Authors: Pascal Garnier
Leaning back in his chair with his head tilted back, Simon smoked a cigarette and watched Bernard tucking into his daube of beef, his nose almost in his plate. It was a fascinating sight. The young man used his fork like a dagger, stabbing it into the meat to hold it in place. Then he cut off big chunks which vanished into his mouth with mechanical regularity. As he swallowed each barely chewed mouthful, his throat and shoulders shuddered slightly before he began all over again, taking the occasional glug of water to wash it down.
‘You’ve got quite an appetite!’
‘I always do. I’ll eat anything – and the food here’s damned good, isn’t it?’
‘It is very good, yes.’
In no time at all, the plate was wiped clean, sparkling as if it had just come out of the dishwasher.
‘Aren’t you going to finish yours, Monsieur Marechall?’
‘Help yourself!’
‘I could eat beef stew out of a bin.’
Chez Mireille was one of those bijou restaurants found in all small provincial towns. The walls were painted blue and pink, with intricate gilt patterns to give a touch of class. For passers-by peering in, the cosy scene was framed by lacy curtains with satin tiebacks. Mireille, a busty blonde of a certain age, glided seamlessly from table to table checking that everything was to her customers’ liking. She was like the little dancer inside a music box, spinning in time to the tinkling of a Mozart tune.
Just like the wedding parties in Parc Saint-Jean that morning, everybody in the room was clean, attractive and pleasant. They spoke little and quietly. A dropped teaspoon caused quite a stir. Here, too, the average age veered towards the top of the scale; Bernard was the odd one out. He had dressed for the occasion, which is to say he had swapped his sloppy tracksuit for a pastel shirt, a
navy-blue
jacket that was slightly too short in the sleeve and a pair of dark-grey trousers. He could not believe his luck, and sat beaming at everyone and everything – even the water jug and bread basket. He had passed Chez Mireille countless times but never dreamt of going in. Now here he was lapping up every second and it was a pleasure to see. Pushing away the second plate as spotless as the first, he leant back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. Watching him, Simon was riveted.
‘Cigarette?’
‘No, I don’t smoke.’
‘And you don’t drink wine either?’
‘No. It makes my head spin, I don’t like it.’
‘Very sensible. Now tell me, what did your job involve?’
‘We made clamps.’
‘What for?’
‘I dunno, just clamps. Big ones, small ones, medium ones. You had to make a certain number in an hour and then they got packed up and sent who knows where.’
‘Wasn’t that rather repetitive?’
‘It’s a job. Once you know what you’re doing it’s just mindless. Pretty cushy really. What about you, what do you do?’
‘Pest control. Getting rid of rats, mice, pigeons, fleas, cockroaches, that sort of thing.’
‘Is it going well?’
‘Very. But I’m getting on a bit. I’m thinking of selling up and retiring.’
‘Lucky you, retiring! Doesn’t suit everyone though. There was this old guy at the factory and for his retirement present we got him this beautiful spinning rod. He never stopped going on about all the fishing trips he was planning when he stopped work. Two weeks later, what did he do? Threw himself into the river. As for me … well, I wish I was retired already.’
‘And what would you do if you were?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Don’t you have any interests? You wouldn’t want to travel?’
‘No. I’d just like to have enough money to do nothing.’
‘You’d get bored.’
‘I don’t think I would. When you’re out of work and
broke, you’re bored because you spend the whole time thinking about how you’re going to get some money. But if you’ve already got it, doing nothing’s easy.’
‘Don’t you like reading or going to the cinema?’
‘I’ve got a problem with books. When I get to the bottom of the page, I can’t remember the beginning, so it takes me ages to get through them. And I fall asleep in the dark at the cinema. So what are you going to do when you retire?’
‘I don’t know. I like the sea. And boats.’
Mireille brought over the cheese trolley. Bernard took a wedge of everything. Simon ordered another bottle of Cornas.
‘Can you believe how many cheeses they’ve got? It’s insane. I haven’t even heard of half of them. Is that all you’re having, Monsieur Marechall?’
