Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

on life’s steep, mysterious ways,

      How, without you, could I get through my days?

      Ever a father’s love will with you go.

      Let it protect and guide you, teach and show.

      Only one girl is ruler of my heart,

      Uniquely you, with whom I’ll never part.

      If you read this carefully,

      See how close we’ll always be.

      Carefully, Brice refolded the yellowing sheet and gave it back to Blanche. ‘He was a witty man, your father.’

      ‘Oh yes, he was great fun to be with.’

      ‘And your mother?’

      ‘I hardly knew her. I lost her when I was very young.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Why? I never missed her.’

      Blanche lifted the cat which was purring on her knee and placed it delicately on the floor.

      ‘A little more tea?’

      ‘No, thank you. I must be getting back. About the soup, heat it gently. You mustn’t boil it or it’ll thicken and won’t be so nice.’

      ‘Absolutely. Would you like your Tupperware back?’

      ‘Another time. Take care of your foot. We can look forward to some lovely walks together; good weather’s forecast.’

      ‘I’m keen to make the most of it. Well, thank you for coming, and for the soup. I sense I have a feast in store.’

      ‘It’s nothing. Oh, you should put curtains at your window. In a village you always need good thick curtains. A window without curtains is like an eye without an eyelid.’

      ‘I’ll do that. I promise.’

      A gust of wind took advantage of Blanche’s exit to rush into the house and have a look around, ruffling a napkin, a newspaper, a fluff ball and the cat’s whiskers as it went by, before it disappeared up the chimney, sniggering.

      ‘Look, Dominique, I’ll be honest with you. I no longer give a toss about Mabel Hirsch, or Sabine, or you, or the money, or my career. I’ve had it up to here with that shit.’

      ‘OK, Brice, OK. We’ll manage. Please, take care of yourself. Don’t hesitate to ring me if there’s anything at all you need.’

      ‘What I need is for people to bloody well leave me in peace!’

      The telephone let out a pathetic whimper as he slammed it back on the table. He was angry with himself immediately. None of this was its fault, poor thing. It had done its job. But things, oh the things! Hundreds and thousands of them were swarming around him in the shadows of the garage. Boxes spewed out new ones every day. Each one of them was waiting for him to give it a function, a job, and all he could do was scatter them around haphazardly, forcing them into a sort of monstrous orgy. Of course they ended up mating, engendering the inconceivable. It was hard to imagine the love child of a vegetable mill and a pair of skis. It was horrendous, like being in a Hieronymus Bosch painting.

      Only the cat seemed able to find its way in the shambles. It would prowl around, sniffing, nimbly dodging a precariously balanced lampshade to sprawl on a rolled-up anorak, knead a silk rug with its claws, juggle with a table-tennis ball, get tangled up in a cotton reel. It was enchanted by this joyous disorder.

      Brice, on the other hand, sat with his elbows on the camping table in the cone of light from the bedside lamp, searching desperately for a sense to it all. The radio was telling him that the world’s smallest dog measured 17 centimetres and weighed 850 grams, and that in Africa, 1 in 16 women died before the age of thirty, while in Europe it was only 1 in 36,000. The stock market was holding up pretty well. The hunters were angry and so were the motorcyclists, but not for the same reason. A bomb in a cemetery had killed 112 people, with 2 missing. Close study of eel movement suggested it might one day be possible for a submarine to make a 45-degree turn at a speed of …

      Just as the two jaws of the vice gripping his skull were about to meet, he switched off the transistor. The ensuing silence made him feel as if he had plunged his head underwater. Then suddenly there was a strange sound, as if from beyond the grave, like a heart beginning to beat again in the chest of a corpse. A single note, a mi perhaps, or a soh. Having just knocked down the guitar case, the cat sought refuge between his legs, its fur standing on end.

      Every man in his fifties has a guitar slumbering in his house. That lost chord came from so far away! Brice opened the case with as much care as an Egyptologist would a sarcophagus. In its red velvet casket, the Gibson’s silky wood positively glowed. Only the strings seemed a little rusty. The guitar was as light as a young bride when he rested it on his thigh. Barely out of tune. With the middle finger of his left hand he played the harmonics. As good as new. The wide-eyed cat could not believe the way the man’s fingers were making the piece of furniture sing. It leaped on to the table and tried to bite the steel whiskers sticking out of the tuning pegs, which were like its own.

      Brice had bought it second-hand in Pigalle, a real bargain, with the money from his first contract. He had been dreaming of it for years.

      One day he had tried to impress Emma by playing her a very complicated piece. As he hadn’t practised for quite a long time, however, his fingers had got mixed up and Emma had burst out laughing. Annoyed, he had shut the instrument away in its case and never opened it again.

      Delicately Brice laid the instrument back in its coffin.

      ‘Grief is something you learn, Brice. Dr Boaert is a great help to us, and he’s willing to see you.’

      ‘Not me.’

      ‘You have to get help. She’s dead, the consulate itself …’

      ‘To hell with the consulate and Dr Boaert. Her body hasn’t been found. You know what that is, a body? A thing with two arms, two legs and sometimes a head. Until I’ve seen it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it, and even—’

      ‘Calm down, young Brice.’

      ‘Myriam, you’re very kind, but do stop calling me “young Brice”. There’s only a handful of years between us.’

      ‘We’re only trying to help you!’

      ‘I don’t need help! I just want to be bloody well left in peace!’

      Brice heard a muffled sob and, in the background, Simon’s discordant voice.

      ‘I’m sorry, Myriam. I’m a little tired. Could you put Simon on, please?’

      ‘Yes, just a second …’

      ‘Hello, Brice. Simon here.’

      ‘Hi, Simon. You mustn’t be cross with me. I know you’re fond of me, and I am of you, but I swear I don’t need anyone. Do you understand?’

      ‘Yes, Brice. But Myriam’s a mother, so …’

      His voice was barely audible. He had never raised it in his life. The telephone must have been trembling in his hand. Forty years with the railways. A fishing rod and an alarm clock as retirement gifts, an attractive stone villa on the banks of the Saône, with a never-ending sunset as a backdrop …

      ‘Simon, you mustn’t worry about me. I’m getting on fine – at least, I’m getting on. I promise I won’t hesitate to phone if I need anything. But not just yet, not …’

      ‘Of course, Brice. I understand … What’s the weather like with you?’

      ‘Dreary. It’s drizzling but according to the radio it should improve in the coming week.’

      ‘Ah, that’s good. It’s not all blue skies here either; it’s foggy, damp.’

      ‘Are you catching fish?’

      ‘A