Clotilde looked away and for a moment studied the twin moons off the Revellata Peninsula, one sunk into the water, the other suspended in the dark sky; they looked like two fugitives pursued by the lighthouse on the peninsula, the first one quivering, the second one startled. She wanted to close her eyes again. It was really so easy to teleport yourself to another planet.

Coordinate your eyelids.

One, two, three … then curtain!

But no, she had to keep them open, take advantage of the last few minutes, write everything down in the notebook on her knees before her dream flew away. Etch the words on to the white page. It was a matter of urgency. The utmost urgency.

My dream takes place right near here, but a long way off in the future, on Oscelluccia beach. I recognise the cliffs, the sand, the shape of the bay, they’re always the same. But not me, I’ve turned into an old woman. A grandma!

It took her how long? Only two minutes? The time for Clotilde to write another ten lines or so, and for ‘Rock Island Line’ to play. La Mano Negra’s songs weren’t very long.

Her father took it as a provocation, but it wasn’t meant as one. Not this time. He seized her by the arm.

Clotilde felt her headphones sliding off, the right earpiece getting tangled in a tuft of her gelled black hair. Her pen fell to the dusty ground. The notebook would remain on the bench until she had time to grab it, slip it into her bag or at least hide it.

‘Papa, you’re hurting me, shit …’

Her father didn’t say anything. He was calm. Cold. Smooth. As usual … A fragment of an ice floe lost in the Mediterranean.

‘Get a move on, Clotilde. We’re going to Prezzuna. Everyone’s waiting for you.’

Her father’s hairy hand gripped her wrist. Tugged it. Her bare thigh stung as it scraped along the wooden bench. Her only hope was that Mamy Lisabetta, her grandmother, would pick up her notebook and put it with the rest of her belongings, which were scattered at random around the farm, without opening it, without reading it. She would give it back to her tomorrow. She could trust Mamy.

Only her …

Her father dragged her along for a few metres, then pushed her in front of him, the way you let go of the hand of a baby who’s started to walk on its own, always staying a few steps behind, arms outstretched like pincers. In the courtyard of the sheepfold, around the large table, the entire holy family was watching her, faces frozen like wax dummies, the wine bottles now empty, the bouquets of yellow roses fading. Her grandfather Papé Cassanu, Mamy Lisabetta, the whole tribe … Like a tableau from the Grévin wax museum. The Corsican pavilion. Napoleon’s unknown cousins.