Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

going into town. Do you need anything?’ Silence.

      ‘What is it, Blanche? Is something wrong?’

      ‘You’re leaving …’

      She was on the verge of tears. Her lips were trembling and her fingers were clutching the car door so tightly they were turning white. It looked almost as if she was trying to rip it off. Brice got out of his seat and laid his hands on her shoulders.

      ‘Why are you saying this, Blanche? Look, I’ve no suitcase inside, no luggage in the boot. Shall I open it for you?’

      ‘No. But you seem like someone who’s running away.’

      ‘Why would I run away?’

      Blanche’s eyes resembled two little icy mountain lakes. He didn’t know where to put his own. He needed to find a way out of the situation.

      ‘Blanche, I’ve no reason to hide anything from you. We know each other well now, don’t we?’

      ‘I know you,’ she said stiffly.

      ‘Listen, I’ve two or three things to do in town. My phone’s not working; I need to buy myself a mobile. You see, there’s no need to worry. I’ll be back this afternoon. Do you want my keys so you can watch TV at my place?’

      ‘Yes, please.’

      ‘See you soon, then.’

      ‘Yes, see you soon.’

      The bell began to ring as he sped off. He didn’t count the chimes. It was time, that was all. Without quite knowing why, he had resolved to make a decision. To re-establish contact with his editor, with Mabel and her monstrous child, to resume his previous existence while fully anaesthetised. All he needed was to go home, even if he no longer knew where that was. He would put the house up for sale, at a loss if necessary; he could bear it no longer. He would take a little studio in town, a kennel, a wandering dog’s dream. Then there were these strange ties that Blanche was gradually weaving round him. It was as sweet and as dangerous as opium, and so easy to go along with. To be honest, he was totally disorientated, as if each of his legs had decided to go in a different direction. Yes? No? … Yes? No? His state of mind was that of a man playing Russian roulette but with an empty gun.

      At Fnac he was shown an endless series of mobile phones, the most modest of which allowed you to view Star Wars on a 4 × 2-centimetre screen, photograph your ear and check when your next wee-wee was due.

      ‘Splendid! You haven’t anything that allows one to contact another person?’

      ‘Ah, it can also be used as a telephone if you want. It comes in four different colours.’

      ‘Just four?’

      Provided you didn’t stray off into its multiple functions, the machine did its job very well. He called his editor.

      ‘Hello, Dominique. It’s Brice.’

      ‘Brice?’

      ‘Yes. So when do you want your sketches?’

      ‘It’s just … as I hadn’t heard from you, I gave them to Calot.’

      ‘Calot! The man’s useless! Anyway, I am Sabine.’

      ‘I know. But what did you expect me to do? I’ve got deadlines to meet.’

      ‘Give me a date, go on, and I’ll send you the lot ready for the printer’s.’

      ‘You’re a pain, you know. You suddenly come back from the land of the dead and … I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Let’s say a week. I’ll try and sort things out with Calot. Are you all right otherwise?’

      ‘I’m OK. I’m getting back in the saddle. You wouldn’t happen to know of a studio flat to let near you, by any chance?’

      ‘I’ll keep an ear out. Are you coming back to us?’

      ‘I’m not sure. I’m thinking about it.’

      ‘I’m glad to see you getting back on your feet. You gave us a fright.’

      ‘Talk to you soon, Dominique.’

      His editor’s voice seemed unreal. It was a voice from before, one of those he no longer understood, like Myriam’s and Simon’s, and the supposed messages from Emma. He spent a good hour on a bench in a square throwing pieces of croissant to the ducks. Another house move. Boxes and yet more boxes. Sisyphus’s rock hit him in the face once more. He felt he no longer had the courage or the strength or the desire to push it back again. He was leaking like a bucket with a hole in it.

      On his return to Saint-Joseph, he had to stop as he approached the Grande Rue. A fire engine was blocking the way. A column of black smoke was rising, sending up swirls of charred particles like a flight of bats. This was the first time he had seen the village’s inhabitants all together. They were all outside, young and old, blinking and holding their hands to their mouths.

      ‘What’s happening?’

      ‘There’s a fire at number seven, the Loriol house.’

      Brice plunged into the throng. As he got closer to the incident, smoke gathered in his throat like a Brillo pad. A fireman barred his way.

      ‘Where are you going, Monsieur? You can’t stay here, it’s dangerous.’

      ‘That’s my house …’

      There were no flames visible, only smoke, and the sparks that shot out of the windows from time to time. There was a painful crack and part of the roof collapsed, while a ripple went through the crowd like a Mexican wave. The little men in their chrome helmets battled bravely against the greedy ogre gobbling up the house like a mere chicken carcass. All that could be seen now was blackness. Even the water arcing from the hoses was black.

      Blanche collected him from where he stood, wild-eyed, arms hanging limply by his sides, amid the firemen crawling over the wreckage like golden scarab beetles. They reminded him a little of Breton Removals, in a more drastic form.

      ‘You’re spending the night at my house. Then tomorrow, we’ll see.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Blanche’s suggestion seemed entirely fitted to the situation. He allowed himself to be led away, like a blind man. The speed with which events were unfolding made any initiative on his part unnecessary. He had only one word left: yes.

      ‘I’ll get a room ready for you.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Would you like a bowl of soup?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The bowl was identical to the one from which he had drunk his hot chocolate as a child, with a border of blue and white squares, and a chip in almost the same place, as if someone had tried to take a bite out of it.

      ‘Will it be all right?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have they told you how it happened?’

      ‘A cigarette end or exposed wire, they don’t know exactly.’

      ‘Ah. You can stay here for a few days until you’ve had a chance to think more clearly.’

      ‘That’s kind, thank you.’

      No, his childhood bowl wasn’t blue and white squares, it was yellow and white … or even red and white.

      ‘The room’s ready!’

      Spoken like a true soubrette. Blanche absolutely looked the part, spruce, pink-cheeked, sparkly-eyed. Before she resumed an air of sympathy, he could have sworn she was rejoicing in the situation.

      It was as if she were on springs. Brice had difficulty keeping up with her on the stairs.

      ‘There, it’s this one.’

      The