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Neither of them had ever eaten them. Because she’d read about those creatures of the sea in a magazine that day and simply wanted to try them.They had gotten into the car and left in search of an open restaurant that would serve them that dish. They crisscrossed Paris from north to south and east to west, but their quest had been in vain. It was three o’clock in the morning, and everything had been shut for some time. As he was speaking to her, he’d realized she’d fallen asleep. Her craving must have suddenly left her. During those nine months, they’d also invented a series of games. They would improvise scenes as though they were being filmed by John Cassavetes. It was a mad, charming, and liberating game. As for Cassavetes’s real films, which he dragged her to see on Rue des Écoles, she liked those a little less. They were too dispiriting, too disillusioned. She confessed to him that she preferred comedies and romantic films, and that she also had a weakness for Alain Delon. When he found out about this, one of their friends, who was a unit still photographer, invited them to visit the set of a film at the Studios de Boulogne where Delon was playing a gangster. She had carefully put some makeup on and had taken her camera with her. Between takes, the friend introduced them to the actor. He’d been very friendly and had especially been interested in the painter’s wife. She had herself photographed standing next to Delon. As they’d been about to leave, Delon had shouted across to them: “But wouldn’t that young lady like to be in the movies? She’s very pretty, distinctive too! One can immediately see that she’s got character! So, what do you say?” Taken aback, the painter had kept quiet, while his wife had lowered her eyes and murmured: “I’ve always dreamed of being in the movies …” then she’d suddenly regained her confidence and replied: “I was a model for the Sublime Agency when I was seventeen, surely you know Jérôme, Jérôme Lonchamp?” Delon had shaken his head. A crew member had then appeared to fetch Delon as the shooting had recommenced. Delon blew a kiss at her and then disappeared.
    She’d gotten all excited and happy, like a little girl who’d just been given her first doll. “I must be dreaming—my wife’s in love with Alain Delon right in the middle of her pregnancy!” the painter had said to himself in the taxi that took them home that night. No, it wasimpossible, ridiculous even. It must have been jealousy that was making him think like that. Nevertheless, he still imagined Delon meeting his wife for an afternoon of passionate lovemaking in a palace … he could see her in his arms, pressed against him, or even in a pool with a glass of orange juice mixed with some liquor or other in her hand. It was crazy, stupid, sick, miserable. She noticed nothing.
    Over the course of the following days, she called her friends to tell them all about her meeting with Delon. She laid it on a little thick when it came to the great actor’s good looks, his charisma, and his kindness. He had tried to keep his cool. It was as though Delon were suddenly everywhere: in the living room, the bathroom, their bedroom, in his head, in her head; he had taken over everything, and devoured their entire lives without leaving so much as a crumb.
    After two weeks, the Delon fever completely subsided, as did the painter’s jealousy. The actor was never mentioned again. Once again happy and satisfied, his wife’s attentions had turned entirely toward the baby she was carrying. Happiness and sweetness reigned in their house. Marital happiness, in its simplest, purest, happiest form. The painter would caress his wife’s belly and declare his ardent love. She loved to hear him say how much he loved her. It was perfect harmony.
    Early one morning, her contractions started, and the painter accompanied her to the hospital and was present when the birth took place. When the nurse held out the