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difficult to keep up with Fabrice. He talked rapidly and Anne Marie was concentrating on the traffic. She drove back into town, around Place de la Victoire, and parked on the rue Alsace-Lorraine. Fabrice yanked up the satchel with its battered stickers of
Obélix
and
Sainval Vecteur
. He jumped out before her.
    “Look before you cross the road!”
    Anne Marie locked the car, followed her son across the road. She pushed open the iron door of number 31, and the bolt scraped against the stone tiles. Grateful to be out of the sunshine,Anne Marie went up the stairs. There were a couple of poisoned cockroaches on their backs, kicking their legs as they slowly died.
    Fabrice had already started eating. He grinned at his mother over a full spoon. His satchel lay on the plastic table cloth.
    “Have you washed your hands, Fabrice?”
    “Yes, Maman.”
    She gave him a stern look. “Go and wash your hands, Fabrice. This minute.”
    He shrugged, slid from the chair and went to the corner sink. His trousers had been clean that morning; now the corduroy was thick with dry mud. He washed his hands, but his eyes remained on her, and he smiled. She handed him the towel, and theatrically he threw his arms about Anne Marie’s neck and gave her a kiss that smelled of boiled bananas. “I love you, Maman.” He left a patch of dampness on the back of her neck and returned to his lunch. “But I did wash my hands, I swear.”
    Mamie was in the kitchen. She was standing over the cooker. She brushed a wisp of grey hair from her eyes and leaned backward so that her daughter-in-law could kiss her.
    “Hello, Mamie.”
    “Good evening,
chérie
.”
    Instinctively Anne Marie looked at her watch; it was a little after midday.
    “Hungry?”
    “Been eating all morning, Mamie.”
    The radio was playing local music, loud and repetitive.
Doukoun-aw dou
.
    “You must eat some meat—it’s good for you.”
    “I’m really not very hungry.”
    The older woman was pushing at slices of steak that cooked in a flat, aluminum pan. For a brief moment, the two women looked at each other in silence.
    “Anne Marie, you must eat.”
    “I’m taking Fabrice to the beach this afternoon.”
    Mamie prodded the meat and the sliced garlic. “Fabrice can stay with me—he’s no trouble.”
    “I’ve taken the afternoon off specially. Jean Michel said he would come.”
    “Jean Michel was here about half an hour ago. He said he’d try to join you, but he could not make any promises.”
    The battered transistor radio, the dial dusty and held together with a piece of black adhesive tape, stood on the window sill. It emitted noisy cadence and lyrics of sexual innuendo. “
Machiné ka machiné
.” Outside, the sun danced on the open patio and the spotless white sheets drying on the line.
    “He knows I want him to come.”
    “He might have found a job.”
    “We hardly see each other anymore.” Anne Marie could feel tears prickling at the corner of her eyes. “I so much wanted him to keep this afternoon free. For Fabrice’s sake. I told Jean Michel that this morning. The job can wait—at least for another day.”
    “Poor boy, he’s been looking for a job ever since you both got back from France.”
    “Fabrice needs to spend time with his parents.”
    “Then you should keep more regular hours, Anne Marie.”
    “I can’t dictate the hours. I can’t tell people when it suits me for them to get murdered.” Anne Marie had raised her voice. “That’s why this afternoon’s so important. For once I am free.”
    “For once Jean Michel’s busy.”
    “It could have waited another day, this wretched job of his.”
    “My son didn’t think so.”
    “But his wife did.”
    “Jean Michel is a man,” Mamie said as she turned off the gas. She also turned off the bronze knob of the gas bottle. “It’s not right that a wife should give orders just because a man’s out of work.” She shrugged and placed the meat onto a large, chipped plate. Quietly, she added,