During those evenings when my mother was invited, I would usually succumb to a lullaby, a sort of sleepiness, in the next room to the cacophony of conversations I overheard with an ear that seemed distracted, though in reality, it was very sensitive. That evening, I took a book and, after the main course, retreated to a small salon that led to the dining room, where they served cheese in an endless succession of dishes between equally endless breaks. From there, hunched over the increasingly difficult-to-read pages, it was impossible to concentrate, feeling at every moment that the gaze of C—sitting on the other side of the room—was caressing my very being, his voice, neither masculine nor feminine, creeping into me like magic, like a spell. Every change of tone, every word seemed directed at me. Was I the only one who noticed this? This man's presence is heavenly. Vanessa Springora