‘It was here, Valentine. It was here that your Grandpa and Grandma died. And your Uncle Nicolas as well.’

Valentine’s gaze was looking off into the distance, at a jet-ski leaping the waves off the Revellata Peninsula. Franck, leaning on the barrier, kept squinting between the ravine and the Passat’s hazard lights.

Time stretched, as if lengthened by the heatwave. The sun liquefied the seconds in slow drops. A car passed them in a halo of heat. A driver, naked to the waist, looked out at them with surprised eyes.

Clotilde hadn’t been back here since the summer of 1989.

But she had thought of this place thousands of times, had thought of this precise moment. What she would say, what she would think, when faced with this gaping void. The memories that would come rushing back to her. How to present the pilgrimage. As a sign of respect. A way of sharing something.

And here they were, messing the whole thing up for her!

Clotilde had imagined an act of communion, a few delicate questions, an emotion shared with Franck and Valentine. Together, united. But here they stood, pressed against the barrier beneath the blazing sun, as if the Passat had had a flat tyre and they were getting bored waiting for the tow truck, lowering their eyes towards their watches or raising them to the sky; looking anywhere at all but those blood-coloured volcanic rocks.

Clotilde urged her daughter on.

‘Your grandfather’s name was Paul. Your grandmother’s name was Palma.’

‘I know that, Maman …’

Thanks, Valentine! That was cool of you.

Her daughter had said the phrase ‘I know’ in the long, drawn-out way that was her standard response to her mother’s habitual requests.

Tidy your clothes away. Turn off your phone. Shift yourself.

Her usual minimal effort at being conciliatory …

I know, Maman …

OK, Valou, Clotilde thought. OK, it isn’t the most fun part of the holiday. OK, I’m doing your head in with an accident that happened almost thirty years ago. But also, fuck it, Valou, I have waited fifteen years to bring you here! I’ve waited for you to grow up, so that you’re old enough to understand. So I didn’t ruin your life with it prematurely.

The jet-ski had disappeared. Or been caught by a wave and sunk.

‘Shall we go?’ Valentine asked.

Without even the minimal effort this time. Not even trying to hide her boredom under an affected mask of melancholy.

‘No!’

Clotilde had raised her voice. For the first time Franck took his eyes off the Passat that was winking at him like an obsessive flirt.