It was a frustrating situation. I wanted to get to know him better. And I wanted to know, for example, what would happen at his meeting with Desjoyaux. I hated the idea of leaving certain storylines unfinished. Valérie reassured me on this point: she would keep me in the loop. She would help me write the rest of her husband’s story. This was satisfactory from a narrative point of view (I wouldn’t miss any twists or turns in Patrick’s story), but not from an emotional point of view (I would find out about him only through the prism of his wife). But that was how it was: I would just have to go along with my characters’ wishes. This was the major difference with fiction. In a novel, I could force anyone to tell me anything.

42

I was supposed to meet Valérie at eight that evening. We were going out to dinner. She’d mentioned a restaurant near their home that she really liked. But then, in her last message, she added: ‘Could you come to the apartment first? Jérémie would like to see you.’ I was intrigued by this. Was he going to reveal some secret or hidden feeling? It was also pleasing in terms of the book’s age balance. With Madeleine having such an important storyline, I would need a teenager to provide a counterpoint. I always see the books I write as cocktails, in which the various ingredients must be perfectly dosed to achieve the desired result. In geometric terms, every novel has a shape – and I like mine to be round.

I decided to go home before my meeting with Jérémie. I wanted to note down what Patrick had told me, but I felt exhausted. Listening to others requires unwavering attention, and it’s much more tiring than talking. Surprisingly, I managed to take a twenty-minute nap – an unusual achievement for me, as my relationship with sleep is jittery and unstable. During that short nap, I had a strange dream: Milan Kundera came up to me and whispered something in my ear, but I didn’t catch what he said. In my dream, his expression was very serious, as though he were about to reveal his most precious secret to me. But I heard nothing at all. I woke up with a feeling of despair at that silence; the dream had felt so real. I had been lucky enough to meet the great Czech writer before, and he had even called me on the phone – the greatest moment in the life of my ears. But why hadn’t I heard anything in my dream? Not a word, not a sigh. I really wished he could help guide me through the labyrinth of commas.

I lay there for a short while in that Kunderian atmosphere before going over to my computer. I logged into my Facebook account. I’d received a few messages, but I didn’t reply to them. At the risk of seeming impolite or ungrateful, I had to remain focused on my project. Over the years, I’d succeeded in acquiring a sense of detachment towards what people thought of me. It was a relief not to feel that incessant pressure of others’ judgement any more. As I was thinking this, however, I noticed that Yves Grimbert had accepted my friend request. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it before, but as soon as I did I felt a surge of excitement, as if he were my own lost lover. I thought about the girls I had loved during my childhood – Cécile Bleicher and Célia Bouet – and I practically started trembling. I had to write to him, but what should I write? I didn’t know how to find the words. I was the spokesman for a love affair that I knew almost nothing about. I decided to keep it simple, to stick to the facts. I was a friend of Madeleine’s, and she would be happy to see him again. There, that was enough. Regards. No, too cold. Best wishes. Yes, that was better. And, with a click, the message was sent.