The cold has covered the city in tissue paper. An incredibly fine white powder has come down on the lawns of the esplanade in front of Les Invalides. The benches are empty and the wind has chased away any passers-by.
They meet at exactly 8 p.m.
Baptiste told them to wait at the street corner, close to the entrance to the gardens, in front of a no entry sign.
They wait for his signal.
One by one, with the same alert, silent movement, they scale the gates and disappear into the bushes. A first stop, just long enough to make sure they haven’t been seen.
After a few minutes, they set off again toward the back of the gardens. In single file, following Baptiste.
Behind the trees there’s a small empty space. On the ground the shape of an old sandbox is visible, now filled in with dirt. Baptiste tells them to sit in a circle with gaps between them so that they can play a game.
Baptiste and his friends have brought several soft-drink bottles in which they’ve mixed gin and fruit juice. Half and half. He suggests a first round to get them going and hands out plastic glasses.
It’s sugary and strong at the same time. Théo drinks his in one swig. His eyes start to water but he doesn’t cough.
He waits for the wave of heat to spread across his shoulders and down his spine.
Quentin laughs, surprised that Théo can down it like that at his age.
Baptiste gives them some advice: they can’t sit still for too long because of the cold. They need to stand up regularly and jump on the spot and clap their hands to keep warm.
Théo says nothing. He’s waiting for the feeling of heat within him, which is slow in coming. He watches the others. Mathis is pale. He looks scared. Maybe because he lied to his mother. Hugo is sitting beside his brother, concentrating, waiting for instructions. While the older boys discuss what to do next, Théo pours himself another glass and downs it as quickly as the first. No one says anything.
Now Baptiste explains the rules of the game. He’ll ask each of them a question and then draw a card. For example, red or black? Spades, clubs, hearts or diamonds? If they answer correctly, he’ll take a drink. If it’s wrong, the other boy will. Then he’ll move on to the next person and do the same again. And so on, clockwise around the circle.
They nod. They’re ready. They’re used to him telling them what to do.
An expectant silence.
Then Théo interjects: he’d like to ask the questions.
He hasn’t challenged Baptiste’s superiority or his entitlement. He didn’t say “I want to,” just “I’d like to.” He’s a child of the separation of property and persons, of resentment, irreparable debts and child support: he knows how diplomacy works.
Heads turn toward Baptiste, who smiles, amused.
Quentin grins.
Baptiste sizes him up for a few seconds. Evaluates the transgressor. No sign of insurrection. Just a little boy’s silly idea.
“You? You want to ask the questions? You do realize that under my rules, if you’re in charge, you might have to drink five times as much as everyone else?”
“Yes, I know. I worked that out.”
“OK, I get it. You’re good at math… You think you can hold your drink?”
They look at each other again. There’s a hint of mockery, but a challenge is surfacing already. Baptiste hesitates to take him at his word. Théo sees all this but doesn’t care what they think.
Baptiste takes one last glance at his friends, then says, “Go on then.”
He pushes the bottles across to Théo. They’re different colors—orange, green, yellow—depending on what drink the alcohol’s mixed with. Théo lines them up in front of him. The sugar has leaked out and the plastic is a bit sticky.
Baptiste finishes explaining: Théo must vary the questions he asks—face card or number card? Higher or lower than the previous one? Inside or outside the range of the last two cards? Each type of question corresponds to the number of mouthfuls to be drunk, up to a maximum of four.
Quentin and Clément nudge each other as Baptiste gives the cards a final shuffle.
Théo takes the pack and asks the first question.
He loses. He drinks.
He asks another question. Loses again. And drinks.
The shrill sound in his head begins to fade.
He follows the rules. A gentle wave runs down his spine and his limbs feel softer, lifted or carried by a sort of light, smooth cotton wool.
He knows when he has to drink or hand over the bottle.
Laughter punctuates each challenge. But he knows that inside him something—some wave or flow—is escaping. He isn’t afraid. He feels his muscles relax one by one: legs, arms, feet, fingers. Even his heart seems to slow, then slow still more. Everything has become fluid. Dilated.
He sees a huge white sheet dancing and flapping in the wind. The sun’s come out again. He thinks he recognizes his grandmother’s washing line behind her old stone house.
He hears more laughter, but it isn’t them. It’s a higher note. Crystal, sharp, joyous.