‘I had some Gruyère.’
‘You’re just like my mother, you eat out of your glass. So you’re into boats, are you? Model ones or ones you go on?’
‘Ones you go on, as you put it.’
‘And where would you go, on your boat?’
‘Anywhere. The best bit is setting sail.’
‘I’m the opposite – the best bit for me would be getting there. So you’ve been on a lot of boats then?’
‘I’ve travelled a fair amount. What I’d like is just to sail from island to island, without following a plan.’
‘Nice are they, islands?’
‘Some of them are lovely, yes. In fact each one has its own charm, even the bleakest.’
‘Don’t you end up going round and round in circles?’
‘No more than anywhere else on earth. If you think about it, our planet is nothing more than an island in space.’
‘Maybe, but a pretty big one. It’d take quite a while to get around the whole thing.’
‘Not all that long. Anyway once you’ve had enough of an island, you just set sail again and it’s like starting from scratch.’
‘Why would you want to start from scratch? You seem like you’ve done well in life. I can’t seem to get off the starting line.’
Probably by association, Bernard ordered the floating island for dessert. Simon was happy just to finish off the bottle of wine. He could consume huge quantities without showing the slightest sign of inebriation; only his gaze became more intense and unsettling. He never stumbled or raised his voice. In actual fact, he couldn’t stand drunks. He generally stuck to water, so as to keep a steady hand. But some days, some nights … The strange thing about this young blockhead was that he wasn’t actually stupid. He displayed a kind of guileless common sense which Simon found refreshing. It reminded him of the possibility of a simpler life. It was like coming across a spring gushing with cool water at the end of a long hot walk. Bernard’s vulnerability made him invincible.
They left the restaurant and headed back up Rue
Jean-Jaurès
(steering clear of Bernard’s mother’s shop), crossed the Volane and walked down Boulevard de Vernon towards the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. It was a mild evening, almost as bright as daylight with the full moon swinging like a
pendulum amid the stars. They passed only two people on their way: a man walking his dog and another leaning against the trunk of a plane tree, vomiting.
‘Which countries have you been to, Monsieur Marechall?’
‘Oh, I’ve been all over the place: Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Latin America, anywhere that’s had a war. I was in the army before setting up my business.’
‘Ah, I see. Being in the army takes you places. I was in Germany once; even then it was just over the border. Apart from the language it’s the same as here. I went to Switzerland with school once too. It was really nice, just like the postcards. Have you been?’
‘Yes. It’s very pretty. It makes you want to die.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, because it’s so quiet … and full of flowers.’
‘You’re right actually. They know a whole lot about geraniums.’
‘So what’s this building here?’
‘That’s the Vals mineral water plant.’
There was something feudal about this massive structure whose shadow loomed over half the street. Its arched windows reflected the moon’s pearly light. Most of the surrounding warehouses had been boarded up, making the building’s long, towering walls seem even more formidable. Who could tell what dark deeds went on behind closed doors? Simon seemed entranced.
‘It’s like the hull of the
Queen Mary
coming in to dock …’ he muttered.
‘That’s a boat, isn’t it? What was it called again?’
‘It’s more than a boat. It’s a giant of the seas!’
‘Only here, the water’s inside rather than all around it. Thirty million bottles come out of there every year. The factory’s been going over a hundred years, so that’s a whole lot of water – enough to make the place float!’
‘You’re right. Perhaps it will sail away one day.’
‘I was only joking.’
‘Have you been to the sea much, Bernard?’
‘No, never. The closest thing I’ve seen to the sea is Lake Geneva.’
‘Would you like to go?’
‘Yes, why not?’
They carried on walking in silence, Bernard trying to imagine a body of water greater than Lake Geneva, Simon racking his brains to think of the ultimate island.
The multicoloured lights strung among the trees outside Béatrix ice-cream parlour were still on. A waiter in shirtsleeves was clearing tables and stacking chairs. A few stragglers hung around the rotunda hoping for some excitement before returning to their hotel rooms to stuff themselves with sleeping pills. The more optimistic ones made straight for the casino whose lights could be seen flickering through the trees. It was only ten thirty, and Simon wasn’t ready to go to bed.
