I just want to throw words down like that, higgledy-piggledy. Don’t even have the energy to make phrases any more. I’ll leave that to others, the people who have something to say, Le Monde journalists talking about a curtain being torn at the other end of the world; the ones from Corse-Matin who are forever going on about the businessman from Nice, Drago Bianchi, whose body has now been found, at least a body in what was left of his clothes. He was supposed to have gone under a ferry in Ajaccio harbour.

‘Is something wrong, Clotilde?’

The first thing I see is the end of a fishing rod, then, at the end of that, I find Basile Spinello. The owner of the campsite. Papé’s friend.

I’d be happy enough to talk to him. And tell you about it afterwards. Happy enough.

‘What’s wrong, Clotilde?’

‘Mmm.’

‘It’s not like you to be so melancholy, Clotilde. At least you don’t normally let it show.’

He must have said a magic word. I don’t know why, but I start telling him my life story.

‘I’m in love.’

‘It’s your age, my dear.’

‘That’s exactly it. I’m not in love with some idiot my own age.’

‘Are you thinking of anyone in particular when you mention an idiot your own age?’

‘What?’

‘My son? Cervone?’

‘No, not him!’

Basile bursts out laughing. I like his big mammoth laugh; it almost brings down the stalactites in my grotto.

‘You know, my dear,’ he says with a wink, ‘the Corsicans have only one shortcoming: they love their families. It’s sacrosanct.’

He stops there, but I can see what he doesn’t dare say.

The Corsicans love their families, it’s sacrosanct. But when you’ve got a twit for a son, you’ve got a twit for a son!

Basile changes the subject.

‘So who are you in love with?’

It comes out almost against my will.

‘Natale Angeli.’

‘Aha!!!’

‘Do you know him?’