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No. It doesn’t mean I don’t have any feelings.

For a time we had a live-in nanny to look after the children. Her name was Josée, she was from the north, a blonde with a ruddy complexion, a sturdy girl who looked like a farmer’s wife. She had worked for a number of distinguished families on the outskirts of Lille. She asked us to buy a bell to call for her. I remember her wanting to know where we kept the silver. In her previous job she used to clean the silver once a week. My wife told her we kept it in our house in the country, but one day Josée came there and, of course, there was no silver …

She was perfect with the children, full of common sense. She treated them like normal children, not too weak or excessively affectionate, she knew how to be tough with them when she had to. I think she really loved them. When they did something silly I often heard her say, “Oh, your heads are full of straw!”

That’s the only accurate diagnosis anyone’s ever made. She was right, Josée was right, they must have had heads full of straw. The doctors didn’t even spot that.

Our family photo album is flat as a fillet of sole. We don’t have many pictures of them, we don’t feel like showing them off. Normal children are photographed from every angle, in every pose, on every occasion; you see them blowing out their first candle, taking their first steps, having their first bath. People look at them and go “ah.” They follow their progress step by step. With a handicapped child, no one really feels like following their fall.

When I look at the few pictures we have of Mathieu, I have to admit he’s not beautiful, you could tell he was abnormal. We, his parents, couldn’t see it at the time. To us he even seemed beautiful, he was the first. Anyway, everyone always says “a beautiful baby.” Babies have no right to be ugly, or at least, no one has any right to say so.

I have one picture of Thomas that I really like. He must be about three. I’ve positioned him inside a huge fireplace, sitting in a little armchair among the ashes, between the andirons, where you would light the fire. Where you would expect to see the devil, there’s a fragile cherub, smiling.

This year some friends sent me a Christmas card of themselves surrounded by their children. They all look happy, they’re all laughing. It’s a picture that would be very difficult for us to create. For a start, you would have to make Thomas and Mathieu laugh on command. As for us, the parents, we don’t always feel like laughing.

And I can’t quite picture the words “and a happy New Year” in fancy gold script just above my two kids’ lumpy, shaggy-haired heads. It’s more likely to look like one of Reiser’s risqué covers for Hara-Kiri magazine than a Christmas card.

One day, seeing Josée trying to unblock a sink with a plunger, I told her I would buy another one.

“Why two?” she asked. “One’s enough.”

“You’re forgetting I have two children,” I replied.

She didn’t understand so I explained that, when we took Mathieu and Thomas for a walk and had to get them over a stream, it would be practical to use plungers. You could attach them to the children’s heads. Then you could just grab the handles to lift them up and get them over the stream without getting their feet wet. It was easier than carrying them in your arms.

She was horrified.

The plunger disappeared after that. She must have hidden it …

Mathieu and Thomas are asleep and I’m watching them.

What are they dreaming about?

Do they have dreams like other people?

Maybe at night they dream they’re intelligent.

Maybe at night they have their revenge and dream the dreams of gifted children.

Maybe at night they’re top engineers, scientific researchers … who find whatever they’re looking for.

Maybe at night they discover laws and principles, postulations and theories.

Maybe at night they do endless arcane calculations.

Maybe at night they speak Latin and Greek.

But the minute the sun rises—so that no one ever guesses—they revert to looking like handicapped