Behind them, Anika had got up to guide the Swedish girls, bent double under their luggage, around the free sites. Cervone put his phone in his pocket and took Valou by the shoulder, giving her a quarter turn so that she was facing a big map of Corsica. His finger traced across the Mediterranean then stopped in the middle of the big blue.

‘You know what the third-largest Spanish airport is, after Madrid and Barcelona?’

Valou shook her head, unsure what Cervone was getting at.

‘Palma! Palma de Mallorca. The capital of the Balearics. The Balearics, Valentine, five thousand square kilometres, a million inhabitants and ten million tourists. Half the size of Corsica and four times as many visitors. And let me tell you, the Balearics don’t have a quarter of the advantages of our island – two beaches and three caves, a mountain no higher than one thousand five hundred metres.’ His finger went on running along the blue of the map. ‘So Valentine, can you tell me why one island in the Mediterranean attracts people, creating jobs and wealth, and another gets nothing?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘You’ll find out this evening. You won’t have to ask any questions. You only have to listen to your grandfather.’

‘My great-grandfather.’

‘Yes, that’s right. You know that Cassanu was one of my father’s best friends?’

He turned towards the entrance to the campsite, raised his arms, and pointed his index finger towards the horizon.

‘Look. Straight ahead of you.’

Valentine examined the Revellata Peninsula, which stretched out into the sea like another huge finger, free of any jewellery.

‘What do you see, Valentine?’

She hesitated.

‘Nothing.’

Cervone rejoiced.

‘Exactly, nothing! Corsica is a paradise, one of the most beautiful islands in the world, a gift from heaven, and what have they done with it? Nothing! Look at this magnificent peninsula. What have they done with it? Nothing. Apart from confiscating it the way some old people stuff their treasure under the mattress. They’ve lost us fifty years. You know what the biggest business is here in Corsica?’

Valentine shook her head.

‘Erm … No.’

The campsite manager excitedly grabbed her arm.

‘A supermarket! All the young people bugger off and yet we still have more than 10 per cent unemployment on the island. Because of those self-styled defenders of Corsica. All the exiles go off and work in Marseille or the region around Paris. Economic refugees who spend all year feeling depressed, pining to come back and spend a month in the summer with their family on the island, and crying all the tears of the Mediterranean when they leave again. Is that the way to help Corsica? Is that how they show their love for Corsicans?’

He looked over at the peninsula one last time, before his eyes came back to rest on the poster pinned up in reception.