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.
MATHIS
Théo had put the two cards down in front of him, the ten of clubs and the queen of diamonds, face up. He turned to Quentin and asked, “Inside or outside?”
Tiny flakes of snow had started dancing around them, but none of them seemed to be landing on the ground. Quentin closed his eyes before he answered.
“Inside.”
Théo turned over the card he held face down in his hand. Jack of spades.
Théo took the bottle and drank the four mouthfuls the rules demanded. Then suddenly fell backward. He made a dull thud as he hit the ground.
They looked at each other. Quentin and Clément started laughing, but Baptiste said, “Shut up!”
They straightened his legs. His upper body was lying on a carpet of leaves and his lower half on concrete. Baptiste gave him a few little slaps. He kept saying, “Hey, hey, stop messing around!” but Théo didn’t move. Mathis had never seen a body like that, so floppy.
The silence around them felt unreal. The whole city seemed to have obeyed Baptiste and come to a standstill.
Mathis would have sworn he could hear his heart thumping, a metronome like Mr. Châle’s, measuring these seconds of terror one by one. The smell of earth and rotting leaves caught in his throat.
They looked at each other again. Hugo couldn’t help himself from giving a little groan of fear.
Baptiste gave the order: “Run for it!”
He grabbed his brother’s collar, stood him in front of him and held him fiercely by the shoulders. He looked him straight in the eye and said, “We never came here, right?”
He turned to Mathis and repeated, “We were never here, OK?”
Mathis nodded. The cold was cutting through his clothes.
In less than a minute, they’ve gathered everything up—cards, cigarettes, bottles—and disappeared.
Mathis stays behind, by his friend, who looks like he’s in a deep sleep. He gets closer to his face and thinks he can see his breath.
He shakes him several times but Théo doesn’t respond.
Mathis starts crying.
If he calls his mother, he’ll have to admit that he’s not at the Philharmonic. He lied and betrayed her trust. She’ll go crazy. And worst of all, she’ll tell Théo’s parents. And if someone goes to his father’s place, Théo will be angry with him for the rest of his life.
Jumbled, obscure data he can’t decode spins around in his head at high speed, an avalanche of threats he doesn’t know how to put in order.
All his limbs are shaking and his teeth have begun to chatter, like those times he stays in the swimming pool too long.
It’s time for him to go home. He must go home.
He calls, “Théo!” And again. He shakes him, begs him. He tries one last time; his voice has become almost inaudible.
He puts his down jacket on the outstretched body. Then leaves the gardens.
He takes avenue de La Motte-Picquet then the rue de Grenelle. He checks the time again and starts to run.
A few minutes later, he’s outside his building. He taps in the entry code and goes into the lobby. He waits for a few seconds, long enough for his breathing to calm down. He puts his key in the door and instantly hears his mother’s footsteps. She was waiting for him in the living room. She opens her arms in greeting.
She says, “You’re frozen.”
He snuggles against her. She strokes his hair and says, “Don’t worry. It’s all going to be OK.” She doesn’t ask him how the concert was. She probably thinks he’s too tired and he’ll tell her tomorrow.
In his room Mathis opens the closet where his clothes normally are.
It’s empty.
He looks inside it several times.
Under the sheets, he tries to close his eyes. But images rush into his head, multiplying and dividing, operated by the turn of some invisible kaleidoscope. The colors get brighter and brighter and suddenly the exploded images all come together and appear to him whole. Perfectly clear.
The drawings from Ms. Destré
e’s class loom up before his eyes, even when he keeps them open: a heart filled with blood whose rhythm is slowing, and then lungs frozen in ice, held in a film of frost, and then blood flowing on his hands, blue.
He sits up in bed; a silent sob tears at his chest.
And then he remembers that Ms. Destrée gave them her number on the day of the trip to the Natural History Museum and asked every student to save it.
HÉLÈNE
It was almost midnight when my phone rang. A number I didn’t recognize. I was about to turn out the light. I hesitated before answering, but I picked up.
I heard rapid breathing, almost panting. I almost hung up but I felt as though someone on the other end of the line was struggling not to cry. I waited and said nothing.
After a few seconds, a child’s voice. He was calling secretly; every word trembled and threatened to break down in sobs.
“Hello Miss. It’s Mathis Guillaume. I wanted to tell you that Théo has passed out in Santiago du Chili gardens. He’s on his own. Lying on the ground. Right at the back. He’s had a lot to drink.”
I asked him to repeat the important information. How much to drink? How long ago? I pulled on my jeans, grabbed my jacket and left.
In the taxi I called an ambulance. I repeated what Mathis had told me word for word.
The taxi stopped right at the entrance to the gardens. I rushed to climb over the gate. I had set off into the darkness when the taxi driver called to me.
“Hey! Wait! Take this!”
The wind was puffing up the survival blanket. It seemed to be giving off a light of its own.
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About the Author
Delphine de Vigan is the author of several novels, four of them available in English: No and Me, awarded the 2008 Prix des libraires (Booksellers’ Prize); Underground Time, short-listed for the 2009 Prix Goncourt; Nothing Holds Back the Night, awarded the Prix du roman Fnac, the Prix roman France Télévisions, and the Prix Renaudot des lycéens; and Based on a True Story, awarded the 2015 Prix Renaudot and the 2015 Prix Goncourt des lycéens. She lives in Paris.
ALSO BY DELPHINE DE VIGAN
Based on a True Story
Nothing Holds Back the Night
Underground Time
No and Me
About the Translator
George Miller is the translator into English of all four of Delphine de Vigan’s previous titles. He is also a regular translator for Le Monde diplomatique’s English-language edition.
The Loyalties Page 11