee but, just as I opened my mouth, a vision of my apartment formed before my eyes. It was in too much of a mess. If she saw how I lived, she would probably back out of our budding relationship. Personally, I would never confide my most intimate secrets to someone who let dirty plates pile up in the sink. Then again, I was a writer: the perfect alibi for all forms of laxity and slovenliness. I could always tell her that, while writing, I was totally incapable of performing even the smallest practical task.

In the end we went to the café at the corner of the street. At this time of day – the mid-morning lull – the place was empty. If Madeleine had really woken with the feeling that she had to talk to me as soon as possible, she didn’t seem in any particular hurry now she was sitting opposite me. There was an expression of tranquillity on her face; she looked rejuvenated. Her life had been jolted from its usual orbit, propelling her into a sort of gentle frenzy. How long had it been since she’d veered from her comfortable rut? I sensed she was enjoying this taste of adventure.

It was time for her to explain why she’d wanted to see me so urgently. She had spent most of the night thinking about our conversation, she said, and particularly about Yves’s face. The fact that he could so suddenly surge up from the past had left her stunned. A name typed into a phone, and the face of her first love had appeared. I understood her perplexity. I explained to Madeleine that we’d been lucky he had a Facebook profile; research is rarely so quick and simple. Looking through Yves Grimbert’s page, however, I noticed that it hadn’t been updated in just over two years. I’d sent a friend request to his page, but it had not yet been accepted. I didn’t dare tell her what had already crossed my mind: that perhaps he was dead. Plenty of profiles remain active after the person’s death. Even some of my own Facebook friends were deceased, and it always upset me when I received a notification reminding me to wish them a happy birthday. It is one of the small violences of contemporary life, having to unfriend an obsolete profile or delete the phone number of someone who is no longer with us.