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I must have been sleeping by the time she came back to bed. When I woke up, the sky through the windows was growing pale. The tentacles of the wisteria waved gently; the birds nestling in the branches began singing, a concert of shrill chirps. The woman lay half turned away, her face once again hidden beneath her long loose hair, I left her and quickly slipped into my tracksuit before going down to the living room. I entertained the idea of making myself coffee, immediately decided against it, and went down to the lower floor where the boy, curled in a narrow wooden bed, was sleeping. I sat on the edge and contemplated his severe face, lit by the slanting dawn light. Here too, birdsong filled the room. The child seemed to be breathing with difficulty, sweat was sticking his blond hair to his forehead, I brushed it away and he opened his eyes. “You are going?” he said without moving. I nodded. “I don’t want you to,” he said, staring at me stubbornly, almost greedily. — “But I have to,” I answered in a low voice. — “Why?” I thought about that and then replied: “Because I want to.” His gaze, both powerless and obstinate, grew veiled: “So, when you’re happy, I’m unhappy. And when I’m happy, you’re unhappy.”—“No, that’s not it at all. You’re getting it all mixed up.” I bent over, delicately kissed his damp forehead, got up and went out. In the garden, everything was calm, the leaves rustled gently, hiding the abrupt movements of the birds, which still hadn’t fallen silent. It was already hot, a strong morning heat that clung to the skin. The door opened easily and I found the hallway where I resumed my deliberate running, the wide strides in rhythm with my breathing. The hallway appeared a little lighter, I seemed better able to perceive the curves, even if I couldn’t manage precisely to locate either the walls or the ceiling, if there even was one. The temperature, here, was more moderate, but my body, heated by the running, was sweating in my clothes; the pants stuck to my hips, which didn’t prevent me, like a well-oiled machine, from maintaining a regular rhythm. I passed dark openings without slowing down, junctions or possibly merely alcoves; finally something on my left drew my attention, a metallic brilliance that floated in the corner of my vision; without hesitating or slowing down, I found the handle, opened the door and crossed the threshold. My foot sank into something soft and I stopped short. I found myself in a rather large, semi-dark room, sparsely furnished; on the walls, the golden vines of the wallpaper intertwined as they climbed; a dark red, almost blood-colored carpet covered the floor. Across the room, beyond the bed covered in a heavy golden cloth embroidered with long green grass, a figure with close-cropped jet black hair was standing in front of the window; the shutters were closed, but it was staring at something in the window, its own reflection perhaps. I contemplated it for a minute as if through a window pane, with a light, almost joyful feeling. At the sound of the door closing, it turned around, and I saw then that it was a woman, a beautiful woman whose matte, sharp-featured face lit up with a smile when she saw me. She skirted round the bed and embraced me, pressing her mobile little tongue between my lips, laughing. I lost my balance and fell with her onto the green leaves of the bedspread, my nose pressed against her short hair, filling my face with the smell of earth and cinnamon. Beneath me, she twisted, laughing, and tried to break loose. I straightened up and undertook as best I could to unbutton her sheer tulle blouse, brushing against her breasts held in by a rigid bra. She laughed again and slipped between my hands before kneeling on the green and gold expanse of the bed to re-button her blouse. “In the street,” she said, lifting her beautiful dark eyes, full of cheerfulness beneath eyelashes heavy with mascara, “I imagined I was touching your face. And now, here you are.” I stretched my hand out again toward her body and she brushed it away, laughing: “What impatience! Wait, I’m dying of hunger.” She picked up the receiver next to the bed, dialed a number and, holding up a cardboard menu, named a few items. I rose and shook my numb legs, then went into the bathroom where I opened wide the heavy porcelain faucets of the bathtub, my fingers beneath the stream of water to gauge the temperature.