Chapter 79

Picasso parked his motorcycle on one of the sides of a kiosk, wanting to avoid any theft or situation in which he would have to reveal himself as the head of tr****ing. He took me to the sand, barefoot, and was silent as the waves broke far away and his foam filled the air with the odor of sea air.

The tide was high that night. Each wave increased absurdly until it fell hard, pushing some shells and small animals close to our feet. The sand was very humid where Picasso had taken me, and that could very well also be a consequence of all the rain of hours before. The weather still didn't seem at all firm, but the winds were weak.

I hadn't taken off my sneakers, and I was sinking with my feet in the sand, but I liked the feeling of being there. It was nothing like wearing a bikini and sunbathing after a cold sea bath. It was a matter of freedom. Seeing the world behind you with its lights and running, while the sea remained constant and silent.

I didn't k