Читать книгу How's the Pain?: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir - Pascal Garnier - Страница 13

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.