She would become defensive—what she did would be the thing that mattered. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. Which is why I wasn’t able to see him until today. Still, they bob up occasionally. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. ‘You cannot be André Valade if you tell them I am one of this family.
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