So, killing, was that all there was to it?

Trembling.

Coming in silence, firing an arrow, leaving.

Considering a problem solved.

Forgetting.

He sat down calmly and opened the diary again.

*

*     *

Wednesday, 23 August 1989, seventeenth day of the holidays
Death-blue sky

I went on up the stairs of the lighthouse, a few spiral steps to get a better view, like a cameraman filming a pair of movie stars. Now I’ve got a three-quarter view of them. I stop, I’m standing perhaps twenty steps below them; from my position I can only make out the top of the lighthouse, the iron balustrade, and their two shapes silhouetted against the sky.

Two huge shadows.

From where I stand, Papa seems almost as tall as the lighthouse itself. He is wearing a wind-cheater, and its fluorescent blue hood flaps like a bag that’s about to fly away. I can’t help it, I climb another three steps, like a quiet little mouse. I’m used to doing that – when I want, I can be the most discreet of spies, even when what I’m spying destroys me.

She stands facing my father. She runs a hand up his back, a hand that rises towards the back of his neck, that toys with the hairs on the nape, then settles on his shoulder. Or rather grips it, as if he too were about to fly away, leap over the balustrade, escape. From my position – a low-angle shot, as they say in the films – she also looks tall, perhaps as tall as my father, even though it’s hard to judge from this perspective.

They kiss. On the lips.

Just in case I had any doubts.

I can hear them laughing still, all those huntsmen at Basile’s. I hope there’s a tunnel under the lighthouse that leads nowhere. But afterwards. I’m not going to run this time, not straight away. I go on climbing. Another two steps. If they look down they won’t be able to miss me. No danger of that, though. They’re too busy hugging each other, pressing against each other, like two coastal trees mingling their roots together the better to resist the wind from the sea.

Her back is half-turned to me, but I still see her for the first time. She is dark, very beautiful, and is wearing a long, light-coloured dress that is both sober and sexy. Mysterious, alluring, loving. Just as you imagine a mistress to be, desperate with sensuality; exactly the way you must hate them to be, I suppose …

Except that Maman is no less beautiful than she is.

A draw, I would say.

I would almost admire my father, if I didn’t want to strangle him so much. My turf-selling Papa, Corsican when he feels like it, bowling over the prettiest girls.

One last step.

One last step, I promise …