Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

was clapping her hands, looking at the sky which, as per usual, appeared to have no interest in anything.

      ‘Another, Élie, one more …’

      They released others up on the crest, among the vines, along the edge of the motorway. Brice held some in his hands, felt their hearts swell at the call of a freedom they had never demanded, since they were all bred in captivity. His hair and beard were flocked with grey down. All the crates were empty now, but it was as if a pulse were still beating there. Darkness had gathered in the back of the van. Only the oval of Blanche’s face could be seen, like a veiled moon. She was wearing the same beatific smile as that morning in front of the TV.

      She had rung the doorbell at eight-thirty on the dot. He had just had time to pull on trousers and a shapeless sweater and open the door, bleary-eyed, with wisps of dreams floating round his head.

      ‘Has it started?’

      ‘I don’t know. Do come in.’

      She followed him into the dim maze of the garage and sat down on the edge of the camp bed, knees together, twisting an invisible handkerchief between her fingers, like a little girl on her first visit to the cinema.

      ‘It’s on Channel One, you said?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That’s lucky. The reception’s bad on the others.’

      With a little adjustment to the aerial, the picture settled down. A couple of presenters – the male component being a former weather man in a new toupee – were in a show house, brimming over with enthusiasm about a batch of non-stick film, available either in rolls measuring 40 × 33 centimetres or in 33-, 26- or 24-centimetre discs, to protect the base of your saucepans or baking trays for eternity, for the modest sum of €24.95. Blanche could not believe her eyes.

      ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?’

      ‘No, thank you, I’ve already had my hot chocolate. Did you see that? Only €24.95 for eternity!’

      Brice no longer had the heart to make himself real coffee, making do with a jar of instant. He carried his bowl back in and sipped it next to Blanche, who applauded at the appearance of each new product. A 72-piece canteen containing twelve sets of top-quality gilt stainless-steel cutlery for €59.95 – that’s right, just €59.95! The must-have laser level in sturdy carry case, for €79.95. The protein-enriched instant rejuvenating cream that fights dark circles and puffiness, endorsed by a showbiz veteran wheeled out for the occasion, at €29.95 a jar. The multi-purpose, natural, ecological, hypo-allergenic cleaning product that makes everything look like new, from the children’s dirty trainers to your copper pans or the inside of the fridge, for €14.95. The unmissable 250-watt juicer with two-year guarantee, for great vitamin-packed breakfasts, at €151.95. And the famous massage cushion covered in little electric fingers to tickle you from head to toe, at €69.95 …

      Blanche marvelled at all these wondrous inventions, and Brice ended up getting into the spirit as well. When it came down to it, the programme was no more stupid than a political debate, or a documentary on coelacanths or the arduous life of a clogmaker in the Ardèche. TV was TV. It was not what it showed you that mattered but the way you looked at it, like the ever-changing patterns of a kaleidoscope. It could still be watched when it was switched off.

      Lolling on the bed like a twist of soft marshmallow, he felt comfortable beside Blanche. It reminded him of childhood days when he was kept at home with a cold or touch of flu. The bedroom smelled of herbal tea and suppositories. The thermometer struggled to reach 38.2°C; comics lay strewn over the bed. He didn’t really feel unwell; he just had no desire to do anything. From the kitchen came the sound of saucepans, wafts of bouillon, and his mother’s voice humming along to a tune on the radio. It was like being alive and yet dead, a phantom who could go through walls, infiltrating the domestic intimacy of the woman busy at the stove. Even his father had no access there. Very early on he had developed a liking for these benign illnesses. He had contracted them all, from catarrh to hand, foot and mouth disease. He would happily have spent the holidays in a coma.

      Blanche gave off a scent of plain, honest Marseilles soap. Her hip was touching his and their calves brushed occasionally, but he felt no physical desire. They were quite simply where they needed to be at that precise moment. But the clock struck the half-hour and Téléachat came to an end.

      Blanche gave a sigh.

      ‘That was good, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Very good.’

      ‘All those inventions, just to make life easier for us. People don’t take care of things any more. They throw them away as soon as they get tired of them. Listen, I know a lovely graveyard for objects. It’s huge. Would you like to go there?’

      ‘When?’

      ‘Now. It’s not far but we’ll still need to take the car. It’s a real goldmine, you know!’

      ‘Well … Why not? I’ll just get dressed and then we’ll go.’

      The rubbish tip looked like Stromboli, Etna, any one of the world’s volcanoes, a sort of cut-off pyramid wrapped in steam and gases. After parking the car, they had to wade through a greasy black mire bristling with pieces of scrap metal, wooden beams and shards of glass, in order to reach the crater where they dispersed a colony of gulls and crows poking about with their beaks amid swirls of grey smoke. There was a smell of rotten cabbage, compost, the ‘after’ coming into being. A colossal pile of shit. The earth, or rather the sticky mush that made every movement difficult, seemed eager to absorb them at every step, to gobble, suck and digest and then spit them out again, waste among waste, for its sole function was to consume to the point of revulsion. Despite the aid of his stick Brice several times almost went under. He was covered in mud up to his knees, while Blanche hopped here and there, spotless, like the gulls.

      ‘Look, come and see how beautiful it is!’

      The ancient fridge with its rounded corners lay half buried in the mud, its gaping door offering a rust-flecked shelter to the weary sky.

      ‘People chose this, one day, in a department store.’

      ‘A young couple, with no children, because it’s not very big. A wedding present perhaps?’

      ‘That’s it! They took it home to their small apartment … They were happy.’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘What’s become of them?’

      Blanche suddenly dissolved into tears and began scrabbling around in the mud with both hands, like a madwoman.

      ‘Stop that, Blanche. You might hurt yourself. There’s all sorts of nasty things in there.’

      ‘This earth that takes everything away from us and gives us nothing in return!’

      She stood up again, shaking with anger, and threw a fistful of mud at a gull, which flew off with a squawk.

      Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she inadvertently gave herself a Charlie Chaplin moustache. Brice burst out laughing.

      ‘What’s funny?’

      He picked up a piece of mirror and held it in front of her. Blanche started laughing too, and all the birds which were picking around nearby flew off, saying to themselves that humans weren’t people you could mix with, that was for sure.

      ‘Brice, promise me you won’t die.’

      ‘I’ll do my best, but …’

      ‘Don’t believe what they tell you. There’s nothing above us, and nothing beneath. Just us, here and now, like survivors of a shipwreck.’

      It was ten o’clock when Élie’s van dropped them off outside the Montéléger house.

      ‘Goodnight, Brice.’

      As she kissed him goodbye, Blanche whispered in his ear, ‘That was such a lovely day, wasn’t