‘One last drink?’
‘No, I’d better get going. I have to look after my mother. Thanks again for dinner, I really enjoyed it.’
‘OK then. See you around.’
‘Tomorrow’s market day.’
‘I’ll see you there then. Good night.’
Simon ordered a pear brandy in the lounge. Two men were playing snooker, badly, but they strutted around like world champions. While waiting for his drink Simon inspected the bookshelves and lighted on an old, yellowed copy of
Treasure Island
. He settled into a cracked leather armchair and thumbed through it, hoping to recapture the pleasure he had felt when he first read it. The island had not changed, but he had.
Anaïs was snoring loudly on the sofa, a spirituality guide propped open on her chest like a little tent. The blanket had slid off and her dress had ridden up, revealing her legs splayed wide. She wasn’t wearing any knickers. Her bushy pubic hair crept up over her belly. Bernard saw nothing indecent in the scene; he was just a bit surprised that that was where he came from. He put the book down, taking care to mark her page, before lifting his mother up and putting her to bed. He tucked her in, pulled the quilt up to her chin and planted a kiss on her forehead. She rolled over with a moan.
On market days, Rue Jean-Jaurès was unrecognisable. The stalls lining the pavements hid the empty windows of closed-down shops. A constant stream of people swarmed down the narrow street, their heaped baskets occasionally colliding and creating pedestrian traffic jams. The cool morning air fragrant with the smells of flowers, fruit, roast chicken and fresh fish could tempt even the most abstemious to indulge. Trestle tables sagged under the weight of mountains of cherries, transformed by sunlight into piles of shimmering rubies. Simon couldn’t resist buying himself a handful, biting into them as he walked. There were no subtle shades here, only vivid kaleidoscope colours.
Market traders improvised skits to charm customers into parting with their cash. In front of a stall selling local handicrafts in the shape of goatskin drums, snake-head charms, plywood Bantu masks, glass-bead necklaces,
elephants made out of tyres and an array of boiled leather hats, a German tourist was haggling over a bag that appeared to be made from reptile skin. The seller was a burly African wearing a thick overcoat despite the heat.
‘Nein! Moi acheter, mais pas vrai croco!’
‘Si! Croco véritable!’
‘Si croco véritable, moi pas acheter. Imitation, oui.’
The vendor rolled his eyes, but since neither of them had much grasp of the language the transaction soon descended into farce. The poor man’s prospective customer was a hardline eco-warrior, signalled by her tow-coloured hair cut in a severe bob and Birkenstock sandals. From the way she was clutching it to her chest, it was obvious she liked the bag, but the idea that it might have come from a living creature repulsed her. Still, the consummate salesman would not back down.
‘
Vrai croco!
My uncle kill it with his hands! Good price for you!’
‘
Nein!
Plastic, yes, animal killed, no.’
It was all getting too confusing. The trader wearily agreed to knock the price down, reluctantly admitting that the bag was indeed made of plastic, ‘but good plastic!’ The German woman left delighted with her purchase while the stallholder counted the banknotes, making a gesture to indicate that she must have a screw loose.
Further up, where the road opened out in front of the post office, two trucks stacked with tapes and CDs vied noisily with each other, belching out the voices of dead or obscure singers, accordion music, Algerian raï tunes, rock and local folk in a primordial cacophony. Other vehicles
spewed hunting gear from their open flanks; everything from thick hand-knitted socks to deerstalkers, long johns, tartan shirts, sheepskin-lined gilets and the full range of combat trousers.
There were garments to tempt the ladies, too. Almost inconceivably large flesh-coloured knickers and bras hung from metal hoops, swaying among flirtily floral nylon blouses and other items from an era so remote that it was difficult to imagine any survivors still out shopping.
In front of one of these stalls, Simon felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Hello, Monsieur Marechall.’
‘Hello, Bernard.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘It’s very … colourful.’
‘Ooh, look over there!’
