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solving these problems! You must get there and you will.’
    We spent entire evenings, Saturdays, Sundays and holidays at it. We didn’t succeed. When he explained a theorem to me, it all seemed obvious, but I was incapable of working it out on my own. A couple of his pals did their best but then gave up.
    â€˜Don’t worry. It’s a matter of time and work.’
    One day, even he gave up. He had his own exams to prepare for. I didn’t blame him for stopping. He had done all that a brother could do. Maths and me, we just didn’t get along together. There was nothing anyone could do. It wouldn’t be the first time inexplicable things occurred on this earth, nor the last time. I preferred not to think about what would happen if I had to repeat a year. I put the maths book back on the shelf and set off to meet Nicolas. Blow the consequences. We began to play baby-foot once more. We were given some drubbings and we handed out even more. That’s life, after all.
    One evening, Nicolas wanted to change venues. Because he was soinsistent, we went to the Narval. I had not been back there since Pierre left, three months ago. I did not want to come across Franck, who was convinced that I was racking my brains over Euclid, harmonic beams and quadratic equations. When he saw me at the baby-foot with Nicolas, he muttered ‘I see’ in a way that spoke volumes. I behaved as if nothing were the matter. My bad mood affected my opponents, who were given a thrashing. A group of spectators congregated around the baby-foot table. When we swapped teams, I glanced over hurriedly at Franck’s table. He had left the bistro without a word. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round. Cécile was smiling at me.
    â€˜Did you go missing?’
    I realized that Franck had not told her anything about my family tribulations. I did not reckon it was worth expanding on the matter and adopted an evasive air: ‘I’ve had… a lot of work to do.’
    Her eyes sparkled. I felt like I was melting into a warm puddle. I was dripping with sweat. For the first time in my life, I skipped my turn at baby-foot. The incredulous expression on the face of Nicolas, who had acquired a new attacker, increased my discomfort.
    â€˜What’ll you have?’
    We found ourselves at the bar. I had a café au lait, like her.
    â€˜You know Pierre has left his records for you. I’m not going to cart them over to your place.’
    Even though I protested and came up with a string of excuses, it was to no avail. I promised to come round one Saturday to collect them. As she left, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. I caught the smell of her lemony perfume. That night, I slept badly. Maria told me one should not drink café au lait late in the evening.

7
    F or some time, I kept a low profile. I could sense my mother holding back. The business was going through its tax audit and the inspector was asking awkward questions that she could not answer. Her smile had disappeared. She spent a huge amount of time plugging the holes and she feared a harsh penalty. My father, who worked as a sales director, knew nothing about management. She never missed an opportunity to remind him that she could not rely on him and had to cope with the unrewarding task of managing the business on her own. She spent hours on the telephone to Maurice, who gave her useful advice. For Mother’s Day, my father arranged for an enormous bunch of thirty-nine red roses to be delivered, and he booked a table at La Coupole. When my mother returned home in a hurry, shortly before midday, I wished her a happy Mother’s Day and showed her the wonderful bouquet. She scarcely glanced at it, she was so preoccupied about getting back to the shop to resolve some details with the chartered accountant before a meeting she was due to have with the inspector the following day. She left us without a word and rushed off without saying thank you for the