SOMETIMES AFTER SCHOOL I USED TO BABYSIT A LITTLE boy, the son of one of my mother’s neighbors. I helped him with his homework, gave him a bath, made his supper, played with him a bit, then put him to bed. On evenings when his mother was going out for dinner, a young man took over from me.

Youri was a twenty-two-year-old law student who played the saxophone and worked part-time to pay for his studies. Coincidentally—or not—he also had Russian origins, through his father. At first we merely crossed paths. We’d greet each other, exchange a few words, to start with, anyway. But after a few weeks, I began staying a little longer before going home. We were growing fond of each other.

One evening the two of us were leaning on the windowsill looking out as it grew dark. Youri asked me if I had a boyfriend, and I found myself confiding in him, timidly at first, and then eventually divulging the details of my situation. Again, I spoke of myself as if I were a prisoner. At the age of fifteen I was trapped in a labyrinth, unable to get back on track, my daily life an endless round of arguments followed by pillow talk, our time in bed the only moment I still felt loved. It drove me crazy, on the rare occasions I went into school, to compare myself to my classmates, who went home to listen to their Étienne Daho and Depeche Mode records and eat bowls of cereal, while I was satisfying the sexual urges of a man who was older than my father, because my fear of being abandoned was stronger than reason, and I persisted in believing that this abnormal situation made me interesting.

I looked up at Youri. His face was puce with anger and his features were twisted into a violent expression that I wouldn’t have imagined him capable of. He took my hand with an unexpected gentleness and stroked my cheek. “Do you not realize how much this bastard is exploiting and hurting you? You’re not the one to blame, he is! You’re not crazy and you’re not a prisoner. You just have to get your confidence back and leave him.”