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Back Time Is a Killer
Chapters (84)
  1. Dedication
  2. Time is a Killer
  3. Contents
  4. Map
  5. 1
  6. Twenty-seven years later …
  7. IRevellata
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. IISaint Rose’s Day
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. IIISempre giovanu
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. Twenty-seven years later
  77. Acknowledgements
  78. AFTER THE CRASH
  79. BLACK WATER LILIES
  80. DON’T LET GO
  81. About the Author
  82. Also by Michel Bussi
  83. More on W&N
  84. Copyright

‘Nothing, Clotilde. Nothing. I know you aren’t particularly fond of me, that you hate me as much as you loved my father. That in your eyes I represent more or less everything you missed in life, as if I were the incarnation of your lost dreams, the promises of youth which are extinguished one by one, the idiots who get all the power in a shitty world. But I’m not going to apologise for that, Clotilde. I’m not going to apologise for having made my own accommodation with life. Because I have no disappointments, Clotilde, I have no regrets.’ He stared at the picture of the campfire, before coming back to the game of pétanque in the car park. ‘I’m happier today than I ever was back then. The passing of time has made me more confident, more powerful, richer, even more handsome. So I’m not going to apologise, because I’ve sweated blood to get where I am. That’s why, if you don’t like me, it’s not reciprocal. I have no hatred, no bitterness, only sympathy for other people, the sympathy of someone who’s made a success of their life. Sympathy for you too.’

He set down the pétanque balls. Another palm was about to settle on another bare shoulder. Each of Cervone’s hands seemed to want to take a slightly greater risk in order to shock the other. She took a step backwards. Perhaps hitting him in the face with those peppers wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

‘It’s fine, Cervone. Spare me your little homily. What do you know?’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Clotilde. Believe me. And it’s up to you to answer a question, just one question. Do you really want to know the truth?’

‘Do you know it?’

‘You’re not in court, Clotilde. So take off the costume, remove the mask and just answer my question. Do you want to know the truth?’

‘About … about my parents’ accident? That bloody bolt? To know who tampered with it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know?’

‘Yes, but you’re not going to like the answer. You’re not going to like the truth at all.’

‘In all these years, I’ve never really liked the lies either.’

He smiled and looked at the photographs one last time.

‘Sit down, Clotilde. Sit down. I’m going to tell you.’

II

Saint Rose’s Day

37

Monday, 21 August 1989, fifteenth day of the holidays
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