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As he got up from the bed, he again saw Rose dancing by herself, her face happy and carefree, hair in her eyes, and as if to convince himself he suddenly said out loud: “It’s not possible, there’s just no way she gave in to the Gorilla.” Everyone around them seemed to have no doubt it was true, but this was nothing but wickedness on their part and sheer boasting on the part of the Gorilla. M. Zura put so much stock in it that he had suddenly begun to flatter him to get on his good side, outdoing himself trying to be friendly. Thus Louis Normil was becoming despite everything, a power broker, and he vowed to use that to his advantage. He had approached the Gorilla only once, in tears, to beg him to spare Rose. It was on that day, upon the unexpected reaction of this uniformed man, that he discovered hatred. The echo of demonic laughter that greeted his tears had suddenly awakened it inside of him. He had raised his head and dried his tears to look at the other man for a brief instant. But that instant had been enough to prove to him that he was capable of killing as calmly and quietly as the most ruthless murderer. This discovery had terrified him then, but he’d gotten so used to it that he grew cynical and now played the great man of the hour, honored and protected by the authorities, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“They guard our yard night and day,” he assured M. Zura in a loud voice. “The trees are full of fruit and thieves are everywhere. We want to sell it but there is so much demand we’re afraid of making people jealous.”

This meant that he was increasingly pestered by his boss, who now wanted to be included in the list of buyers.

He rarely went home for lunch now. He went to bars and public places in the company of the director, always surrounded by uniformed men.

“Your daughter’s friend is very powerful,” M. Zura had whispered to him once he thought he could speak as a friend. “His protection is rare and enviable.”

“What do I care!” Louis Normil felt like shouting. “He’s a murderer moonlighting as a thief!” But he had controlled himself enough to offer a friendly smile.

“So, that’s you, you’re the girl’s father!” a man in a black uniform cried out that day as he shook his hand.

He went along with it, accepting the familiar slap on his shoulder, as several colleagues stared at him coldly with poorly concealed disgust. Who are they to judge me? he thought. Are they going to get me out of this mess? And weren’t they the same ones treating me as if I had the plague? He accepted such encounters and would only be seen in the company of the most decorated, most highly visible men in black uniform, and in their presence would praise the generosity of his daughter’s protector, swearing that he would one day show his gratitude.

“My word, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a father so admire his daughter’s lover,” one of them declared.

He couldn’t go on after that and felt his courage flagging. He left them and called a car. He sat down, took off his hat and burst into tears. The driver turned around and saw him holding his arms out, hands gripping the back of the seat in front of him, his chest heaving with such deep and convulsive sobbing that the driver cried out:

“Really now, sir, why are you crying like that? These times we’re living in are no joke, it’s true. I’ll tell you, sometimes I start shaking for no reason when I see the Blackshirts and hear the things they say. But to cry like that! Ah! That, no! …”

He grew quiet and felt ashamed, put his hat back on, and sat with his head down, handkerchief over his mouth. So she did it, he told himself, so she really did it! And as he repeated this to himself, he realized that he had known for a long time.

The next day, he was at a restaurant with M. Zura. He was joined by several men in black uniform that he didn’t know, and when they were introduced to him and heard his name they nodded and gave him a friendly smile. He was raising his