The Children of Freedom. Marc Levy

      

      The Children of Freedom

      Translated from the French by Sue Dyson

      Marc Levy

      

       For my father for his brother Claude, for all the children of freedom.

       For my son and for you my love.

       I am very fond of that verb, ‘to resist’. To resist what imprisons us, to resist prejudices, hasty judgements, the desire to judge, everything that is bad in us and cries out to be expressed, the desire to abandon, the need to make people feel sorry for us, the need to talk about ourselves to the detriment of others, fashions, unhealthy ambitions, prevailing confusion.

       To resist, and…to smile.

      Emma Dancourt

      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       Epigraph

Prologue

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

       9

       10

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       16

       17

       18

       PART TWO

       19

       20

       21

       22

       23

       24

       25

       26

       27

       28

       29

       PART THREE

       30

       31

       32

       33

       34

       35

       36

       37

       38

       39

       Epilogue

       About the Author

       Also by Marc Levy

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

       Tomorrow I shall love you; today I don’t yet know you. I began by walking down the staircase of the old apartment building where I lived, a little hurriedly, I confess. On the ground floor, my hand gripped the handrail and felt the beeswax that the concierge applied methodically as far as the bend on the second-floor landing on Mondays, and then up to the other floors on Thursdays. Although light was gilding the fronts of the buildings, the pavement was still glistening from the dawn rain. Just think: as I walked along lightly, I as yet knew nothing, nothing at all about you, you who would one day assuredly give me the most beautiful gift that life gives to human beings.

       I went into the little café on rue Saint-Paul; I had time on my hands. There were only three people at the counter – not many of us had an abundance of leisure on that spring morning. And then, hands behind his raincoat, my father came in. He rested his elbows on the bar-top as if he hadn’t seen me, an elegant mannerism that was all his own. He ordered a strong coffee and I caught sight