Maman yawns, in her black dress with the red roses, the one that Papa bought for her in Calvi. She’s bored. You would never guess that in less than an hour, after the aperitif, she’ll leave the Idrissi tribe with him, and climb up to share a loving tête-à-tête at Casa di Stella, while the rest of the familia, apart from the outsiders like me and Nicolas, will drive over to the church of Santa Lucia and the inevitable concert by A Filetta.

Quite honestly, it feels as if Maman would like to get going as soon as possible, while Papa would like to stay a bit longer. Seen like that, their night together looks like a bit of a compromise, something that won’t satisfy either one.

Is that, my trusted companion, what married life is like? Is that what adulthood is about: compromises? Settling for a freedom that is half-baked?

Once they’re up there, what will my secretive parents talk about? The Liguro-Provencal current and the dolphins you can see from the Aryon? The Revellata lighthouse and its rotating lens? Or perhaps they’ll talk about nothing, everything, us. They will make white flags from the tablecloth they eat on, the sheets between which they will make love, a yearly truce, like peace on earth on Christmas Eve.

I don’t know. I don’t really care either. To tell you the truth, I’ve already moved away, I’m sitting on my bench, hidden, headphones on my ears, Mano Negra in the background, so that I can write to you in peace. The drinks, given the time, must be coming to an end; it will soon be nightfall. Even I’m starting to doze off after my almost sleepless night.

I reread my words.

Perhaps I even fell asleep between two of them.

Everything was calm, my phrases neatly laid out, I was lulled by music, when all of a sudden I heard shouting.

It’s like a fight in the yard; I think I can hear conflict, tears.

I wonder if I should go and see what’s happening. But not for long. I don’t care much about the settling of scores among the Idrissi family. I put my headphones back on and turn up the volume, way up.

Perhaps I even fall asleep again.

*

*     *

He turned over.

He discovered one more handwritten page.

The last one.

After that, all the others were blank.

52

23 August 2016, 10 a.m.

When Clotilde stepped inside Calvi police station on the Route de Porto, the atmosphere seemed fairly relaxed. Not really the HQ of a team of investigators working at full steam; clearly the experts in Calvi kept a cooler head than the ones in Miami. Captain Cadenat was reading L’Equipe over a bottle of Corsica Cola. He looked up and seemed genuinely delighted to see her.