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mid-August.
     
I find the neighborhood changed. The people who take the RER train in the morning to go to work park their cars any which way in the street. It’s not unusual for the young ones to gather next to the old wall of the house, smoking and drinking beer. Nothing too bad, but I’d prefer they do it elsewhere all the same. Particularly when they turn up the volume on their radios.
     
The heat has been getting to me a bit. These last few days have been particularly hot and I haven’t left the house. The temperature is bearable, as I keep the shutters closed. I’m really going to need something to help me sleep, as I’m sleeping rather badly with the heat. No more than five hours per night. Could you write me up a prescription before you leave for Corsica? Bastien will no doubt enjoy the holidays alone with his daddy. I dream of spending a few days down there. Perhaps it could be done.
     
I’d be very happy if my little grandson thought to send me a postcard this year.
     
Love and kisses,
Mum

13
     
    Madame Préau enjoyed very good eyesight for her age. Nonetheless, it was difficult for her to see beyond a certain distance, even with her glasses. So, she decided at the beginning of August to get some opera glasses from her optician, Mr. Papy.
    The reason was the little boy under the weeping birch. The lack of contact between him and the rest of the family intrigued her. It no doubt stemmed from a solitary temperament and a tendency to be withdrawn on his part. Yet his unwillingness to speak to the point of submission was unique. He never held a toy in his hands; he was content with twigs and stones. And though Madame Préau did pass the younger brother and sister from time to time on the path as they were coming home from the bakery with their father, one on a bike, the other on a scooter, never had the old woman once seen the little boy behind them. And that was troubling.
    It was a rainy Sunday when Madame Préau first took her opera glasses out of their box. Taking advantage of a break in the weather, the children had come out to play in the garden, avoiding the puddles of water that had formed here and there on the lawn. The glasses allowed her to confirm her suspicions. The magnification showed up plenty of detail. Details had always ruled Madame Préau’s life. That was what made her so formidable when it came to marking schoolbooks.
    As the weeks passed, the old woman noted the behavior and attitudes of the child in a black moleskin notebook. She remarked, for example, that the little boy did not go out in the garden other than on the Lord’s Day, not even during school holidays. The clothes that he wore were dirty, and seemed to be the same: trousers that were too short or shorts, a red sweatshirt or yellow T-shirt, sneakers or flip-flops. His wrists were skinny, his skin grayish, and he often scratched his head. The child probably suffered from vitamin deficiencies. His hygiene was dubious, too, which was not the case for either his sister or his younger brother.
    Madame Préau noted another important detail in her notebook to do with the little boy’s behavior. Once he appeared on the porch at the house, he never joined in to play. He would rub his eyes as if he were dazzled, and then come down the few stairs with unsteady steps.
    But what bothered Madame Préau more than anything was the resemblance to Bastien. The boys weren’t just the same age. Both had pale eyes and curly chestnut hair, thin, short lips, and oval faces.
    From this point on, Madame Préau couldn’t think of her grandson without imagining the “stone boy,” as she called him in her notebook. She liked both boys in their own way.

14
     
    Dr. Mamnoue was the first person Madame Préau spoke to about her neighbors. She did so prudently, without revealing too much, with the same care that she took putting on her makeup to go to his office.
    “The child who doesn’t play with the others is bothering you?”
    “I wouldn’t