Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

stifling a sob.

      ‘Come now … You mustn’t say things like that, Brice. You’re hurting everybody, first and foremost yourself.’

      ‘Things like what?’

      ‘You know very well that Emma won’t ever come back.’

      ‘Why’s that, then?’

      ‘Because she’s …’

      ‘Dead? Well, she isn’t. She phoned me only yesterday.’

      ‘What are you talking about?’

      ‘Emma’s called me, twice.’

      ‘You’re insane!’

      Myriam broke free of her husband’s arms, her face ravaged by sorrow and hatred.

      ‘Crazy! Completely crazy! Emma should never have married you. If you’d been able to make her happy, she wouldn’t have gone on travelling the world. If only she’d married someone her own age, she’d have had children, and led a normal life, like everyone else!’

      ‘Myriam, please, let’s go.’

      ‘You’re a bastard, Brice. A pervert.’

      ‘Come on, Myriam. We’re leaving.’

      ‘PERVERT!’

      The elderly pair stumbled on the badly lit staircase, hanging on to each other because from now on their life was just a slope without a handrail. Brice felt no anger towards them. He followed them, saddened, shamefaced. Nothing is more moving than the sight of an old couple from the back. Why had he mentioned the phone calls? He no longer believed in them himself. To get rid of Myriam and Simon, no doubt. He was fond of them but they were no longer part of his life; they were dragging him under like a diving bell. In the kitchen, Blanche was boiling water. It was as if a white rabbit had popped out of a magician’s hat.

      ‘Hello, Madame, Monsieur. I’m making Viandox. Would you like some?’

      Myriam looked daggers at her.

      ‘You see this bastard, Simon? It hasn’t taken him long to get another woman in his bed.’

      ‘Myriam …’

      The door slamming made the walls shake. He would never see Myriam and Simon again.

      ‘Who was that? Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

      ‘No, my wife’s parents.’

      ‘They seem nice.’

      He leaned against the rock, recovering his breath and massaging his ankle. The sun was honey-glazing the hilltops and bare branches. At his feet the spring babbled the mountain gossip. The water transformed the humblest pebble into a precious stone. Bubbles pearled at the roots of a tree stump shaped like a cow’s head. Twigs were borne away by the current. Now and again, down from a bird ripped open by a fox in the night was caught by the breeze, rising and falling like snowflakes on the bushes.

      He had slept badly. Garden gnomes armed with pickaxes had assailed him relentlessly. In vain had he destroyed them in their hundreds by hitting them with a phone; more always appeared. Exhausted, he owed his salvation to a tidal wave of Viandox which had drowned them all. With the first glimmer of dawn, he had grasped his stick and set off for the spring, in the hope that nature in her bounty would give him back a little of his taste for life. So far she had only sown treacherous stones on his path, and multiplied the holes and bumps which strained his barely recovered ankle. With a flick of the wrist, his cigarette end drew a near-perfect curve and disappeared into a swirl of green moss.

      It was beautiful, and it was sad. It made you want to write a poem, or to shit. He opted for the second. Taking off his trousers he began to push and push, very hard … ‘It’ was not coming and yet ‘it’ wanted to come. It would have been the same with the poem, no doubt. The effort made the blood pound at his temples. He closed his eyes and adopted the technique a small dog uses, a series of pants followed by relaxation of the organs. And repeat, several times. It was exhausting but gave him a strange sense of wellbeing. As he crouched there, nose to nose with the tangle of brambles and swarming insects, he became aware of nature’s marvellous absurdity. Man had lost his head when he had got up on his hind legs. He had believed that by standing on tiptoe he would distinguish himself from the universal chaos, and had become blinded in his pointless pursuit of conquest. Pathetic little man. All of a sudden he heard a stirring in the thicket. Gently, he moved the branches aside. A few metres away, a fox was wallowing in the remains of an unidentifiable corpse, a thing with fur at any rate, amid a moving cloud of large bluebottles. It would toss it into the air and catch it with its foot or teeth, giving plaintive little yelps. Then, tiring of the game, it threw the stinking remains one last time and left them to the descending swarm of flies. ‘That, you poor old thing, is the game you’re playing with Emma.’ With that, Brice dumped the enormous weight he could carry no longer. It was as if he were giving birth to himself, a stool as large as a lifetime, which was born in a scream and ended in a sigh. He turned round and considered, with some pride, the huge pretzel he had produced.

      ‘There, it’s over.’

      He could not have said exactly what was over, his grieving perhaps, but it was with a light heart that he made his way back down towards people, the village, teasing the weeds with the end of his walking stick.

      Élie was waiting for him outside his door. When he caught sight of Brice he walked towards him. He stopped halfway, shading his eyes with his hand. It was like something out of a Western.

      ‘Hello, Élie. Everything all right?’

      ‘Yes. Your beard, that suit … It’s enough to make me believe in ghosts.’

      ‘It was Blanche’s idea. I’d run out of clothes. Were you looking for me?’

      ‘Your car’s ready. I can drive you over if you like.’

      ‘That’s perfect. I need to do some shopping in town.’

      It was true. On his way down from the spring Brice had wondered what would bring him pleasure. Giving presents, it didn’t matter what or to whom, as long as he was giving. He was fascinated by Élie’s hands on the van’s steering wheel. It looked as though he was wearing gloves, old work gloves, cracking and covered in mends. If one day he should kill someone he could always plead not guilty. The hands working the gear lever and scratching his ear or nose were acting on their own, under orders from no one.

      ‘I feel like giving gifts today. What would you like, Élie?’

      ‘A gift? Why?’

      ‘For the car, of course.’

      ‘Oh, that was nothing.’

      ‘I insist.’

      ‘Work gloves, then. Gamm Vert has some on special offer.’

      ‘Right, that’s settled.’

      ‘Actually, I was forgetting. Blanche sends word that you’re invited to a small celebration at hers this evening.’

      ‘What’s the occasion?’

      ‘A small celebration. I’m going too.’

      ‘All right, then.’

      Perhaps it was thanks to Élie, but the car repair cost him almost nothing. In town, it was like Christmas. It was a long time since he had mingled with the crowd. It wrapped itself round him like strands of candy-floss. There was a fairground atmosphere. The air smelled of perfume, the lights twinkled, and it was a feast for nose, ears and eyes. And so many colours it was impossible to take them all in. In a shop which sold everything and, more especially, nothing, he bought a miniature television for Blanche. It was scarcely larger than a packet of cigarettes and worked off batteries. At a delicatessen he bought a bottle of champagne and a chestnut gateau.

      ‘Is it for a birthday?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘What