Tuesday, 22 August 1989, sixteenth day of the holidays
Porcelain-blue sky

Like everyone else, I am part of the movement, I sing holding on to my neighbour’s hand while swaying gently to ‘We Are the World’, standing around the fire on Alga beach, for the big communion of big sentiments. Nicolas stands in the middle, probably hoping that the light of the flames will help him pick out the guitar chords he doesn’t know. He keeps to the rhythm as best he can, my brother-in-arms – if he played like Mark Knopfler, we’d all know about it. Estefan thinks he’s Manu Katché and is accompanying Nicolas on the djembe.

It’s almost midnight below Betelgeuse and her friends. Tonight is the good little boys’ and girls’ party. We’re grilling marshmallows, singing Bob Marley, Maxim Le Forestier and theme tunes from the TV. This evening’s festivities are meant to reassure the parents; a way of masking tomorrow’s trip to the Camargue organised by Nico, the party for the older kids and the ones over eighteen, with laser balls replacing the stars, techno replacing the guitar, and joints instead of Haribo.

That’s Nico’s plan; to move from childhood to adulthood within the space of twenty-four hours.

It’s a bit quick, don’t you think, my trusted reader?

As if they don’t know how it will all end. It’s like they’re in a hurry to hit on each other and sleep with each other, left, right and centre, then to sleep with the same person all the time, then to set up home together, get married, sleep with each other less often, once a month, once a year, on the anniversary of the first time, to remember it, to dream about it, then sleep with someone else, someone who’s already set up home elsewhere. As if they’re in a rush to follow the same path as their parents. My parents. As if they’re in a rush to start pretending.

Maria-Chjara thinks she’s Cindy Lauper and howls over the chorus of ‘We Are the World’. She’s got a lovely voice, you have to give her that. The only one sulking is Hermann. He wanted them to sing ‘99 Luftballons’, but apart from Tess and Magnus, the Dutch kids, he’s the only one who understands Nena’s song in German. Which leaves him sitting there like an idiot. He even brought his violin along, but got nothing but boos when he suggested playing it to accompany us. We still prefer Nicolas’s rubbish guitar, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my brother! Now Hermann is holding hands with his neighbour Aurélia, and Aurélia is holding hands with Cervone, who is holding hands with Candy. And so it goes, a pocketful of posies, all fall down.