Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

little further on, he passed a young mother holding the hand of a little four- or five-year-old girl who was crying and had a hand up to her forehead.

      ‘That’s the way it is, Laura. Some doors open by themselves and some don’t.’

      Learning how the world works can be tough.

      At Gamm Vert he found the gloves for Élie on special offer. He took the largest size, almost like baseball gloves. Night had fallen without a sound. One day banishes another. Time was being carried off on the wind. When it begins to blow in the Rhone valley, there’s no stopping it. It isn’t malicious, rather it intoxicates you, enjoys tripping you up when your arms are full of parcels and, once you’ve finally succeeded in shutting the door on it, whistles a sly little tune through the keyhole before going off to torment the next person.

      ‘Bloody wind!’

      He opened the cake box which had slipped out of his hands. Now the icing-sugar letters spelled only the cryptic message: L … ATE. That no longer had any meaning. He tried to rescue the situation with the tip of a knife but the result was not great, so he gave up. They would be celebrating ‘L … ATE.’

      The cat came to rub against his legs while he gave his muddy shoes a wipe. Its whiskers were squint, as they were every time it emerged from a very deep sleep. Brice pulled a tie from a box marked ‘Souvenirs’ and knotted it under his collar. It was green and wrapped itself round his neck of its own accord. Emma had brought it back from Argentina for him. This was the first time he had worn it. He had never liked it.

      ‘How do I look, then?’

      With a yawn, the creature stretched then arched its back and began prowling round its empty bowl.

      Blanche opened the door to him. She was wearing a blue apron on which her floury hands had left patterns like cave paintings. Strands of hair had escaped from her clumsy bun and were straggling down her cheeks, which were red and shiny like apples fresh from the oven.

      ‘Quick, come in! What a wind! But … what’s all this?’

      ‘Champagne, gateau – it’s in a wretched state, I dropped it – and some little gifts.’

      ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

      ‘But aren’t we celebrating something?’

      ‘Yes. Leave all that here and go upstairs to get warm.’

      Élie was standing in front of the fireplace, hands behind his back. In his solemn black suit, it was as if he were ablaze.

      ‘What a wind this evening!’

      ‘It’ll last for three days. Once the dogs are off the leash … How’s the car?’

      ‘As good as new. I can’t thank you enough.’

      ‘Oh, anyone would have done the same. Did you find the gloves?’

      ‘Naturally.’

      ‘That’s good, very good. These hands have had too much use, but I still need them.’

      He rubbed them together, oblivious of the flames licking them. They had been cooked time and time again.

      ‘I’ve brought a pheasant – a proper one, not from the cages. One I bagged myself.’

      ‘Is that what smells so nice?’

      ‘Blanche is a good cook when she wants to be. Her father was very partial to game.’

      Blanche joined them. She had just lit the candles in two splendid silver candelabra. Immediately the scantly furnished dining room was transformed into a castle.

      ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We should dine like this every evening, even when it’s herring or noodles.’

      Blanche’s eyes were shining. With her hands clasped beneath her chin, she looked like an angel straight from a Botticelli painting. A log crackled in the fireplace.

      ‘It’s ready. We can take our places. Oh, music!’

      She opened an ancient Teppaz portable record player covered in plastic imitation tweed, and slid a record from its sleeve. Very delicately, she moved the arm into position, and, after a few crackles which mingled with those from the log fire, the intro to Madam Butterfly echoed round the walls.

      ‘This was my father’s favourite piece.’

      Élie volunteered to uncork the champagne and they clinked glasses.

      ‘What are we drinking to?’

      ‘It’s the anniversary of his death.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘To him!’

      Blanche was examining Brice with such intensity that he suddenly felt as if he were in bonds, caught in a spider’s web. There was something curiously personal about that toast.

      The dinner was excellent. The roast pheasant was done to a turn, and its liver spread on crispy toast was sensational. The wines were suitably fine. They spoke of everything or, more accurately, nothing. Élie explained to Brice how to set snares and track a badger or fox. Brice wasn’t listening. He could hear words fluttering here and there, and thought to himself, ‘Why not be here rather than elsewhere?’ It was one more family meal, just like the countless others he had experienced. One life was coming to an end, and he was being given another. Over cheese, Blanche sang a charming lullaby, and when the gateau arrived everyone laughed to see ‘L … ATE’ decorating the icing.

      ‘Right outside my door, I went to get out my keys and the box flew right out of my hands!’

      ‘I’d love to have seen that!’

      Blanche laughed, crumpling her napkin. Yes, a family celebration. That was what anyone who saw them would think. They had known one another for ever, like all castaways, exiles, survivors of the natural disaster life can be. They let themselves be cradled in one of those interludes in existence which make you forget the whys and wherefores for a short time.

      Élie coughed into his fist.

      ‘I’m going to have to get going. I’m an early riser. It’s been a lovely evening, yes, lovely.’

      Brice stood up, not very steady on his feet, slightly tipsy. The embers presented a mesmerising spectacle of Rome burning. Élie extended his huge bear-paw hand.

      ‘Well, goodnight then.’

      ‘Wait! Your gloves!’

      It was so dark in the entrance hall that Brice almost gave him Blanche’s parcel.

      ‘I took the largest size so you’d be comfortable. They’re lined.’

      Élie tried them on immediately. Enormous, yellow, they alone were visible as they felt their way in the darkness.

      ‘They’re nice, very nice. Thank you.’

      Brice needed both hands to shake Élie’s one. As soon as the door opened, Élie was gone, whisked away by the wind. Blanche was beginning to clear the table. She was like a moth fluttering round the candles. He held out her gift.

      ‘For you.’

      ‘A gift?’

      Blushing, she opened the package but frowned on seeing the miniature TV.

      ‘That … that’s very kind, but … does that mean I can’t come and watch it at your house?’

      ‘Not at all! You can come whenever you like. That’s just, let’s say, to help you go to sleep at night.’

      She seemed relieved, smiling at him as she clasped the little TV to her chest.

      ‘Then I shall watch it and think of you.’

      She planted a butterfly kiss on his lips, closing her eyes. It was very gentle, very cool, vaguely incestuous.