‘What?’
‘The tall man with the white hair and the moustache!’
Simon’s eyes followed the direction of Bernard’s finger. A dignified old man in an olive-green velvet suit was filling a crate with vegetables.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Jean Ferrat!’
‘Good heavens, you’re right, it looks just like him.’
‘It doesn’t just look like him, it is him! You’re in luck, he doesn’t come every Sunday.’
‘Very lucky, indeed. Now, Bernard, do you have time for a coffee?’
‘Yes, I’ve done my shopping.’
Nobody was asking Jean Ferrat for his autograph.
They sat outside the betting café facing the church and ordered two espressos. The smell of pastis and cigarette smoke wafted out from the doorway along with the shouts of punters clustered like flies around the TV screen. Simon insisted on moving to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall, even though it meant being out of the shade of an umbrella advertising some brand of aperitif.
‘You did the same thing at the restaurant last night.’
‘It’s a habit of mine.’
Bernard looked around smiling, his shopping basket wedged between his knees. The comings and goings of the motley crowd seemed to delight him.
‘I love market days. There’s a sort of holiday atmosphere. There’s no one along here during the week. Apparently it was a bit livelier before.’
‘Before what?’
‘Before the factories shut. The pulp mills, basalt … there were jobs, you know. Now the only places where there’s any life are the spas, the hotels and casino – and that’s only in high season.’
‘I think I smell roast chicken, do you?’
‘Oh, that’s me, I bought one. My mother doesn’t eat much but the smell of roast chicken always gets her mouth watering. She’ll only have a wing, but it’s something at least. I’ll make some mash to go with it.’
‘You love your mother very much, don’t you?’
‘Of course, she’s my mother. Everyone loves their own mother.’
‘But from what you’ve told me, she hasn’t had a great deal of time for you over the years.’
‘I don’t blame her for that. She just wanted to make a success of things. If everything had gone to plan, she would have sent for me.’
‘And how does she manage when you’re not around?’
‘A couple of neighbours pop in … I send her a bit of money. It’ll be harder now though; I won’t be earning as much.’
‘Would you like some cherries?’
‘Yes, thanks. They’re still expensive – this is my first of the season. I should make a wish.’
The sweetness took away the bitter taste of the coffee. Bernard puffed out his cheeks and spat out the stone which bounced off a ‘No Entry’ sign on the other side of the road.
‘You’ve got a good aim.’
‘I was catapult champion when I was a kid.’
‘What did you wish for?’ asked Simon.
‘If you say it out loud, it won’t come true.’
Simon lit a cigarette. The smoke coming out of his nostrils made him look like a dragon. Bernard was tying knots in the cherry stalks.
‘Tell me, Bernard, do you have a driving licence?’
‘Damn right I do! I passed first time when I was in the army.’
‘Are you by any chance free for a couple of days?’
‘To do what?’
‘I have to get to Cap d’Agde for a business trip but I’m feeling rather tired. I could really use a driver. Three hundred euros a day, all expenses paid. Only we’d need to leave early tomorrow morning. How does that sound?’
‘Are you saying it would be six hundred euros for two days?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Jesus! That sounds great … but I’ll have to talk to my mother first.’
‘While I’m working, you can enjoy yourself and see the sea.’
Bernard was squirming in his chair as though sitting on an anthill. The three good digits on his left hand were drumming on the tabletop while he scratched his nose with his right hand and frowned. He wasn’t used to making snap decisions.
‘I’ll have to talk to my mother … The thing is, Monsieur Marechall, I don’t like to say it, but she thinks you’re a poof.’
‘Well, why don’t we go and see her together? I’m sure we can make her change her mind.’
‘When?’
‘How about now? Let’s not beat about the bush! Why don’t you invite me round for lunch? If there’s enough for two there’ll be enough for three. We can buy her some flowers, or a cake – or both!’
‘I think she’d prefer a bottle of something.’
‘I’ll take care of it. Tell me where she lives and go and let her know I’m coming. Ladies don’t like it when you turn up unannounced.’