At first, puzzled, he had seen only a pair of hairy buttocks clenching and unclenching. And then he had realized with horror that the buttocks were actually pumping a penis into what looked extraordinarily like Astrid’s body. That was how he had found out. He had confronted Astrid, laden with shopping bags, on that doomed Saturday afternoon, and she had burst into tears and admitted that she loved Serge, that the affair had been going on ever since that trip to Turkey with the kids, and that she felt so relieved that he now knew.

Antoine felt tempted to light a cigarette to ward off unpleasant memories. But he knew the smoke would wake his sister and she would make some cantankerous comment about his “filthy habit.” Instead, he concentrated on the highway opening up before him.

Astrid still felt guilty about Serge-he felt it-about how he, Antoine, had found out about their affair. About the divorce. About the aftermath of it all. And she loved Mélanie dearly. They had been friends for a long time, and they worked in the same field, publishing. She hadn’t had the heart to say no. Astrid had sighed, “Okay, then. The kids can come to you later. Give Mel a hell of a birthday.”

When Antoine stopped at a gas station for a refill, Mélanie at last yawned and rolled the car window down.

“Hé, Tonio,” she drawled, “where the hell are we?”

“You really have no idea?”

She shrugged.

“Nope.”

“You’ve been asleep for the past two hours.”

“Well, you did turn up at dawn, you bastard.”

After a quick coffee (for her) and a quick cigarette (for him), they got back into the car. She seemed less petulant, Antoine noticed.

“It’s cute of you to do this,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“You’re a cute brother.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t have to. Maybe you had other plans?”

“No other plans.”