Luka was horrified. He jumped back into the front seat. He took off down the La Reine Margo, not knowing what to do except drive madly. He turned right onto Anatole Boulevard, and, skipping the first right, he cursed himself. Why go so far? he thought. Now he had to turn right on the Allée du Bord de l'Eau. And why go so far, damn it! But once he was driving north, passing the Hippodrome, he knew this way had its options. He could cut across the whole forest: first, at the south, and then, build his way north: so, at the Carrefour de Longchamp, he took the southern Avenue, crossing the Reine before reaching the next carrefour, at which point, being on the eastern side of the Bois, he went north on the road bordering the lake. Deciding not to pass the racing club, he turned left onto the Route de Grande Cascade. But this brought him back to the Reine, and that was not helpful.

I let the music play, and, approaching another glass case, I saw a beautiful portrait photograph. It was Olympia from a few years ago. She was smiling beautifully, thickening her lips, not showing her teeth. "They were probably falling out," I thought to myself. There was a smaller portrait of Fabric, and a picture from her baptism as well. You and I were standing on either side of the font. You were beautiful in the picture; you were smiling at the camera; I was looking at the child in my arms with a stern expression. There were many pictures in this cabinet: family, friends, vacation. There was even a picture of our mother with Indiana, frying a gigantic fish by the lake. There was a triptych of old photographs: a young man in a zipped-up sweater, an old couple walking in the forest, and a young couple on the grass: the woman in a plain dress, the man in uniform.