He has taken care to remove the sourdough starter and pre-fermented dough from the refrigerator ahead of time. From the cupboard he takes the flour, yeast, salt, and semolina. It is hot; he must work quickly. Bowls, utensils, kneading board. He weighs the ingredients, mixes and aerates them, adds cold water in small amounts. The flour drinks it quickly; he pours in a little more and feels the resulting texture. Good. He turns the dough out onto the board and plunges his hands into it. His whole body crushes the dough, releases it, begins again. In very little time, no more than ten minutes, the initially shapeless, sticky matter becomes supple and tender. He stretches it to judge its quality. This is his favourite moment, when the dough resembles skin stretched by the acrobatics of lovemaking, which the slightest roughness might bruise. He leans against the counter, holding the translucent dough in his hands. His sex presses against the wood of the cabinet. It swells. Rémi smiles. The bread will be good.
He shapes the dough into a ball, dusts it with flour, and places it in a wicker proofing basket, which he covers with plastic wrap. He checks the clock. The next step is in two hours.
He cleans his hands, then the utensils, and puts away the ingredients. Victor bounds down the stairs and enters the kitchen.
“You’re making bread in this heat?”
“It’s no hotter in here than it is in front of my ovens. I’m used to it, you know that. Besides, I want to give the neighbours a loaf.”
Victor opens the refrigerator, takes out a litre of concentrated juice, pours himself a glass, and drains it. Rémi watches him, amused.
“You should take off your clothes. You’d be cooler.”
With the glass still at his mouth, Victor looks at him and signals no. When he has finished, he pours another.
“You know, nudity and me…”
He puts the juice back in the refrigerator.
“You weren’t like this before, Victor.”
“A lot of things weren’t like this before… Please, go put some clothes on in case the new neighbours come over to say hello.”
Rémi shrugs.
“I’d be surprised.”
“I’m going back to my game.”
Victor quickly leaves the room.
Rémi studies the dough. Moisture has formed beneath the plastic wrap; the yeast and fermented dough are doing their work and will soon force the mixture to stretch. He will have to watch it closely because of the heat. He feels something similar happening in this house. He stretches and thinks of Stéphane. When will they see each other again?
One of the new neighbours can be heard giving orders, along with the men’s laughter. Rémi goes upstairs to put on his swimsuit, then hurries outside. The sun is not yet very high, but it is already burning. Behind the house, the pool resembles a sheet of ice, so timid is the wind. Were it not for the filtration system, nothing would disturb its rest. The back deck overlooks the pool and the hedge surrounding the property. Rémi spots the young mover, who has removed his shirt and is smoking a cigarette. He nods to him; the man returns the gesture with a hint of a smile. Rémi rubs his lower belly and slips a hand into his swimsuit, using the need to adjust the skimpy garment as an excuse. The mover does not miss the gesture.
Enough is enough, Rémi tells himself. He descends the stairs leading to the pool. He feels stupid, a handsome man without a brain. He likes to cruise, he likes to be desired, he likes to come. He is suffocating. He studies the chlorinated colour of the water and tests its temperature with his big toe so it will not take him by surprise, a needless precaution in the grip of this heat wave. He feels the mover’s gaze. Or is it his imagination, his desire? He does not want to turn around, yet cannot bring himself to dive.
He looks to the right. No one is there to watch him. The hedge hides the other neighbours. He removes his swimsuit and dives. The water attacks his skin and his sex. He reaches the bottom. Water is not man’s element, but winter to the lungs. He curls into a ball to remain at the bottom. He waits, listening to the water strike his eardrums. When he begins to run out of air, he slowly rises. As his head breaks the surface, he takes a deep breath and immediately looks toward the mover. The man is gone. The blind neighbour stands there instead, her eyes doubly walled in behind her dark glasses. Disappointed, Rémi catches his breath and swims a few lengths, happy to be naked and free.