The silence in the lounge continued. No one said a word. They all
seemed to be staring into the distance or searching for something to
Yves Rivière’s face was depressingly sad. His expression was one of a
person stuck in an empty shell, a person who holds an unfamiliar
sorrow within and a shame unrecognised. Everyone in the lounge
felt it. As if thinking aloud, they revisited the part they played in the
If you were there and could just look at each of their faces, your
heart would be broken. They all exchanged painful glances with
moist eyes. The lounge felt cold with a quality of sadness. Every eye
was tearful. It was a desperately solemn sight to behold and even
more painful to retain in the memory.
Yves kept staring at the portrait of Felix hanging over the
fireplace. To distract himself from his emotions, he reached out to the
book on the walnut tea table next to Florence. The book was entitled:
Portraits in a Mirror. The words on the very first line on the first page
There were four poems …
Yves gently took his eyes off that page and I think he dropped
the book suddenly on the floor, I am not entirely sure. Letting his
gaze fall on the floor, he bowed his head in shame. One feeling was
reawakened in him: guilt.
Meanwhile in the bedroom, tucked in their cot, the twins: Flora
and Felix seem to have stopped crying.
It starts to rain.