The music is pollution. Music being wasted like that, I mean, not the kind that goes directly from your ears to your brain along the wires of a Walkman. The music that goes off into the void, flies off into nature, polluting it just the way greasy food wrappers or cigarette butts do, or the gravel of the Roc e Mare marina. It’s like a lack of respect for beauty, beauty that should never be disturbed or even shared. It should just be appreciated.

Alone.

Beauty is a secret. To talk about it is to violate it.

That’s what Corsica is to me.

It should be loved and left in peace.

Basile has understood that.

And so has my Papé Cassanu.

And my father too, perhaps.

As soon as Basile left, his son turned the volume back up, the beat of the lambada thumping out once more.

There are about fifteen teenagers.

They don’t even know La Mano or Nirvana; and what drives me mad is that in a year or two, they’ll think those groups are brilliant because everyone will think they’re brilliant.

I’ve got my notebook open, resting on Dangerous Liaisons, but no one can see it. I can write in peace. I’ve told myself that I would introduce you to the tribe today. You’re going to have to follow me closely because it’s a bit complicated. I’m going to give each member of the gang a letter, to keep things simple.

First of all there’s my brother Nicolas, crouching beside the boom-box. Let’s call him Valmont, because he’s handsome enough in his way and he’s incredibly successful with the girls, the way he acts all cool and never seems to get angry with anyone. I even have a theory about that. If you like everyone, it means you don’t really like anyone. So yes, I see my big brother Nicolas as Valmont, falling in love with all the girls in the world like an unhappy little angel, but unable to love only one.

Nicolas is N.

Beside him, the girl shaking her thing to ‘Billie Jean’ is Maria-Chjara. I’ll give you a detailed portrait of her later on, because that little flirt deserves a whole chapter to herself. But for now, just by way of introduction, let’s think of her as the Marquise de Merteuil. The manipulative courtesan in the novel. I don’t need to spell it out. You’ll have guessed that I hate Maria-Chjara, but it would take me a whole sleepless night to line up enough words to tell you just how much.

Maria-Chjara is M.