The least one can say is that the early days of May were up and down. Gilbert and I were rather cautious about our relationship, except in bed where everything was permitted, attempted and often succeeded. Our nights sometimes made up for what we’d made a mess of during the day.

For my part, I tried to predict his crises, to guess from his behaviour or his words the detail that would precede an extreme high or down so I could prepare for it, but it was more subtle than I’d thought at first and his mood swings, which were quick and devastating, generally turned out to be impossible to anticipate or if I did manage, it was too late to dodge them, the harm had already been done: in a matter of minutes, an omnipotent giant was born before my eyes, or a wreck of a man fell into my arms, screaming in pain. He came back from rehearsals either filled with enthusiasm or depressed, telling me that he was an excellent musician or a total asshole. When he was somewhere in between, when he was what I supposed was the real Gilbert Forget, he was adorable, attentive, it was as if his two extremes didn’t exist and we spent some amazing moments together.

The staff at the Sélect, though, continued to look at him suspiciously. Janine didn’t care who heard her when she called him a creep in front of me, wrinkling her nose. Nick gave him the cold shoulder and even seemed to refuse to believe that we were really lovers. As for Madeleine, who didn’t see much of him because she worked days, she shook her head whenever she spotted him, maybe because he looked too much like her oldest son, her bête noire and the despair of her life – a self-styled musician, too, and around the same age as Gilbert. Françoise, the cashier, seemed for some unknown reason to be afraid of him. And Lucien made fun of him behind his back, miming a guitar player. For once I had a boyfriend but it was far from a triumph. I stood up to them though, even going so far as to claim that I was happier than I really was, just to prove they were wrong and to silence them.

One night around closing time a delegation from the Main – my three roommates plus the Duchess herself in person – came to visit me. I thought they were going to back me against the wall, tell me things I didn’t want to know about Gilbert – other women, other vices, other failings – try to prove to me once and for all that he wasn’t worth the trouble, that he would make me suffer, that I’d regret it for the rest of my life, and I wanted to run away. Why were they coming to see me at the Sélect? Why hadn’t they organized it for home, over a strong coffee or a monster joint? To make it more official? To frighten me even more? Because I was more vulnerable at the restaurant than in the apartment on Place Jacques-Cartier? Whatever the reasons, I was in no mood to see them if they were intending to put me on trial, and I let them know it.

With a grand dramatic gesture, the Duchess took from her reticule – a tiny purse for such a large person – a handkerchief perfumed so strongly, I thought the Sélect would smell of Tulipe noire for a week.

“I always forget how much it reeks of grease here.”

Such humourless hostility worthy of a snob surprised me coming from someone who’d always made it a point of honour to be incisive in criticism and amusing in any kind of situation. It was the first time I’d caught fat Édouard being not funny and it must have shown on my face because he immediately shut up and returned the handkerchief to his purse. And I realized how true it was that he had aged since he came back from Acapulco. His fat face was wrinkled because he’d lost too much weight too quickly, his double chin drooped right onto his glass-bead necklace, the bags under his eyes weren’t really hidden by a coat of excessively brown makeup that created no illusion in his pathetic attempt to suggest a tan brought home from Mexico. It was said that he’d been the victim of a certain Peter – down South, that is – that he couldn’t get over him, that he’d aged all at once and that his brain was going soft at an astonishing speed.

Jean-le-Décollé spoke first. He seemed hesitant, uncomfortable, as if this meeting with me wasn’t his idea and he’d given in with bad grace. I was sure he knew about my resentment and that he shared it: this lightning visit was pointless and would lead nowhere. And what came out of his mouth was so hackneyed that I nearly laughed in his face.

“We never see you any more, Céline …”

We were sitting in a big booth for six at the back of the restaurant, purses in implausible colours had been plunked down next to cups of coffee that no one was drinking, the ashtray was filling up at lightning speed. A strange nervousness hovered over everything too, as if the meeting had been poorly prepared and everyone felt a little ashamed.

“Is that all? Is that all you’ve got to tell me? You came as a delegation from the heart of the Main to tell me we don’t see much of each other when you could’ve told me when you wake up tomorrow afternoon over a coffee I’d have made myself?”

They exchanged a look as if to give each other some courage before they took the leap.

