thing. But he couldnât help it. He wept like a big baby, like a useless moron, like some guy who was about to take the only person on the planet heâd ever loved and consign her to her grave. The only person, too, whoâd ever loved him.
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Franck was bent over double, racked with sorrow and smeared with snot.
When he finally accepted that there was no way he could stop, he wrapped his sweater around his head and folded his arms.
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He was hurting, he was cold and he was ashamed.
He stood under the shower with his eyes closed and his face held up to it, until there was no more hot water. He cut himself shaving because he didnât have the guts to face himself in the mirror. He didnât want to think about it. Not now, not for the time being. The dike wasnât strong, and if he let go, thousands of images would flood his brain. Heâd never seen his grandma anywhere else, only there in her houseâher mornings in the garden, her days in the kitchen, and in the evenings, by his bedside . . .
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When Franck was a child he suffered from insomnia. He had night-mares and would scream and call out to his grandma, swearing that when she closed the door his legs sank down a deep hole and he had to cling to the bars of his bed to keep from going down after them. All his teachers had suggested consulting a psychologist, but the neighbors shook their heads gravely and advised taking him to the bonesetter to have his nerves put right. As for Pauletteâs husband, he wanted her to stop going upstairs to Franck. Youâre spoiling the boy! he said. Youâre the one whoâs driving him crazy! For Christâs sake, just love him a little less! Just let him cry for a while, heâll stop pissing so much for a start, and youâll see, heâll go to sleep just the same.
And Paulette would say yes to everyone, docile as could be, but she didnât do what anyone said. Sheâd fix Franck a glass of hot sugared milk with a bit of orange-flower water and, sitting by him on her chair, she held his head while he drank. There, you see, Iâm right here. She folded her arms, sighed, and dozed off when he did. Or sometimes even before he did. It was not so bad as long as she was there, everything would be all right. He could stretch out his legs.
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âBy the way, thereâs no more hot water,â said Franck to Philibert.
âOh, no, thatâs terrible . . . I donât know what to say, youââ
âStop apologizing, shit! Iâm the one who emptied the tank, okay? I did it. So donât apologize!â
âIâm sorry, I just thoughtââ
âYou know what? Youâre starting to piss me off. If you want to go being a doormat, thatâs your problem.â
Franck left the room and went to iron his work clothes. He absolutely had to buy some new jackets because he didnât have enough to see out the week. He didnât have time. There was never enough time, never the time to do a fucking thing.
He had only one day off a week, and he was damned if he was going to spend it at some old folksâ home in the back of beyond, watching his grandmother cry her eyes out.
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Philibert was already settled in his armchair with his parchments and all his heraldry crap.
âPhilibert?â
âI beg your pardon?â
âListen, hey, Iâm sorry about what happened earlier. Iâve got a lot of shit going on right now and Iâm up to here with it. And on top of it all, Iâm exhausted.â
âIt doesnât matter.â
âYes, it does matter.â
âWhat matters, you see, is to say that youâre sorry for doing something, not that youâre sorry about something. It is linguistically too vague, and the other person cannot know whether you are apologizing or just expressing some generalized regret . . .â
Franck stared at him for a minute before shaking his head. âYou really are a weird
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