Clotilde had to force herself not to burst out laughing.

Her father would never have raised a hand to her, but there were still five days of holiday left. She couldn’t afford to push her luck if she didn’t want to see her Walkman, her headphones and her cassettes being chucked off the Revellata Peninsula into the sea, if she wanted to get her notebook back, if she wanted to see Natale again and maybe bump into Orophin, Idril and their baby dolphins, if she wanted to have the freedom to spy on Nicolas and Maria-Chjara’s gang …

She got the message. Clotilde trotted over to the Fuego without dragging her feet. So, change of plan, we’re off to Prezzuna? OK, she would go along like a good girl and listen to the concert of polyphonic music in that chapel hidden away in the maquis, with her father, Maman, and Nicolas. She could sacrifice one evening, that was doable. Leaving her self-respect behind, that was a much more bitter pill to swallow.

She could just see Papé Cassanu getting up, staring at Papa and Papa nodding to tell him that everything was all right. Papé’s expression frightened her. Well, even more than usual.

The Fuego was parked down below, along the track that led down towards the Revellata. Maman and Nicolas were already sitting in the car. Nicolas shifted over to make room for her on the back seat, giving her a small complicit smile this time. He was also pissed off about this concert in the church out in the middle of the maquis, this obsession of their father’s.

Even more than she was, in fact; much more than she was. But Nicolas was very good at not letting his feelings show. In years to come, after he’d got his licence as a qualified anvil, he might even become President of the Republic. Like Mitterrand, he would learn to put up with everything for seven years without flinching, and hold his nose to be re-elected … just for the sheer pleasure of being punched in the face for another seven years.

Papa was driving fast, as he often did since he’d bought his red Fuego. As he often did, when he was annoyed. A silent rage. From time to time Maman rested her hand on his knee, on his fingers when he exceeded the speed limit. He was the only one who wanted to go and listen to this bloody concert. His head must have been buzzing, his ungrateful kids, his wife who always ran to defend them, his roots here on this island that nobody cared about, their culture, their name and the respect that was due to it, his tolerance, his patience; ‘for once, just for one evening, is that too much to ask, damn it?’