A trapdoor in the floor opens like a mouth and, tongue-like, a bald pate pops out.
‘What? What’s going on?’
Mishima Tuvache emerges from the cellar carrying a sack of cement, which he sets down on the tiled floor while his wife says: ‘This customer claims Alan is smiling.’
‘What are you talking about, Lucrèce?’
Dusting a little cement powder from his sleeves, he too goes up to the baby, and gives him a long, doubtful look before offering his diagnosis: