Authors: Pascal Garnier

How's the Pain? (4 page)

There was a definite spark between Simon and the tall Negress lamp. She was just his kind of woman: her full lips made no sound and her big white glass eyes shone with total devotion. He heaved himself up from the sofa to put the raffia lampshade straight, and blew on it to clear the dust, which rose up in a little grey cloud and settled again on a nearby surface. He couldn’t resist running his hands over the perfect curves, the breasts, belly and hips of this synthetic wooden body. He had known a woman like this once, in Djibouti … Safia, yes, that was her name. Just as silent and just as radiant. He had been happy with her. He had even thought of staying. In fact, he almost did end up there for good when a riot broke out.

‘You all right there, Monsieur Marechall?’

‘I’m fine, yes. Take your time.’

‘I just have to toss the salad and I’ll be right with you. Mother will be ready in five minutes.’

Bernard’s voice seemed to come from much further away than the shop’s storeroom, from a distant land Simon had once known and sometimes regretted leaving. He had been to some weird and wonderful places in his time, visiting pagodas and brothels in Asia, sleeping in huts or under the stars in the African desert, but he had never come across anything like Anaïs’s shop before. Time itself seemed to have deserted this nowhere land, for fear of being bored to death. He returned to the sofa, perching on the very edge; for if he had the misfortune to sink right into it, he might never make it out of the quicksand of worn velvet cushions.

Bernard had laid the table with mismatched plates and odd knives and forks. The champagne, a cake box from Baudoin and an already wilting bunch of red roses lay side by side. Bernard emerged from the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel over his shoulder, clutching a bowl of salad.

‘Here we are, it’s ready! Mother’s just coming. The thing is, she likes to look good, and she doesn’t have people round very often. Mother? … Mother?’

‘Coming!’

It was a strange, double-pitched voice, like the famous Mongolian singers who can hit the low and high notes at the same time. The vision that appeared afterwards was just as remarkable. Anaïs had ‘done herself up’, decking her shapeless frame in all her showiest finery:
moth-eaten
silks, faded lace, oil-stained satin, multi-string bead necklaces, clattering metal bangles, globe-sized earrings, Moroccan slippers with worn-out soles, and a frayed
turban. Her face was plastered with a thick layer of
makeup
.

She leant against the doorframe for a moment, her cartoonish kohl-lined eyes judging the distance between herself and Simon and sizing up any obstacles to avoid on the way. Then, like a bull charging the matador, she puffed out through her nose and lunged forward with her hand held out, her face split by a smile reminiscent of a gash made by a machete in a watermelon.

‘Enchantée, cher monsieur, enchantée
! You’re most welcome!’

Simon caught her just in time to stop her tripping over a fold in the rug and smoothly kissed her hand. The patchouli oil she had splashed all over herself could not disguise the lingering smell of rum.

‘It’s unforgivable of my son not to have warned me! So it’ll just be a simple meal, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s my fault for turning up out of the blue.’

‘Not at all, not at all! Do please sit down.’

Bernard just managed to slide a chair under his mother’s buttocks in time to avert an accident. It must have been a considerable effort for her to get to the table, as she was short of breath and clutching her chest. She fluttered her false eyelashes, one of which was coming unstuck.

‘Goodness me, roses! Champagne! And a Baudoin cake! You shouldn’t have!’

‘Honestly, it’s the least I could do, turning up like this.’

‘It’s a wonderful surprise. Bernard, would you put these flowers in a vase for me please?’

‘What vase?’

‘Well, I don’t know, just a vase, a jug, something!’

Bernard disappeared off to the back of the shop with the flowers, leaving Simon and Anaïs alone at the table.

Though time had not been kind to her, leaving her with sunken eyes, a mouth twisted in bitterness, slack cheeks, skin as dimpled as a peach kernel and straggly hair falling from her turban, Simon could see this woman must once have been beautiful. There were still traces of gold sparkling in the green of her eyes. But her liver-spotted hands, weighed down with jewelled rings as false as her teeth, were incapable of remaining still. They toyed with her knife and fork, folded and unfolded her napkin. Her restless hands gave away her unease at having no place in the world.

‘So you’re just passing through Vals?’

‘That’s right. I was on my way down from Paris and was getting bored with the motorway, so I took the back roads and stopped when I got tired. I ended up here by chance, really.’

‘Chance, yes, what a thing … And where are you staying?’

‘The Grand Hôtel de Lyon.’

‘Oh, very nice. I used to go there sometimes, way back when, for … a cup of tea in the lounge. Do they still have the snooker table?’

‘Yes, it’s still there.’

‘Still …’

He was a good-looking man, this Monsieur Marechall. Handsome and smartly turned out, but a little too cool,
too sure of himself, too controlled. When he looked at Anaïs it gave her a jolt, like a shard of glass being jabbed into her back. He didn’t seem like a poof though … so what did he want Bernard for?

‘Are you a Scorpio?’

‘No, Pisces.’

‘Then you must be a Scorpio rising?’

‘I have no idea. I know nothing at all about star signs.’

‘Scorpio rising, without question. Haven’t you ever had your birth chart read?’

‘No. I’m not really interested in what the future holds.’

‘It’s not about the future, it’s about now.’

‘That doesn’t mean much to me either. Your Neg—your lamp is beautiful.’

‘Isn’t it just? I’ve had it since …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It’s made of ebony, you know!’

‘I’m sure.’

