The Islanders: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

it to wind him up because she couldn’t bear him. He could just picture his mother leaning on Madeleine’s bony shoulder and pouring her heart out. ‘Ungrateful child … cast me aside like an old apple …’ That was exactly what he should have done instead of having her down on the coast with them for a fortnight every August. She was never satisfied, always putting Odile down, constantly criticising and complaining – her legs, her shoulders, her head, off with her head … No doubt the two old biddies exchanged notes on everything. He would find out for himself tomorrow.

      It was an old telephone with finger-holes, covered in garnet-red velour with an elegant trim of gold braid. The receiver smelt of dried spit.

      ‘Odile? It’s me.’

      ‘How are you? Did you get there OK?’

      ‘Yes, I’m here now. How are you?’

      ‘I’m OK, but it’s getting a bit much. Have you seen how busy it is everywhere? Mireille came to give me a hand. She said she’d help out until you get back.’

      ‘About that … the funeral might not happen until the 26th or 27th.’

      ‘What? What do you mean?’

      ‘Calm down. It was Madeleine who said it but she’s completely insane; I’m sure she’s got the wrong end of the stick.’

      ‘I certainly hope so! What am I going to do with the shop? And we said we were going to spend Christmas—’

      ‘Do you think I want to be stuck here? Listen, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’m going to the undertaker’s, I’ll ring Emmaus to get the flat cleared, I’ll swing by the lawyer and then I’ll be on the first train or plane out of here. I just want to get back. Believe me, this whole thing’s a total pain.’

      ‘I know, darling. I love you.’

      ‘I love you too. Right, I’d better see if I can find something to eat.’

      ‘Will you call me tomorrow?’

      ‘Of course. Speak then, darling. Love you lots.’

      ‘You too, speak tomorrow.’

      People who love each other always say, ‘You too, speak tomorrow.’

      After putting the phone down, he felt terribly lonely. The sound of Odile’s voice floating in his ears underlined the oddness of the situation. It was the first time they had been apart for more than twenty-four hours since they got married. There was something bizarre about parachuting into another life – if you could call this empty flat a life. He had long since scrumpled all family ties into a ball and chucked it over his shoulder. His mother must have made doilies out of hers. He had no memory of them ever having loved one another. It was Odile who had insisted, ‘Olivier, she was still your mother!’ What did ‘still-a-mother’ mean? It was like ‘a-father-after-all’, ‘parents-can’t-live-without-’em’, or ‘a-baby-yes-why-not?’ He had not come up when his father died. A family for a fortnight a year … The hand that feeds you. Hunger forced him to pull himself together.

      More than anywhere else in the flat, the kitchen glowed yellowish like the colour of nicotine-stained teeth; even the sink enamel looked like old ivory. The fridge was empty and had been unplugged. All he could find to eat was a bottle of Viandox sauce at the back of a cupboard and half a packet of alphabet pasta for soups. Before he closed the cupboard door, the alluring label of an almost full bottle of Negrita caught his eye. He shrugged and put a saucepan of water on to boil.

       The Islanders

      ‘Rodolphe, will you stop that?’

      ‘What’s the matter, don’t want anyone to see you sulking?’

      ‘I’m not sulking. You’re annoying me with the camcorder. Stop it, please.’

      Rodolphe put the camera down beside a plate on which a piece of cheese rind and an end crust of bread were languishing. The low-hanging ceiling lamp held the table in a cone of orange light. Jeanne was sitting in one of the two identical armchairs facing the TV. With her back turned to her brother, she was haloed by the bluish rays of the screen. The rest of the room was plunged in darkness.

      ‘You’ve started getting so high and mighty, making a fuss whenever I try to film you.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just irritating to feel someone’s eye on you all the time.’

      ‘A blind man’s eye!’

      ‘An eye all the same. It produces images.’

      ‘But you said you liked my films.’

      ‘I do, but I’m fed up with being your only star and having to look at myself from every angle.’

      ‘You’re missing the point. I’m filming the sounds, not you.’

      ‘I must be making too much noise then. I’m in every shot.’

      ‘It’s you who puts yourself in every frame. You’ve always been full of yourself.’

      ‘Will you let me watch the TV?’

      ‘You see! Self-obsessed, stuck up and snooty.’

      ‘I’m getting tired of this, Rodolphe.’

      ‘You’re tireless.’

      ‘Don’t believe that for a second.’

      For a moment the only sound was the humming of the television, a programme presented by media whores who did nothing but talk about themselves with no regard for the people watching. That was fine because neither Jeanne nor Rodolphe nor anyone else in the world was interested in them either. Even though brother and sister had their backs to one another, a sense of an impending face-off filled the room. Rodolphe stretched his hand out above the table, found the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass, stopping as if by miracle just before it overflowed.

      ‘What does that mean: “Don’t believe that for a second”?’

      ‘You’ve had enough to drink this evening.’

      Rodolphe downed the glass in one. A drip ran down his chin. He wiped it away with his finger.

      ‘What does that mean: “Don’t believe that for a second”?’

      ‘It means you’re getting more and more temperamental and demanding, and if you carry on like this, I’m going to leave.’

      ‘Leave? … Where?’

      ‘Anywhere, somewhere quiet.’

      ‘There’s no such place. You’d really drop me, just like that?’

      ‘Of course. I’d come and see you on Sundays.’

      ‘Sundays … My whole childhood, I only ever saw you on Sundays.’

      ‘Well, I was at boarding school, wasn’t I?’

      ‘You still are. You live in your own little world, filing your little things neatly away. You live life to the minimum, like a prisoner. Maybe I’ve become more of a pain in the arse, but you’ve put up thicker defences. Sometimes I wonder if you’re not … it shocks me to say it … happy!’

      ‘I’m not unhappy.’

      They said nothing more. Rodolphe sat down beside her and immediately dozed off. He slept like a log. The baddie in the TV series that had come on after the talk show looked a bit like him: a smooth, pink-faced doll at a jumble sale. Rodolphe had become what he had always been, a big whingeing nuisance of a baby. Jeanne was the only one who could put up with him. She put up with everything, a caryatid holding up a sky that constantly threatened to cave in. It was a job like any other; there was no virtue in it, she just got on with it. Rodolphe was right, she was tireless, because she put no value on what she did. She lit a cigarette. She smoked too much, was smoking more and more, a little