MYRIAM ADORED JOSUÉ and the feeling was mutual. “I always wanted to have a child, but I never trusted fathers.” He watched the water flow into the bathtub, played with the faucets, accidentally turned on the shower and the spray of water frightened him like a kitten. He asked what the bidet was for. He was just shy of nineteen, but suddenly he was seven years old again and discovering how a bathtub and a shower worked. He was seven or ten again when he let Myriam wash him. In spite of his timid smile when he stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes were older than mine, as if this child had aged faster than I have.
Now, Josué was sleeping in the next room. Myriam, I imagined, was pretending to sleep.
The door opened. Josué said, “I’m afraid, there are spirits, I don’t want to sleep alone. I’m afraid.” He was shaking, sweating, terrorized, with staring eyes he looked at the ceiling, the walls, and all the objects that might turn into monsters and ghosts. “Come and sleep with me.” Myriam’s voice was like a caring mother. Josué lay down shyly by her side. She took him in her arms like the child he had become for a moment. Tomorrow, I know, he could kill. I would sleep on the sofa. And Myriam was sleeping with Josué who was also a man.