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And then, with the help of the fading day and his grandmother’s almost peaceful face, he began to share more precise memories, and intimate things that were harder to talk about. He told her about why he’d split up with his girlfriend, the name of the new girl he had his eye on, how he was getting on at work, his exhaustion. He did an imitation of his new roommate and he heard his grandmother laughing gently.
    â€œYou’re exaggerating . . .”
    â€œI swear I’m not. You’ll find out when you come to see us, you’ll see.”
    â€œOh, but I don’t want to go up to Paris.”
    â€œSo we’ll come down here, and you’ll make us a nice meal.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œYes. You can make your potato cake.”
    â€œOh no, not that, that’s just country food.”
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Then he told her about the atmosphere in the restaurant: how the chef would fly off the handle, how one day a minister came into the kitchen to congratulate him, about the skill of young Takumi, and about the price of truffles. He told her the latest about Momo and Madame Mandel. Finally he fell quiet to listen to her breathing and he realized she’d fallen asleep. He got up without making any noise.
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Just as he was about to go out the door Paulette called him back: “Franck?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œI haven’t told your mother, you know.”
    â€œThat’s good.”
    â€œI—”
    â€œShh. Go to sleep now. The more you sleep the sooner you’ll be on your feet.”
    â€œWas I right?”
    He nodded and put a finger to her lips.
    â€œYes. Go on, go to sleep now.”
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He was dazzled by the harshness of the neon lights and it took him forever to find his way out. The nurse he’d spoken to earlier stopped him on his way.
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She pointed to a chair and opened Paulette’s file. She began by asking a few practical and administrative questions, but Franck didn’t react.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œTired.”
    â€œHave you eaten?”
    â€œNo, I—”
    â€œHold on. I’ve got something right here.”
    She pulled a tin of sardines and a packet of crackers from the drawer.
    â€œMaybe this will do you?”
    â€œAnd what about you?”
    â€œNo problem. Look, I’ve got loads of cookies. Want a little java with that?”
    â€œNo, thanks. I’ll get a Coke from the machine.”
    â€œGo ahead, I’ll have a little glass of something to keep you company but . . . don’t tell anyone, okay?”
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He ate, answered all her questions and then picked up his gear.
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“She says it hurts.”
    â€œShe’ll feel better tomorrow. We’ve put some anti-inflammatory in her drip and she’ll feel better when she wakes up.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œIt’s my job.”
    â€œI meant for the sardines.”
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He drove fast, collapsed on his bed, hid his face in the pillow to keep from breaking down. Not now. He’d managed for so long, he could hang on just a bit longer.

7
    â€œCOFFEE?”
    â€œNo, Coke, please.”
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Camille took little sips. She was sitting with her elbows on the table in a café opposite the restaurant where her mother had told her to meet. She now placed both hands flat on the table on either side of the glass and closed her eyes, breathing slowly. No matter how infrequent these lunches were, they always played havoc with her insides. She would leave again bent double, staggering, feeling like she had been scraped raw. As if her mother were trying, with a sadistic and probably unconscious diligence, to pick at scabs and open a thousand little wounds one by one. In the mirror behind the bottles Camille could see her now, going through the door into Jade Paradise. She smoked a cigarette, went to the toilet, paid for her drink and crossed the street. Hands in her pockets, and her pockets crossed over her