Chapter 17
On Tuesday, Tiphaine left work early. She stopped by the minimart to stock up on cookies, cereal, and fruit juice, then drove to Nassim’s elementary school, the same one Maxime and Milo had gone to—not surprising, since there were only two elementary schools in the town, one of which was Catholic. Tiphaine, an avowed atheist, had never even briefly contemplated sending her son there, but Laetitia, Milo’s mother, had considered it. Eventually she’d reached the same decision as Tiphaine, partly so as not to separate the two boys, who had been like brothers since their birth, and partly for the sake of convenience: back then, the Brunelles and the Geniots always helped each other out, particularly when it came to the children.
When she arrived at the school gate, Tiphaine felt herself gripped by a feeling that was simultaneously heartwarming and gut-wrenching. It had been three years since she’d last set foot in the building where Milo had once been a pupil. Coming back to this familiar place filled her with a mixture of pleasure and apprehension. The noises, the lights, the smells, the particular atmosphere that had once been part of her daily life took her back for a moment to a confused time when pure joy had rubbed shoulders with utter horror.
Tiphaine followed the corridors that led to the playground, passing a few familiar faces on her way, who either didn’t notice her, or—
“Madame Geniot! How lovely of you to come and see us! How are you?”
Coming out of her classroom, Madame Dufrêne, Milo’s teacher in his last year of elementary school, gave her an open but curious smile. Her expression betrayed the question that was clearly on the tip of her tongue:What are you doing here?
“Hello, Madame Dufrêne. I’m well. How about you?”
“I’m very well indeed, thank you. To what do we owe the honor?”
“I’m picking up my neighbor’s little boy. His mom’s working late tonight.”
“Oh! That’s so kind of you...How’s Milo doing?”
“He’s fine.”
“What grade is he in now? Twelfth?”
“No, eleventh.”
Madame Dufrêne looked surprised.
“He had to repeat eleventh grade,” Tiphaine was forced to admit.
The question mark in the teacher’s eyes turned into an exclamation mark.
“Oh, what a shame. Such a smart little boy!”
Tiphaine was tempted to respond that it had nothing to do with how smart he was, but managed to check herself. Instead, before the teacher had time to fire off another question, she asked where she might find Nassim Depardieu.
“At this time of day, they’ll be in the cafeteria having a snack.”
“Thank you.” She hurriedly said goodbye to the teacher and went off in the direction the woman had pointed.
“Say hi to Milo from me!” Madame Dufrêne just had time to call after her. Tiphaine turned and waved in assent before turning left down the next corridor. She found Nassim exactly where Madame Dufrêne had said he would be, eating a snack with some friends. When he saw her, he obediently rose to his feet. He was obviously well brought up, but his slightly peeved expression nevertheless betrayed a certain irritation with the woman who had come to fetch him instead of his mother. Tiphaine told herself she had a few hours to win him over. Wasting no time, even before they’d left the building, she began to list all the things she’d bought him to eat, and various TV programs they could watch, depending on the young man’s preferences. At last Nassim hazarded a smile.
In the car, Tiphaine bombarded the child with questions, to which Nassim responded in polite monosyllables. She asked what he was learning, what his friends were called, what he liked doing best, if he had any hobbies, what his favorite cartoons were. But instead of answering, the child had a real gift for unearthing the most vague and neutral words in the French language. And when she tried to ask him something indirectly, as a way of teasing out some more detail, he just shrugged and came out with the ultimate platitude, “I don’t know.”
As they drove up the street to their respective houses, Tiphaine asked Nassim where he’d rather wait for his mother.
“Your mother gave me the key to your house in case you need anything. If you like, we can go there instead of my house.” This time, Nassim pondered the question. The idea tempted him, except that it wasn’t what his mother had planned, and he didn’t know what the consequences of a change of program might be.
After a few moments of reflection, having decided he couldn’t really see what difference it would make, he assented with a vigorous nod of his head.
“So you’d rather we waited in your house?” Tiphaine asked, to be sure.
“Yeah.”
Tiphaine gave a gratified smile and ruffled the child’s hair.
“As you wish. You’re the boss.”
As they got out of the car, Nassim saw an old lady sitting on a folding chair outside one of the houses opposite. She wore a beige overcoat and a pair of ugly but presumably comfortable walking shoes. On the sidewalk alongside her stood an old-fashioned suitcase whose clasp was half eaten away by rust. Nassim had seen her before. In fact, he saw her every time he left the house.
