Their lives had been extraordinary, marked by pain, passions, and contradictions. If sometimes they had lacked courage, they had also shown a selflessness that commanded respect. They had lived, they had loved, they had killed. At times, they had been carried away by their passions, but they had tried their best. Tried their best not to have humdrum lives, to reconcile their personal adventures with a sense of responsibility, to define the word family according to a grammar that was theirs alone.

Having come from such parents compelled me, not to imitate them, but to honor their heritage by learning certain lessons.

It is futile to deny the complexity of human emotions. Our lives are sometimes inscrutable, often disrupted by conflicting desires. Our lives are fragile, at once precious and insignificant, sometimes bathed in icy waters of loneliness, sometimes in the warm stream of a fountain of youth. Our lives, for the most part, are beyond our control. The slightest thing can turn them upside down. A whispered word, the twinkling of an eye, or a lingering smile can raise us up or cast us into oblivion. And yet, in spite of this uncertainty, we have no choice but to pretend we can control the chaos in the hope that the inclinations of our hearts will find a place in the secret plans of Providence.

*  *  *

On the evening of July 14, to celebrate Maxime’s being discharged from the hospital, we all gathered at my parents’ house: Olivier, Maxime, their two daughters, Fanny, even Pauline Delatour, who, now that I had made peace with her, proved to be smart and funny. I had barbecued steaks and some hot dogs for the children. We opened a bottle of Nuits-Saint-Georges and settled ourselves on the terrace to watch the Bastille Day fireworks over the bay of Antibes. The fireworks had just started when I heard the phone in the entryway buzz.

I left my guests, turned on the outdoor lights, and went down the driveway to the gates. On the other side stood Stéphane Pianelli. He was not looking his best; his hair was long, his beard unkempt, his eyes bloodshot.

“What do you want, Stéphane?”

“Hi, Thomas.”

His breath stank of booze.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” he said, gripping the wrought-iron railings.

“Fuck off, Stéphane.”

“I’ve got good news for you, Mr. Potboiler. I’m not going to publish my book.”

From his pocket, he took a folded piece of paper and slipped it between the bars.

“Your mother and Francis were really two beautiful bastards!”

I unfolded it as pinwheels and rockets exploded in the sky. It was a photocopy of an old article from Nice-Matin dated December 28, 1997. Five years after the tragedy.

VANDALS CAUSE SIGNIFICANT DAMAGE AT THE LYCÉE SAINT-EXUPERY

by Claude Angevin

Sophia Antipolis technology park was targeted by vandals on Christmas Eve. Much of the more serious damage took place in the gym of the lycée.