— Do you believe in miracles?
— Not today.
She can't relate to other people. She was always a lonely child.
He's understood. He's going to put his teaspoon down, dip his finger in the sugar, turn around slowly, and speak to me.
Nino is late. Amélie can only think of two possible explanations.
Firstly, that he didn't find the photo.
Secondly, before he could assemble it, a gang of bank robbers took him hostage. The cops gave chase. They got away, but he caused a crash. When he came to, he'd lost his memory, An ex-con picked him up, mistook him for a fugitive, and shipped him to Istanbul. He met some Afghan raiders, who took him to steal some Russian warheads. But their truck hit a mine at the border with Tajikistan. He survived, took to the hills, and became a Mujaheddin. Amélie refuses to get upset for a guy who'll eat borscht all his life in a hat like a tea cosy.
— They look quite happy there.
— They should be. This year they had hare with morels. And waffles with jam for the children.
— Has anyone ever written to you like that?
— No. I'm nobody's little weasel.