But it is Bertrand’s eyes that startle Xavier the most, because they do not seem to recognize the boy – no, man – of seventeen years standing before him. They blink, confused, like pools of trembling grey water. ‘Father,’ Xavier says. ‘It is I. Your son.’ Bertrand turns, a large and heavy key in his hand. He relocks his studio’s door with it, and returns it to its pocket, where he gives it two quick pats to make certain it is safe and sound. And then he laboriously descends the stairs, careful not to touch Xavier. ‘You are no son of mine,’ he says, muttering as he passes. Virginie Lambriquet
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