Читать книгу Moon in a Dead Eye: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir - Pascal Garnier - Страница 7

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror wearing only his underpants, Maxime was striking toreador poses. Chest puffed out, belly sucked in, fists clenched beside his hips, he held his breath for long enough to tell himself he still looked pretty good for a man of his age. Then he slowly exhaled, not entirely convinced. As his muscles relaxed, the skin sagged on his hunched skeleton like an oversized garment. He shrugged his shoulders and began to shave.

‘Here, at least …’

All of this was down to a heart scare, a teeny tiny one, but a warning sign. The doctor had told him he had the heart of an ox. But he couldn’t push his luck, he wasn’t thirty any more. Drinks parties, good wine, good food and … all the rest of it would have to be reined in from now on. Nothing too serious. But it had been the last straw, hastening their decision to leave. Marlène had leapt at the chance. She had been thinking about it for some time, for other reasons. They had been burgled three times in recent years. The residential neighbourhood of Orléans where they had lived for many moons had become a prime target for the scum who came in from the outlying boroughs. Nothing could stop them, not the most sophisticated alarm systems or the patrols that took place day and night. They were everywhere and nowhere, gnawing away like vermin at the foundations of the stable, quiet life people had worked hard to build. The city centre had not escaped unscathed. Marlène had been mugged in broad daylight at the cash point next to the post office. It took her six months to get over it. Through a friend in the police, Maxime had got himself a firearms licence. His revolver only left his glove compartment at night, when he slid it underneath the bed. They could not go on like that. So it was a combination of things that had brought them to Les Conviviales. He couldn’t really complain about the place; it was new, clean, empty of both past and future. The problem was it would soon be filled with nothing but old people. Old old people, not like him. People like the Sudres, for example. They must have been about the same age as him and Marlène but, come on, there was no contest … Very nice people, nothing was too much trouble, but could he imagine seeing in the New Year with them? Not likely! And as for wearing socks with sandals, dear God!

Maxime rubbed aftershave into his cheeks, chuckling at the memory of Martial’s feet before his expression turned to a frown. There were white hairs at his temples. He would have to get some more dye.

‘This is very kind of you, Monsieur Flesh. I couldn’t have managed it on my own. If you could put it down there on the deck … a little to the left … There, perfect! Thanks ever so much.’

‘You’re welcome, Madame Node.’

‘It’s an olive tree. It’ll do well in that spot.’

The fragile stem clinging to its stake, peeking up like a periscope from its huge pot, perfectly summed up the touching pathos of human hope. Monsieur Flesh shook his head doubtfully. The man lacked imagination.

‘I’m planning to put a bay tree the other side. What do you think?’

‘Better wait and see …’

‘Indeed … It’s funny, my husband spent his whole life selling greenhouses but he hates flowers. Not like my son. He used to make me such lovely posies, even when he was very little! He has a natural eye for it. Do you like flowers, Monsieur Flesh?’

‘I look after them. Right, I’d better swing by number twelve. There’s a woman coming next week.’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes, a single woman. Have a good day, Madame Node.’

Marlène took off her brand-new gardening gloves and watched the caretaker walking back up the road. His arms dangled at his sides, as though pushing an invisible wheelbarrow. A single woman … Well, she had to be old in any case. And anyway … He would never admit it, but since his heart scare, Maxime was not quite the same. Something had changed, imperceptibly. It was as though he felt he was being watched. He was always checking the time; it had become a sort of tic. It couldn’t be down to her; she had given him free rein years ago, leaving him to his own devices so long as their life together was not disrupted. She had realised early on this was the only way to go. She did not resent him for it, it was just the way he was – he liked to feel attractive. And he had attracted her, so much so that she had left the Opéra to focus all her attentions on doing the housework. She didn’t regret it; she would probably never have made it to prima ballerina. In any case, she had never gone without; Maxime was generous and had showered her with enough luxuries to allow her to forget the essentials. And then Régis had come along … You were allowed to have your children to stay for two weeks of the year here. She had already got his room ready … Maxime had got angry … She had cried …

An ant emerged from between two flagstones. Knitting its antennae together, it seemed to ponder which way to go. Marlène crushed it under her foot.