The Dogs and the Wolves by Irène Némirovsky

with his big blue eyes and plump little red mouth, was listening to Ben’s endless talk. He spoke quietly for fear of being overheard by his mother, but the constant movement of his body, his expressive face and gesturing hands were more eloquent than his voice.
    He was telling some wild story, a tissue of lies, the tale of a battle he claimed he’d fought, him alone against six boys who were older and stronger than him, who were throwing stones. He described the scene as if he were reliving it: he mimed every detail; he swore by everything that was holy that each and every word was true; he was carried away by his mad inventions; he believed everything he was saying; he could feel his body going hot and cold in turn; he wanted to hug little Ivanov and beat him up, both at the same time, while Ivanov, his head propped up in his hands, seemed to drink in his words, nevertheless asking from time to time:
    ‘That can’t be true? Can it? Come on, tell the truth. Is that true?’
    ‘Yes, I swear! May God strike me down! May I die at this very moment if I’m lying! And then a stone hit me right here . . .’
    He pointed to the arch of his eyebrow, pushing back the hair that fell on to his face with his feverish little hands. Little Ivanov couldn’t help himself repeating over and over again, like an incantation: ‘He ’s lying. This story can’t be true. I know it’s not true. He’s a little Jewish liar. If he’d really been hit in thehead with a stone, I’d see a mark.’ But wasn’t there actually a mark? By rubbing his forehead and pulling his curls back and forth, Ben had managed to create a red patch just above his eye.
    ‘Can you see it? There, can you see it?’
    Why was he so determined to lie? To show off to Ivanov, of course, because he liked him. It was only Ivanov’s affection and respect that quenched an avid thirst in Ben’s soul, a thirst of which he was barely aware.
    ‘And so, you see, Ivanov, you see how I’d be able to stand up for you . . . You’ve got nothing to be afraid of if I’m with you. I’m stronger and smarter than Yatsovlev or Pavlov (they were his rivals). Listen to me, Ivanov, why do you play with them? When spring comes, we’ll escape out of the window when everyone’s asleep, and we’ll light a log at the river’s edge, and I’ll teach you how to catch fish at night, by torchlight. One of us holds the lit torch,’ he said, getting carried away by his fantasies, ‘while the sparks fly into the air and singe your hair, and the other one throws in the fishing line, and every time, an enormous silvery fish will leap out, gasping for air, its gills still all red! All you have to do is pick them up with your bare hands. In the morning, we can sell them at the market. After a while, we’ll have enough money to buy a gun and real bullets, or even . . .’
    He added, as if in a dream, ‘a bicycle . . .’
    And his little hands, which had been burning hot, turned icy with desire.
    ‘Will you come with me, Ivanov?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘But if I’m going to take you with me, first I have to be sure you’d rather be with me than with Yatsovlev or Pavlov.’
    ‘I would.’
    ‘It’s not enough to just say it. From now on, you must avoid them. You can’t play with them any more. They’re clumsy and mean and stupid. What could you do with them?’
    ‘I can’t promise that . . .’
    ‘Fine then! I won’t ask you to do a thing. I’ll find myself another friend.’
    ‘But why can’t I be friends with you and with them?’ exclaimed Ivanov in despair.
    ‘That’s impossible,’ Ben said coldly. ‘You’re either with me or against me. Choose. Choose,’ he said again, leaning in so close to Ivanov that his black curls were practically touching the other boy’s pink knees.
    And beneath Ben’s glittering, imperious gaze, little Ivanov felt uncomfortable, awkward and impatient.
    ‘I’ve chosen.’
    ‘Just me then?’
    ‘Just you.’
    Ben fell back into his