Other single-seaters, other motor-homes, other cars, other families were passing along the road to Calvi. Clotilde felt a huge weight in her stomach. But it wasn’t the first time they’d left her. Franck took Valou to basketball every Saturday. For a few hours, not a few days. A few hours Clotilde could take advantage of in order to escape; lying down with a novel, not a lover.

Clotilde had already lost sight of the minibus, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t help thinking about her father, who had also gone off on a sailing trip, just a few days before the accident at Petra Coda. At least that was what she had been told. He hadn’t come back until Saint Rose’s day, the twenty-third of August.

The day after tomorrow.

A hand brushed her arm and she turned round. Cervone Spinello was standing behind her.

‘You shouldn’t complain, Clotilde. Your husband is going off with your daughter. Most guys would leave you holding the baby.’

‘Drop it, Cervone.’

Spinello didn’t take it to heart. And he didn’t take his fingers off her arm either. Clotilde bit her lips. No way was she going to burst into tears in front of this bastard! No way was he going to be the one who handed her a handkerchief. Looking for a way out of the conversation, she remembered that she hadn’t seen Orsu at the campsite that morning. Where had he gone after their midnight walk to the shepherd’s cabin? Of course, she could have asked Cervone, but she had no desire to take the campsite manager into her confidence. Instead she headed towards a different question.

‘Still no news of Jakob Schreiber?’

‘Nothing,’ Cervone replied. ‘If I haven’t seen any sign of him by this evening I’ll call the police.’

Clotilde wondered why he hadn’t done that already. Cervone seemed to be good friends with Captain Cadenat. She was about to ask him, when Spinello cut in ahead of her.

‘I have a message for you, Clotilde. From Mamy Lisabetta. She phoned reception. She sounded as if she was in a complete panic. Your Papé Cassanu wants to see you, as soon as possible.’

‘At Arcanu?’

‘No.’

He left her in suspense for a few seconds before continuing.

‘Up there.’

He stared at the clouds that clung to the mountain, over towards Capu di a Veta. Clotilde followed the line of the crest as well, until her eyes came to rest on a tiny black cross outlined against the sky.

Memories came flooding back, pure and light, only to be spoiled by a single phrase from Cervone.

‘Unless he’s had himself set down there by helicopter, the old lunatic will die at the foot of that cross.’

43

Tuesday, 22 August 1989, sixteenth day of the holidays
Earth-seen-from-the-stars-blue sky

Hey there, are you awake, my confidant?