“Simultaneously with the three clicks of the fretcach, the three blasts of the driver's whistle from Rosoli announced the end of the break. The vaccines and the drums resumed their rhythm. The voice of the samba, followed by the women's choir, split the sky to announce the death of Christ on this ending Good Friday. I held out my hand to Fatras. He took it but refused to get up.
- Let them go, my young friend. Let them go, he told me. The freshness of the night, the flow of the Rouyonne and this round moon like the eyes of my late Aurore do good to my tired heart.