That day the gladiator had stood in the door of his office in the town hall, blocking out the light with his bulk. Fernand had been reading war papers and, when he looked up and saw the man, he was instantly fascinated by the athletic figure and by the jolts of the wild cats shaking the covered wagons outside, cages covered with wooden panels. He looked at the fellow and was immediately jealous of his strength. The lion tamer was bigger than anyone else in or around the village; all the men left here were old or infirm and only the women were fit and healthy. When the man asked permission to settle in the hills, promising to buy animals and even to pay money to acquire land, Fernand immediately thought of the winegrower’s house, which everyone avoided, that hell where ten sheep had fallen from the rocks. No one would live there now, everyone who had lived there before having lost everything including the land and their lives. The idea of living up there was terrible and no one in the village would ever wish it on anyone, even a German. Quite the opposite. In a sense, it suited the mayor that the lion tamer and his wild beasts should live on Mont d’Orcières, if only to see if such a superior being, the braggart with his lions, would be able to thwart death and see off misfortune. The mountain brought bad luck – everyone here was convinced of that – but perhaps the lion tamer presented an opportunity to see if the curse could be lifted.

That day, Fernand had invited the lion tamer to lunch. The three large red-and-gold caravans were parked in the shade, two of them containing the immense cages with the closed shutters. You couldn’t see the wild cats, but their carnal odour hung in the air and you could feel the powerful shaking of the caravans. The lion tamer was accompanied by his two circus hands – Italians – who had preferred to stay in their truck. They had bread and pâté to eat and they were happy with that. The next day they were returning to Italy.

The man’s strong, gentle voice came from deep within him. His tone changed often but he spoke calmly. Fernand made an effort to understand. Although he spoke good French, he had that spiky, dry accent. For two hours the mayor listened to him, hypnotised by his presence, and by the feline odour that emanated from his tanned neck, a neck like a girder; you could support a house with that neck. Everything about him was fascinating, right up to the way the man made his chair creak every time he moved a little. The chair was like an allegory, subdued or rather tamed. The mayor was mesmerised by the power of the lion tamer and his complete authority over his animals, which he probably exercised over everything.