Marie Borel, p.6

We’re not talking about me. I’m answering a question I don’t understand. Rue des Convalescents, rue Saint-Dominique, rue du Petit-Saint-Jean—children born along these streets are rarely in the wrong. Having forgotten everything I wasn’t supposed to do, I read those poems as if I had written them. “Above all, don’t phone me.” She says something, very few words, he lends an ear, for a long time she hasn’t said anything. Under the spell of her uncontrolled laughter, he looks down at his feet before he crosses. She it is who staggers. How many fingers? “Six.” Squirrels always know everything. My mother brought her flooded eyes back down to earth. She was given to immense incongruous laughter. A flick of the camera and the frozen image is fixed.

“Are you acquainted with Grenoble?”

The son of the hardware dealer is a skinny kid, cute.