Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

would I be afraid of?’

      ‘Me.’

      ‘Sorry, but to be honest, no, I’m not frightened of you.’

      ‘Funny, you don’t look all that tough.’

      ‘I don’t understand – what is it you’re after?’

      The young man sprang to one side, flicking open a knife. ‘Your wallet, you old prick, or I’ll fucking kill you!’

      ‘Oh, is that all? Here you are.’

      Bernard smiled and reached for his coat pocket. The young man, thrown by Bernard’s attitude, moved back.

      ‘Wait! You’re weird. What are you so happy about? What’ve you got in your pocket, a gun?’

      ‘Of course not, I swear.’

      ‘Don’t move!’

      ‘I must have two or three hundred francs, take it.’

      ‘Don’t move I said!’

      Bernard took a step forward and put his hand in his coat pocket. The youth shrank back in panic, his foot met with empty air, and he toppled backwards. Bernard didn’t have time to catch him. He disappeared over the edge of a platform, making a strange sound like someone taking a deep breath before diving underwater. Bernard rushed forwards. There he was, a kid twisting and turning on the rusty rails, dry grass growing between them, with his own knife sticking out of his chest.

      ‘Don’t hurt me, M’sieur! Call an ambulance!’

      ‘Of course I won’t. It’s an accident, don’t be scared …’

      The kid’s hand clutched at his sleeve. His gaze turned blue, like a newborn baby’s. A bubble of blood burst at the corners of his mouth.

      ‘Don’t do this to me, kiddo!’

      One last spasm and the young man was no more than a piece of rubbish, a disused shell like the shed open to the elements on all sides. On his knees beside the corpse, Bernard lifted his eyes to the rusty iron sky. He no longer dared lay a finger on anything, for fear of seeing humans, things or animals crumble to dust at his touch. He had become the instrument of death, death itself. He felt no guilt, death being a psychosomatic illness, but he was astonished by its lightning speed.

      Fifteen minutes earlier, the kid hadn’t existed, any more than Bernard had existed for him. Then wham! – the young man had come to life for just a matter of minutes, the lifespan of a clay pipe at a shooting gallery. As for him, in some strange way his imminent and inescapable death seemed to make him immortal. Rising in his chest was not a sob but a burst of laughter, straight from the heart, of the kind that seizes you when words fail. Bernard wondered how he was going to drag the body – by the feet? Under the arms? They say there is nothing heavier than an empty heart; the same is true of a lifeless body. It is life that holds us upright, which gives us that lightness of being. Without life the bones, the flesh weigh tons. But why go to all that trouble? He had nothing to do with it this time. What was the point of wearing himself out to plant this seed of death beneath the A26? Force of habit. He could, he supposed, go to the police station and explain what had happened. The idea made him smile. But he was too tired to play that game. The young man would do very well where he was, lying with his cheek against these rails which led nowhere. It was the most fitting end for someone who had gone down the wrong track. Bernard turned his coat collar up. It was cold. In the sky the dark was spreading like a pool of ink. A sprinkling of stars appeared. Bernard aimed his finger and rubbed out a few. Every second, some of them died, people said. What did that matter when four times as many were born in the same time? The sky was an enormous rubbish tip.

      Bernard walked off, sniffing. He could feel he was getting a cold. Once in the car, before starting the engine, he looked for a tissue in the glove compartment. There was one left, a used one. While he was wiping his nose, the beam of headlights came sweeping over the countryside and slowed as it drew level with him. Bernard turned his back. That was what was so annoying about nature – whenever you thought you were on your own some country bumpkin popped up from behind a hedge. But the car picked up speed again and disappeared, leaving a scarlet glow-worm trailing behind.

      Yolande’s soup consisted of some leftover cabbage, a tin of ravioli in tomato sauce, two potatoes, a chicken carcass, a handful of lentils, a vanilla pod and two or three other ingredients she couldn’t quite recall. While emptying the cupboards into the large cooking pot she had said to herself that her recipe would be called ‘Everything must go’.

      ‘Is it nice?’

      ‘It’s unusual – what is it?’

      ‘Slum-it soup. You weren’t here when the butcher came. You’re having what there is.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.’

      ‘Have you been out derailing a train again?’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Do you think I’m an idiot? I know your little game, it’s an open secret. To be honest, I couldn’t care less, if it makes you happy. But damn, I could have murdered an escalope!’

      ‘I’ll get some tomorrow, I promise. It’s not bad, this soup. A little … exotic maybe.’

      Obediently, Bernard cleaned his plate. Yolande left hers untouched, giving him her china-doll stare.

      ‘So you’ll eat any old thing and say nothing to me?’

      ‘I said I liked it, Yoyo.’

      ‘That’s not what I’m talking about! My dress?’

      ‘Oh yes. It’s beautiful. It could almost be the one you were wearing the day …’

      ‘Aha, so you do … I found it in the wardrobe. I’ve added a few frills and some lace round the collar.’

      ‘Of course! It’s very pretty. Stand up, turn round … Splendid!’

      A slight blush crept over Yolande’s cheeks. She went back and forth, twirled around the table. Bernard turned the pendant lamp on her as a spotlight.

      ‘If our thick bastard of a father had just let me move to Paris I’d have been another Chanel. And there’s nothing to it, you know, just reusing some old bits and bobs. It can’t have taken me more than a couple of hours!’

      ‘It’s a masterpiece. Really.’

      ‘And it goes nicely with that little chain you gave me: “Less than yesterday and three times as much as tomorrow”.’

      ‘More than yesterday and much less than tomorrow.’

      ‘Same difference. I’ll have to make myself a coat to go with it. Could you give me your old SNCF one? You won’t need it any more, you’re going to die.’

      ‘Of course. Yolande, shall we dance?’

      ‘All right. I adore you.’

      They couldn’t really have said what they were celebrating, Yolande’s amazing dress, the death of the young man, the unspeakable mush congealing on their plates or simply a moment of grace which had strayed into this place which had known so few, but they did it with all their heart. Bernard waltzed his sister around; she was laughing, head flung back and white hair flying like an ashen cloud. Round and round they whirled, heedless of the furniture they bumped into as they went past, knocking things over, raising flurries of dust and scaring a rat off its dustbin feast. The world could have stopped turning and they would still have continued their drunken waltz atop its ruins, to the accompaniment of Yolande’s reedy tones as she sang softly: ‘J’attendrai, le jour et la nuit, j’attendrai toujours, ton retour …’ The swaying ceiling light was a makeshift glitter ball, multiplying their shadows on the walls. They were a whole ballroom, just the two of them. What else, who else could they ever need? Bernard surrendered to the ever faster rhythm forced on him by his sister. Eternity must be like this whirl, a gigantic