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to achieve. To make believe that we are happy is almost more difficult than to actually
be
happy. The more he smiled, the more his parents relaxed; they were proud to have such a happy and caring son. They felt as good as when electrical household appliances outlive the end date of their guarantee. In the eyes of his parents, Hector was a German brand.
    Today, he finds it more difficult than ever. Admitting to the suicide attempt is on the tip of his semi-blue lips. For once, he would like not to pretend, to be a son in front of his parents, to cry tears large enough to wash away the pain in a torrent. There’s nothing he can do; as always the smile on his face blocks and fetters the truth. His parents were always passionate about their son’s interests. For them the word
passion
is a flash feeling, an orgasm of the smile. (‘Oh really? You found a new soap holder … That’s fabulous!’) And it would stop there. It was real enthusiasm (Hector had never questioned it), but it seemed to perch perilously on the peak of a Russian mountain, and after exposure, it fell dramatically into a silent void. No, that is not quite right: his father occasionally tapped him on the shoulder to express his pride. Hector, in these moments, wanted to kill him; without really knowing why.
    Hector ate at his parents’ even when he was not hungry (he was a good son). Meals took place in silence hardly disturbed by the gentle slurping of soup. Hector’s mother liked making soup so much. Sometimes, our lives should simply be reduced to one or two details.
    Here, in this dining room, no one could avoid the grandfather clock. Noise of terrifying loudness, and precision, owing to the precision of time, could make you go crazy. It was this movement that punctuated the visits. This loud movement of time. And the waterproof tablecloth. But before the waterproof tablecloth, let’s focus on the grandfather clock.
    Why do pensioners love noisy clocks so much? Is it a way of savouring the remaining crumbs, of relishing the last slow moments of a beating heart? Everything could be timed at Hector’s parents’; even the time remaining for them to live. And the waterproof tablecloth! The passion of all these old people for waterproof tablecloths is just incredible. Breadcrumbs feel at peace there. Hector smiled slightly to show his appreciation for the meal. His smile resembled the dissection of a frog. Everything was stretched out, grotesquely, to accentuate the traits as though they were coming directly from a pop-art painting. This likeable absence of finesse is a common trait of belated children. His mother was forty-two at his birth, and his father almost fifty.
    Somewhere, a generation was skipped.
    Hector had a big brother, a very
big
brother: twenty years older than him. It could be said that his parents’ obsession was the polar opposite of accumulation. They had contemplated Hector’s conception (which gave a subject to this tale, so thanks are due to them), the day that Ernest (the brother in question) left the nest. One child at a time. And if menopause had not taken away this theoretical momentum, Hector would have had a younger brother or sister who would surely have been called Dominique. This concept of the family was taken as original, and as often with everything that appears original, nothing is. We were in a place that was barely exciting, a place where time is required to understand things. This surpasses all praise for sluggishness. To summarise: Ernest was born, he had made his parents very happy, and when he was leaving they had thought: ‘Hold on, that was good … And what if we made another?’ It was as simple as that. Hector’s parents could never concentrate on two things at once. Ernest was very shocked when told the news, he who had dreamed of having a younger brother or sister when he was a kid. Having a child as soon as he left could have been considered sadistic, but, as we know, sadism wasn’t their