Читать книгу How's the Pain?: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir - Pascal Garnier - Страница 14

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.