“How about we play a game while we wait for her to get back?”
“What kind of game?”
“You want your mom, and I want my little boy. So let’s pretend I’m your mom and you’re my little boy. What do you think?”
Nassim frowned. He looked at Tiphaine with a grave expression, observing the strange smile that wreathed her features in a mask of feigned kindness, lacking any real warmth. Even though she was trying to look friendly, there was something scary about her, like the reflection of a broken gate that leads to a bottomless pit in which terrifying things lurk.
“I don’t want to play,” he declared warily.
“You’ll see, it’ll be fun. Look, I bought lots of delicious things to eat.”
She straightened up and pointed at the bag of food on the kitchen table. She took out a packet of cookies, a container of vanilla yogurt, and a bottle of fruit juice, all of which she’d bought with him in mind.
“Ta-daaa! Are you hungry?”
She was behaving with an enthusiasm that was slightly grotesque, like a bad actor. There was something ridiculous about the look of elation on her face.
Still frowning, Nassim squinted at the container of yogurt, then looked back at Tiphaine.
“I’ll have some yogurt.”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please.”
“Please who?”
“Please, Tiphaine.”
Tiphaine rolled her eyes, overplaying an indulgent protest.
“No, Nassim! We’re playing a mom and her little boy, have you already forgotten? Please, who?”
The child felt a knot in his stomach. He knew what Tiphaine wanted to hear, but some instinct told him not to play this strange game.
“Come along!” Tiphaine insisted, sounding like an overexcited teacher. “Please, who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you do!”
Nassim didn’t answer. He looked at her timidly, the knot in his stomach growing bigger and bigger, until he felt like he couldn’t breathe anymore. Tiphaine, meanwhile, was fidgeting with the yogurt with the same fake smile on her face.
Nassim was obstinately refusing to answer, so she decided to help him.
“Please, M...Ma...”
Silence. Tiphaine’s smile began to fade into an altogether more alarming expression.
“Ma...” she said again, trying to encourage Nassim with little nods of the head that were almost parodic.
“...man,” he responded eventually.
“There you go,” she exclaimed, as though the child had managed to complete a complicated exercise. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now, say the whole sentence.”
Another silence. Nassim was feeling more and more uncomfortable. The knot in his stomach had reached his throat, and he was genuinely finding it hard to breathe.
“Please, Maman...” he said at last in a little trembling voice.
