Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

      Yolande put the pendant into her mouth. ‘I used to have one with the Virgin Mary, a blue one, it tasted of electric wire. At school when you went for an X-ray, you had to put it in your mouth so they didn’t see the Virgin Mary in your bones. This one doesn’t taste of anything.’

      ‘See you later, Yolande.’

      The countryside, accustomed to low skies and drizzle, looked ill at ease in its Sunday best in the sunlight. The bricks were too red, the sky too blue, the grass too green. It was as if Nature felt embarrassed at being so extravagantly made up. She was quite still, as if for the camera, except for the occasional crow hopping about in the middle of a field. At the wheel of his car Bernard was feeling good, for the first time in a long while. He loved these expanses of brown stretching as far as the eye could see, you could almost fancy you were by the sea. He passed a motorcyclist at the roadside, leaning against his bike. He was smoking a cigarette, at right angles to the line of the horizon. There was no house nearby. Here was a chap who had simply said to himself, ‘I know what, I’ll stop here for a cigarette because this is absolutely the best place in the world for that.’ It was over in seconds, just the time it took for the motorcyclist’s image to disappear in the rear-view mirror, but Bernard felt every bit of that man’s happiness in his own body: ‘I feel good.’

      ‘And what about me? What will become of me while Yolande’s still here?’ He realised he had never asked himself that question before. He would very much have liked to be a biker stopped at the roadside for eternity. No doubt Yolande had never asked herself that question either.

      She didn’t care, had never cared about anything but herself. It couldn’t really be called egotism, she had simply never been aware of other people. They were bit parts, at most, even her brother. When she had come home with her head shaven, never to leave the house again, she had appeared relieved, her face serene like that of a young nun. They didn’t want her any more, and she had never wanted them. At last things were clear, ordered, everyone in their place. She had never wanted anything but this cat’s life of cosseting and food.

      Bernard slowed down as he passed the works on the A26. The pillars supporting the slip road had advanced a few steps. RIP Maryse.

      ‘Now, Bernard, that’s not an empty glass, is it?’

      ‘Yes, but I’m fine, thanks.’

      Roland’s eyes looked like two blobs of phlegm, pastis yellow shot through with red.

      ‘It’s lovely to see the young ones having fun, so full of life!’In the back room of the café, where the tables had been arranged in a horseshoe, the young ones were jigging to one of the summer’s hits. The acrylic of the girls’ little skirts was stretched out of shape over their bulging thighs. The boys, a glint in their eye, were blowing themselves a smoke screen to hide their acne and drinking out of cans. Jacqueline, hair dishevelled, was zigzagging amongst the dancers with a tray in her outstretched hand. She looked like a statue carrying its upturned plinth.

      ‘She’s not bad, even now, huh?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Even with a few miles on the clock she’s still a catch, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m telling you, Bernard, not only am I not angry with you, I feel sorry for you. Yes, I do, don’t argue. What’s more, out of all the men who’ve come sniffing around after her, you’re the one I like best. You are! Because you’re going to kick the bucket soon – before me. Not by much maybe, but before me.’

      Roland’s brow was dripping with sweat. The few hairs he had left were plastered to his temples. He’d been a very good footballer, the best goalkeeper Subligny had ever had, and had inherited the café-restaurant from his parents.

      ‘I had to tell you, Bernard – it may not seem like it but I respect you. Look, if you want to, you can have her right here and now, before my very eyes, and I won’t say a thing. Scout’s honour.’

      ‘You’re talking rubbish, Roland. You’re drunk.’

      ‘Not at all! You’ll see. Jacqueline! Hey, Jacqueline!’

      ‘What’s the matter with you? You must be out of your mind, yelling like that!’

      ‘He won’t believe I respect him! Do your business, you two, and I won’t so much as raise my little finger. Go on!’

      ‘You must be mad! There are children present!’

      ‘So, there’s children. They’ve got to learn the facts of life, haven’t they? Like on the farm, the pigs with the sows, and the mares with the … I don’t know what, but that’s nature’s way, isn’t it, shit!’

      ‘Be quiet! It’s you who’s the pig – clear off, you’re ruining it all.’

      The music had stopped, and so had the dancers. Some of them were sniggering behind their hands, others rolled their eyes. Only Serge, whose Communion they were celebrating, still moved around between them on his brand-new Rollerblades.

      ‘I’ve got to go, Jacqueline.’

      ‘No, you don’t, that’s stupid.’

      ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not because of him, I’m just tired. I was leaving anyway. Say goodbye to Serge from me.’

      Out in the car park Bernard rubbed his eyes. The red sphere of the setting sun was pulsing on his retina.

      Someone knocked on the window.

      ‘Hello. Which direction are you going?’

      The girl was made up like someone from a silent film, hair all over the place, black and red, like a kid disguised as a witch.

      ‘Towards Arras, but I’m turning off in six kilometres.’

      ‘That’ll still be a help. Could you give me a lift?’

      ‘If you like.’

      She was wearing such a lot of heavy perfume, she needn’t have bothered getting dressed.

      ‘On Sundays, the buses … Is it all right if I smoke?’

      ‘Of course.’

      The girl lit a cigarette. The smoke lingered above their heads. They weren’t saying anything. Bernard was driving slowly. The sky took on streaks of purple and mauve.

      ‘It’s pretty. All this silence does you good.’

      ‘Yes, it’s like staring into a fire in the grate.’

      ‘Wasn’t there a war here?’

      ‘That’s right. The Great War and the other one. It’s taken a while for it to look alive again.’

      ‘Do you remember the war?’

      ‘Just a little. I was young then.’

      ‘All our lives we’ve heard people talking about it on TV, all over the world, but we can’t really take it in. We’re not quite sure it exists. It’s like fairytale monsters, and ogres and death. We know it exists but we don’t believe in it. We doubt everything, even ourselves. We’re never quite sure we’re not in a video game.’

      ‘Does that bother you?’

      ‘No, you just have to get used to it. I spotted you just now during the shouting match. You were different from the others. Me too. I’d come with a mate of the boyfriend of … well, whatever, it’s a shame, he was cute. You look so sad … it’s nice.’

      ‘I’m not sad.’

      ‘You look it.’

      The sound the girl’s stockings made as she crossed her legs caused him to jerk the wheel. But he was very swiftly back in control. She had noticed. He could just imagine the smile on her face as she crushed her cigarette end in the ashtray.

      ‘What do