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from my wife, but finding none. At her insistence, Michèle and I had begun sleeping in separate beds proving, for once and for all, that our holiday in Morocco had been a false dawn. One evening, she told me to my face – she was fond of me, she said, but she didn’t love me, she never had, she never would. She apologised. I politely accepted her apology. It was, under the circumstances, the most cordial of exchanges, as if we’d agreed to disagree on what film to go see. It felt so final. I had failed her; failed to make her love me. I bowed, left the room, retired to bed and sobbed.
    The riots had finished – the workers returned to work and the students went back to college. President de Gaulle won convincingly at the June elections but, in light of the May riots, promised reform. A letter from Monsieur d'Espérey confirmed that Hilda had indeed pleaded not guilty to the charges against her. A second letter, the following month, asked me to appear in court on the twenty-first of October.
    One Friday evening, we finished early. Rehearsals had gone well and I was pleased with how hard everyone had worked and allowed them home early to start the weekend. For me, however, work was never finished. I wrapped up some business and grabbed a bite to eat from the theatre restaurant.
    An hour or so later, I decided to disappear to a local bar; less chance, I thought, of being disturbed. Although it was still only four o’clock, Le Bar Rocco , as it was called, was already quite busy, small groups of people chatting, elsewhere a couple held hands over the table top. The place was big with a large central area encircled by a number of booths. Gentle jazz and soft amber lighting added to the relaxed atmosphere. The staff were all young and good looking. I wondered how many of them had taken to the streets four months earlier.  I sat down in a booth tucked away in a quieter corner and, having spread out my papers, ordered a beer. The issue that was taxing me at this point was the availability of a studio engineer I particularly valued. He was much in demand and my American bosses had seen fit to assign him to work on another, to my mind, minor project. I composed a letter, decided it wasn’t persuasive enough, screwed it up and started again. I was nearing the end of my third attempt when a familiar voice said hello to me. Looking up, I was surprised to see Isabelle standing at the end of my table. I was taken aback by how delighted I was to see her. ‘I won’t disturb you,’ she said. ‘I can see you’re busy. I just thought I’d say hello.’
    ‘It’s very nice of you. Are you here with… I’m sorry, I forget your boyfriend’s name.’ The image of Jesus flashed across my mind.
    ‘Jacques. No, he’s at college revising. He’s got a big exam coming up. I’m here with my girlfriends,’ she said, motioning behind with her head. Near the bar was a group of four fashionably-dressed girls of Isabelle’s age, leaning in towards each other, all talking at the same time in high-pitched voices.
    ‘So I see.’
    ‘They’re a bit loud, aren’t they? I’ll ask them to keep it down a bit.’
    ‘No, don’t do that. They’re perfectly entitled to be as loud as they want. If I wanted peace and quiet, I would have gone to a library.’
    She laughed. ‘I’d better get back.’
    ‘Yes, of course. Have a lovely evening.’
    I ordered a second beer and tried to focus on my letter but instead I kept glancing up at the girls. How I envied them – to be young, in the capital and living in such prosperous times. When I was their age, we were still an occupied country, our lives restricted by the lack of opportunity and blighted by boredom. They were all attractive in their own way, attractive by the mere dint of being young.  I eyed Isabelle, seeing her outside the orchestral environment for the first time, being herself. She was a person who spoke with her hands, gesticulating wildly, emphasising her point. I knew then how