Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

all the catalogues and brochures which cluttered up his letter box every morning. Screw-It-All, DIY Super-Something – the bin was stuffed full of them. He ran to get them and began poring over them compulsively until dawn, when sleep carried him off to a universe inhabited by 2,000-watt blowtorches, tilting jigsaws, orbital sanders with dust bags and large-sized sanding sheets.

      The timbre of the church bell varied, depending on the wind. It ranged from the whine of an electric saw to the radiating waves of a gong. Thus it not only told the time, but what kind of day it was. Today was a gong day, with a heavy bronze sky that weighed down on you. Brice had indeed gone to Brico-whatsit as planned, but once he had parked in the car park and seen the never-ending coming and going of the half-man, half-bear creatures shifting heavy loads – wooden beams, metal rails, bags of cement, oil cans – he was gripped by a kind of terror which paralysed him for a good fifteen minutes. It brought back memories of military service, or the area around a stadium, or anywhere men were all together. He refused to turn back, however, and, in awkward imitation of the lumbering gait of a man who knows what he has to do, he ventured head down into the store.

      They had thought of everything here. There were all sorts of screws, hammers to drive nails into corners, saws for cutting on the diagonal, glues for sticking anything to everything, spiral staircases that could be put up in ten seconds, paints to hide every sin, real wood, fake wood, marvellous tools for weird and wonderful purposes, and all of them beautiful, red, yellow, green and chrome, like Christmas toys. Brice had no idea what to choose. He went for a five-kilo sledgehammer on sale for next to nothing. It was the first time he had bought a five-kilo sledgehammer. He was more than a little proud. Emma would certainly have approved of his purchase.

      Nothing is as soothing as watching a saucepan of water come to the boil. Brice had just plunged two eggs into the merrily moving bubbles when the phone rang for the first time since he had lived there. The sound was so incongruous that he reacted only at the fourth ring. The girl on the line was nervously offering him a wonderful fitted kitchen. Brice declined, and thanked her. No sooner had he hung up than the phone was gripped anew by the same noisy fever, making the house tremble from cellar to attic.

      ‘Hello, is that Brice?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘It’s Myriam. How are you?’

      That was quite a question his mother-in-law had landed on him.

      ‘Oh, fine, fine.’

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘Well, you know, when you’ve just moved into a new house it’s always a little …’

      ‘Oh, I quite understand. You know, Simon and I are thinking of you.’

      ‘That’s kind.’

      ‘It’s all so … so … We were thinking of dropping by this weekend.’

      ‘Oh, I’d love that, but the house isn’t ready yet. There’s still a lot to do and …’

      ‘Exactly. We could give you a hand. You know how keen on DIY Simon is. And I’m sure you could use a woman for your washing and cooking. We all know what a man on his own is like.’

      ‘Honestly, I’m managing very well. I’m just putting up some shelves. Emma would be cross to think I’d entertained you in a building site. I’ve no wish to get told off when she comes back.’

      ‘Brice.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Are you still taking the medication Dr Boaert prescribed?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Brice … you need help. You know quite well we’re going through the same as you. You mustn’t let yourself go. We’ll be stronger, the three of us together. I’m sure Emma would have agreed with me. Brice?’

      Silence.

      ‘Brice, are you listening to me?’

      ‘Yes, Myriam. I’m sorry but I have some eggs on the stove. I’ll have to hang up now.’

      ‘Think about what I’m saying, Brice. We’re very fond of you.’

      ‘Me too, Myriam. Give Simon a hug from me. Thanks. I’ll call you soon!’

      He threw down the receiver as if it were a dead animal and unplugged the cord.

      Emma’s picture joined the other photos scattered at his feet like a game of solitaire sprinkled with egg shells. He felt a heaviness in his stomach and stretched out on the camp bed he had set up just beside the boiler. If the truth be known, apart from the kitchen, toilet and bathroom, he scarcely went into the other rooms any more. What was the use of making hundreds of trips to and fro in order to distribute all these things, when he knew that Emma would rearrange them all when she got back? It was easier to settle down in their midst. The icy glow of the fluorescent light, whose timer switch he had craftily deactivated with a piece of sticky tape, didn’t bother him in the least, day or night. A kind of trench dug through the bric-a-brac allowed him to reach the staircase. It was enough. Thanks to this makeshift arrangement, he had everything within reach. This set-up was so much more practical, and it was obvious the objects had accepted him as one of their own.

      That morning in the post, among a pile of brochures advertising monster sales with prices cut, slashed, pared to the bone, there had been a letter from his editor who, while sympathising deeply with his situation, informed him of the urgent need to submit the final drawings for Sabine Does Something Silly. He would be eternally grateful if Brice could deliver them within a week.

      Brice could no longer bear the little girl, still less her creator, Mabel Hirsch. Admittedly the two of them had been his bread and butter for a number of years now, but after about ten volumes he had had enough: Sabine Loses Her Dog, Sabine Takes on Dracula, Sabine Sets Sail, Sabine … The little brat, whose face he riddled with freckles for sport, was seriously taking over his life. As for her creator, he must have killed her at least a hundred times in the course of troubled dreams. He would throttle her until her big frogspawn eyes burst out of their sockets and then tear off all her jewellery. She could no longer move her poor arthritic fingers, they were so weighed down with gold and diamonds. Strings of pearls disappeared into the soft fleshy folds of her double chin. Old, ugly and nasty with it! All that emerged from her scar of a mouth, slathered in blood-red honey, were barbed compliments which wound themselves round your neck, the better to jab you in the back. The widow of a senior civil servant, she had never had to earn a living. Yet she was one of the publishing house’s top sellers. Dominique Porte, the director, put up with the worst humiliations from her, and consequently so did Brice. How many times had she made him do the same illustration over and over again, only to come back to the first one in the end? And yet, according to what she told anyone who would listen, she adored him. That was perhaps true in a sense, for they both had a hatred of childhood, only for different reasons. She had probably never experienced it, while Brice had still not succeeded in leaving it behind.

      In the early days of his marriage to Emma, friends had warned him, ‘She’s thirty, she’ll be wanting to make a father out of you!’ They were wrong. He and Emma had barely so much as touched on the subject. Emma had nothing against children – other people’s, that is. When they visited friends who had children, she showed affectionate interest, never appearing to tire of playing silly games with them, but when it was time to go, no sooner had the car moved off than she gave a sigh of relief.

      Her friends and family were astonished by this state of affairs. To them it seemed abnormal that any perfectly healthy young woman should not wish to play mummy. Perhaps it was because of her career, having to jet off on trips at a moment’s notice, or perhaps one of the two was sterile. Brice and Emma laughed it off, content to leave their secret veiled by an artistic blur. The truth was so much simpler than that. Their love bound them together so closely that the smallest seed, the tiniest embryo would have come between them.

      Children had always frightened him, even when he was one himself. Those signs on the way into villages: ‘Beware Children!’ How were they to be interpreted? He