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father runs a Casino (the supermarket, not the Las Vegas variety), and that day, when I saw him down at the end of his little paved driveway between his artsy-fartsy wrought iron lamp and his gleaming Audi, I really understood the meaning of the word complacent. That mixture of stupidity and arrogance. His unshakeable self-satisfaction. That blue cashmere sweater stretched over his huge gut and that weird way—real friendly-like—he has of reaching out his hand to you even though he already hates you.
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    I’m ashamed when I think back on that lunch. I’m ashamed, and I’m not the only one. Lola and Vincent aren’t too proud, either, I don’t think . . .
    Simon wasn’t there when the conversation began to degenerate. He was out in the garden building a cabin for his son.
    He must be used to it. He must know that it’s better just to get out of there when fat Jacquot starts mouthing off . . .
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    Simon is like us: he doesn’t like shouting matches at the end of a nice dinner, he hates conflict and runs like hell from power struggles. He says it’s a waste of good energy and that you have to keep your strength for more worthwhile struggles in life. That with people like his father-in-law, you’re fighting a losing battle.
    And when you talk to him about the rise of the extreme right, he shakes his head: “Bah . . . they’re just the dregs on the bottom of the lake. What can you do, it’s only human. Best leave well enough alone, otherwise they’ll rise to the surface.”
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    How can he stand those family dinners? How can he even help his father-in-law trim the hedge?
    He concentrates on Léo’s cabins.
    He concentrates on the moment he’ll take his little boy by the hand and they’ll go off together into the deep and silent woods.
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    I’m ashamed because on that particular day, we didn’t dare say a thing.
    Once again we didn’t dare say a thing. We didn’t react to the words of that rabid shopkeeper who’ll never see any farther than his distant navel.
    We didn’t contradict him, or leave the table. We went on slowly chewing every mouthful, thinking it was enough just to register what a jerk the guy was while pulling hard on all our loose threads, trying to wrap ourselves in what might remain of our dignity.
    What wretches we were. Cowards, incredible cowards . . .
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    Why are we like that, all four of us? Why are we so intimidated by people who shout louder than others? Why do aggressive people make us go completely to pieces?
    What is wrong with us? Where does a good upbringing end and spinelessness begin?
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    We’ve talked about it a lot. We beat our breasts over pizza crust and makeshift ashtrays. We don’t need anyone to force us to. We’re big enough to go about it ourselves, and no matter how many empty bottles we have at the end, we always come to the same conclusion. That if we are like this—silent and determined but absolutely useless when it comes to jerks like him—it is precisely because we haven’t got a shred of self-confidence. We are sorely lacking in self-esteem.
    We don’t love our own selves.
    We don’t think we’re all that important.
    Not even important enough to splutter our indignation onto old man Molinoux’s vest. Or to believe for one second that our squawking could ever influence his line of thought. Or to hope that a gesture of disgust like tossing our napkins onto the table or knocking over our chairs might have the slightest impact on the ways of the world.
    What would that good taxpayer have thought if we had given him a piece of our mind and left his demesne with our heads held high? He would simply have battered his wife all evening with remarks like: “What complete pricks. Total pricks. I mean, have you ever seen such a hopeless bunch of pricks?”
    And why should the poor woman be subjected to that?
    Who are we to spoil