The minutes that followed are hard to describe: a four-voice choir, improvised and with no organization or structure; a wall of criticisms, advice, of contradictory opinions that clumped and scattered like a shower of confetti; hands that squeezed my arm hard enough to turn it red, or were placed on hearts to prove the sincerity of what was proposed; cigarettes mashed in one quicktempered move but that continued to stink up the atmosphere with their sickening grey swirls; phony laughter when they aimed at irony; forefingers pointed at my nose and a few tears too, all genuine, because this was about my well-being and my happiness, which I seemed unaware of and everyone was worried about my recklessness. It was magnificently, absolutely sincere and I listened as if it were a piece of modern music composed just for me and performed for me alone in the privacy of the restaurant which was about to close for the night. I picked up sentence fragments, some words spoken louder than others, I could imagine the rest, I reconstituted the mental puzzle that was coming apart in front of me by telling myself that, in any case, I was lucky to have such good friends. The only one missing was Fine Dumas in a lilac or lemon-yellow outfit. She would have shut them up, though, she’d have taken the floor without asking permission and what she told me would have been clear, controlled and effective. I’d have had no choice but to listen and think about it. But with no leader to hold onto them and guide them, my friends went back to being long-winded drag queens you couldn’t take seriously because they set their sights pretty well anywhere, and what I took in from them was nothing more than a shower of formless words that were highly ineffective, though very beautiful, and that would have no influence over what I thought or what I did.

At the heart of it all of course was not so much my absence from their lives for the past while but the presence in mine of Gilbert, whom they’d been so fond of fifteen years before, but now fled like the plague because of what they called his ingratitude. They knew his story better than I did, the Duchess even talked about how devoted he’d been during what she thought was his wonderful love affair with Greta-la-Vieille, which she placed among the most beautiful and most moving stories of all time. Their sympathy was for me though, and they practically demanded that I swear on the spot to abandon Gilbert to his fate, his music, his illness. Their warnings were unconditional, they played Cassandra on the eve of the fall of Troy, but there’d been too much at the same time and they didn’t realize it, but they cancelled each other out.

When they’d finished their delightful number, when peace and quiet had fallen over the Sélect, I took a deep breath and without thinking, I delivered the coup de grâce.

I started of course by thanking them for their friendship, for their concern about me, even for their unexpected visit. But I quickly added that instead of persuading me to drop Gilbert, they had on the contrary backed me up in a plan I’d had simmering for some time. Right away, they sensed that something unpleasant was about to pounce on them and all four shrank back in the fake leather booth. The Duchess plucked a yellow pill from a small bottle she’d taken from her purse and swallowed it with the dregs of a cup of coffee, grimacing.

“If you were a nice girl, Céline, you’d wait till my Valium kicks in before you said anything. It takes around twenty minutes, but I know you’re in too big a hurry to knock us out. So, go ahead, fire away, point blank.”

That was when I told them about my plan to reunite and if possible to reconcile Greta-la-Vieille and Gilbert Forget.

They didn’t shriek as I’d expected. Too stunned, I imagine.

The Duchess took out another pill and swallowed it dry.

“They’ll kill each other!”

I laid my hand over hers. It was hard and cold, as if the Duchess had died during their high-wire act and rigor mortis had already started to set in.

“You’re freezing cold, Duchess!”

She produced a hint of a smile, the saddest one I’d seen in a long time, and a sigh that went on forever.

“All my extremities are cold, little girl. My head, my feet, my hands. My honorary member too! It’s as if my blood can’t get there any more! I’m on the way out through the extremities, Céline, don’t kill me before it’s time!”

I crossed my hands on the Arborite table. I was kneeling on the banquette so that I’d be more or less level with their faces.

“They won’t kill each other. Sure they’ve got lots to deal with, but they won’t kill each other. I thought we could do it at home, in the apartment on Place Jacques-Cartier. With no advance warning of course, because they’d probably both refuse if we said anything ahead of time. I think it’s important. For both of them. They’ve never had a chance to explain …”

Jean-le-Décollé pounded the table with his fist.

“It’s his fault. He took off like a coward!”

“He felt he’d been betrayed, Jean, and he’s never had a chance to tell Greta.”

The Duchess was fiddling with her too-numerous necklaces so much, I was afraid that she’d break them.

“Why are you getting mixed up in it, Céline?”

It came out without my realizing and I think I actually blushed like I’ve never blushed in my life.

“Because I love Gilbert Forget. Because he deserves to have us look after him. Because it would be a good thing for him.”

Jean-le-Décollé reached out for my hand.

“What about Greta-la-Vieille, do you think it would do her good too?”

I looked him squarely in the eyes. And I could see that however much he liked me, his allegiance would always be towards his comrades, that Greta, the old drag queen, would always be more important to him than Céline the Midget. And my admiration was reinforced.

“Have you ever given a child to his mother after a separation of fifteen years, Jean? Eh? You haven't? Me neither! True, we don’t know what might happen but we can certainly try! And hope!”