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stomach.
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Camille saw her mother’s hunched figure and sat down across from her, taking a deep breath:
    â€œMorning, Mom.”
    â€œAren’t you going to kiss me?”
    â€œMorning, Mom,” she said more slowly.
    â€œHow are things?”
    â€œWhy do you ask?”
    Camille held on to the edge of the table to stop herself from getting up again right away.
    â€œBecause that’s what people usually say when they meet.”
    â€œI’m not ‘people.’ ”
    â€œWhat are you, then?”
    â€œOh, please, don’t start, okay?”
    Camille turned her head and looked at the horrid décor of pseudo-Asian stucco and bas-reliefs. The tortoise-shell effect and “mother-of-pearl” inlay were made of plastic, and the lacquer was yellow Formica.
    â€œIt’s nice here.”
    â€œNo, it’s horrible. But I don’t have the means to invite you to Tour d’Argent, so there. Anyway, even if I did, I wouldn’t take you. The way you eat it would be money down the drain.”
    Great atmosphere.
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Camille’s mother began to giggle sarcastically:
    â€œThough you could go there without me because you do have money. It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any—”
    â€œStop right now,” threatened Camille, “or I’ll leave. If you need money, just tell me and I’ll lend you some.”
    â€œThat’s right, I hear you’ve got a job now, a good job, interesting to boot. Cleaning lady. Really hard to imagine for someone who’s as messy as you are. You never fail to astonish me, you know that?”
    â€œStop, Mom, stop right there. We can’t go on like this. We cannot , don’t you see? At least I can’t. Change the subject, please. Change. The. Subject.”
    â€œYou had a great job and you went and ruined everything.”
    â€œA great job. Like hell . . . And I don’t miss it at all, either. I wasn’t happy there.”
    â€œYou didn’t have to stay there all your life. And anyway, what is ‘happy’ supposed to mean? That the new ‘in’ word or something? Happy! Happy! If you think we’re here on earth to frolic around and pick daisies, you’re just plain naive, young lady.”
    â€œNo, no, you can relax, that’s not what I think at all. I’ve been in good hands so I know we’re here to have a hard time. You said so often enough.”
    â€œAre you ready to order?” asked the waitress.
    Camille could have kissed her.
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Her mother spread her pills on the table and counted them with one finger.
    â€œAren’t you sick of taking all that crap?”
    â€œDon’t talk about what you don’t know. I’d be long dead if it weren’t for these pills.”
    â€œWhat makes you say that? And why don’t you take off those awful glasses? There’s no sun in here.”
    â€œI feel better with them. This way I see the world the way it is.”
    Camille decided to smile, and patted her mother’s hand. It was either that or go for her neck and strangle her.
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Her mother smiled, moaned a bit, talked about her loneliness, her back, the stupidity of her colleagues and the woes of co-ownership. She ate with gusto and frowned when her daughter ordered a beer.
    â€œYou drink too much.”
    â€œYes, you’re right! C’mon, cheers. For once you’re not saying something stupid.”
    â€œYou never come to see me.”
    â€œAnd now? What am I doing here, then?”
    â€œAlways the last word, right? Just like your father.”
    Camille froze.
    â€œAh, you don’t like it when I talk about him, do you,” she declared triumphantly.
    â€œMom, please . . . Don’t go there.”
    â€œI’ll go wherever I like. Aren’t you going to finish your plate?”
    â€œNo.”
    Her mother shook her head disapprovingly.
    â€œLook at you. You’re a skeleton. If you think