“I may be your safe-conduct, but that’s no reason to tear my limbs off!” she raged.

“Sorry, my mind had gone numb,” Henri replied, examining his still-clenched hand.

“Such a strange feeling in my arm. As if blood were still flowing through my veins. My soul feels stiff. Don’t hurt me again… Please!” she pleaded.

“In my defense, how was I supposed to know I was hurting you? It’s my first time existing without a body. No normal tactile sensation… I mean, physical sensation.”

“Mr. Toutrec, I understand that you have only just arrived in the afterlife. You are in a difficult state and going through the effects of temporal dislocation. But let us be clear—it was not my body you hurt, but my soul.”

“Ah! Right, a soul doesn’t bleed. But… is it sensitive? Ouch! What did you do to me? Ouch! It hurts at the end of my… Was that you?… I order you to stop or I’ll twist your ears!”

“I pinched you with a simple act of will. Now imagine my pain, considering that the strength of your hands feels like a tightening vise. I could do worse than you. But paradise is not a wrestling arena.”

“Please forgive me. Just promise you won’t run away,” he asked, making sure not to appear weak.

“A promise is merely a temporal condition. It has no place in the absolute—it simply makes no sense here. So I cannot accept your offer. However… I can pretend to get to know you. That way, I can testify more truthfully against you… if it comes to that,” she added.

Pretending to have a speck of dust in his third eye—now barely visible—Henri reflected. “There’s nothing bigger than infinity when it comes to finding a good hiding place,” he mused. “I could let her go… but if I’m caught, perhaps they’ll reward me with a few delicious centuries in her company. That should cool the coals.” He gently rubbed his nose with ticklish fingers, mischievously watching Marilyn.

“I won’t tie you up, and you’re free to speak your mind. You can even send distress signals to anyone you like! But don’t forget—I have more than seven million chances of being your half-moon. You can even wink at Elvis Presley if you want.”

“The King? No risk of being rescued by him.”

“The rock ’n’ roll singer is a coward?”

“No. But as soon as he arrived here… he had one of his fits! He insisted on being reincarnated as an ash tree so he could become an acoustic guitar. Fine. Now, what do you suggest?” Marilyn asked, searching for a way to turn the tables on her captor.

“So reincarnation exists?” Henri Toutrec asked in surprise.

“Only for those who desire it.”

“Well then! For now, you’re staying with me. We’ll move quietly toward those brightly colored mountains. We’ll swim and let ourselves drift down that white river,” he declared, already striking a diving pose.

Far from being water, the substance gave off scents of rose and honey.

“You really want us to dive into that?” Marilyn scolded, like an angry schoolteacher. “Your reckless boldness is getting the better of you! Diving into that river would be like bathing in your own soup. It is liquid spiritual nourishment—ethereal vitamins.”

She fell silent and looked him straight in the eye, nibbling at her lips.

A lion passed by.

Then she added:

“I sense a bit of anxiety… Don’t worry. Here, lions neither scratch nor bite, and insects neither sting nor buzz in your ears.”

“I think I misheard you. Are you saying there are insects in paradise? While you’re at it, tell me there are microbes too.”

“Microbes? Don’t be absurd! Their paradises are the habitable planets,” she said, a smile spreading across her lovely face.

“All right. But let’s get back to our butterflies…” he replied, returning her smile. “The route is simple. We’ll walk along the edge of that bowl of soup… very carefully. It will give us a place to take shelter and calm down… among those vibrant hills, so inspiring to any Fauvist painter,” Henri concluded, gently taking Marilyn by the hand. A first.

Contact. A surge of singular energy—like the birth of affection.

“I must admit, Mr. Toutrec, you surprise me. You care about art and culture?”

“I’m not nothing but flaws, you know,” Henri retorted, revealing a certain sensitivity. “In fact, you know nothing about me. But I’ll tell you,” he said, glancing behind him.

“The… the… the gates to pa… paradise are gone!” he stammered, frightened by their disappearance.

He truly feared the intervention of a squadron of airborne angels responding to a call from Potato Peels.

“They haven’t vanished. It’s like white magic, a sleight of hand. They’re still there. Despite their immense size, they can only be seen from about five meters away. It’s a trick designed to keep anyone from thinking about hell.”

Then she continued:

“Mind you… the door would also have to be open… By the way, did you close it?”

“I don’t know. Why would I have?… Less chance of bumping into it!” he joked, caring little about the consequences for souls who were too distracted—or sleepwalking.