They both turned to contemplate the exotic goddess wearing a flickering sixty-watt bulb on her head. Simon pictured himself back in the arms of Safia, the sunlight filtering through the shutters and streaking across their bodies as they lay entwined on the hemp-woven bed. The clamour of the street, the dust, the shouts of hawkers … Anaïs was reliving the day when her erstwhile lover, Léo – a dealer in stolen goods, rather than antiques – had carried the black goddess to her on his back, in repayment for a debt. He really was handsome, Léo … As for being ebony, the statue was in fact made of a mixture of resin and sand and had been mass-produced in Saint-Étienne. The factory’s stamp was printed on the base. But what did that
matter now? Even a miserable past largely compensated for a nonexistent present. Their memories were carved from real ebony. They both jumped when Bernard reappeared.

‘I couldn’t find a vase so I’ve put the roses in some water in the sink. Right, we’re just about ready. Monsieur Marechall, would you mind opening the champagne? I don’t know if I can manage it, with my hand.’

Simon did as he was asked, pouring the sparkling wine into the cheap supermarket glasses while Bernard put radishes, butter and salt onto the table. Anaïs pulled a face.

‘Is that all you could find for a starter?’

‘Radishes are lovely. They’re in season. I tried one and they’re not too peppery. So, what shall we drink to?’

Simon lifted his glass.

‘Let’s drink to your future, young man, and to our pasts, my dear.’

Anaïs contrived a sort of smile and downed her drink in one. They talked about everything and nothing, good times and bad, biting into radishes that tasted of springtime. Anaïs was not impressed with the champagne. It made her feel bloated and failed to get her sloshed quickly enough. So, on some pretext or other she took herself off to the kitchen to take a swig of rum. It was only after her third visit to the kitchen that she began to relax.

‘So you want to steal my son.’

‘Well, borrow his services. I don’t think I’m up to driving all the way to Cap d’Agde. But if you’d rather not …’

‘I couldn’t care less. So long as he gets paid …’

‘Of course! I’ll even pay half up front. It’ll be two days
at most and he can call home each night.’

‘I don’t have a phone. Well, I do, but it’s been cut off. Anyway, no one calls me. Bernard, give me some mash, will you, and a bit of breast too. I’m hungry today.’

‘I’m glad you’ve got an appetite. Do you want a bit of crispy skin?’

‘No, just the white meat. What exactly is it you do?’

‘I have a pest-control business. Getting rid of rats, mice, insects, cockroaches and so on.’

‘You must be getting plenty of work. The world’s overrun with vermin!’

‘Yes, business is pretty good.’

‘That’s what you should have learnt to do, Bernard, instead of getting your fingers chopped off by those damned machines. You know what? Machines need getting rid of too – they deprive us of our bread and butter. In the old days, everything used to be done by hand. Look at this shawl – pure wool, hand-knitted. Now it’s all made in China and they crank out acres of the stuff every day! But there’s no contest when it comes to quality. Feel this, go on, feel it! It’s twenty years old this shawl and it’s just like new!’

Simon ran his finger over the rag Anaïs was holding up to him, solemnly nodding his head in agreement.

‘That wasn’t made by a machine. That was crafted by human hand, an artisan from the Ardèche – or Sweden or Denmark, I can’t remember. His workshop was in Antraigues, he was a pal of Jean Ferrat’s. He made everything himself, hats, cardigans, mittens. I think he’s dead now. Died of cold, or so I heard … Bernard, open a
bottle of red to wash down the champagne.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve—’

‘No, I don’t. Off you go and find a bottle, like I said.’

Anaïs was melting like a candle, her elbows sliding towards the edge of the table. Her bloodshot eyes stared dead ahead, like brake lights jammed on in the face of a hazard, a hole in the road or a gaping abyss.

‘Are you sure you’re not a queer?’

‘Quite sure. I just need a driver. I met your son and I trust him, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Uh-huh … It’s just that I’m his mother, I know him. He’s so … It’s like he was born yesterday.’

‘That’s what makes him so likeable.’

‘And means he’s always being taken for a ride. Couldn’t you take him on in your company? He’s missing a couple of fingers but he’s not lazy.’

‘The thing is, I’m about to sell my business and retire.’

‘Ah, what a shame. You think you’re in luck and then …’

‘I’m sorry, I …’

Anaïs slumped forward with a snore, her forehead landing in her plate and her arms lolling either side of the chair. Bernard came back in holding the cake on a plate and a bottle tucked under his arm.

‘This is Lou Pisadou cake, a speciality of Vals … Mother! Christ, what’s the matter with her?’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘She’s drunk too much. She’s not used to it and whenever she has someone over, she drinks gallons so obviously … I’m so sorry, Monsieur Marechall.’

‘Don’t worry. We should probably put her to bed. I’ll help you.’

‘OK, thank you.’

They laid her on her bed in a cubbyhole that seemed to Simon like a sort of crypt. After tucking her in, they went back to the table.

‘Can I still cut you a slice of cake?’

‘No, thank you, I’m full. It was a very good lunch.’

‘A coffee then?’

‘No, I think I’ll head back to my hotel for a nap.’

‘It’s not her fault, you know. She never has company.’

‘There’s no need to apologise, Bernard. Your mother is a lovely lady, perhaps just a little over-emotional. We got along very well. Now, here’s half your pay. So I’ll see you tomorrow at nine o’clock, at my hotel?’

‘Nine o’clock without fail, Monsieur Marechall!’

They shook hands and Simon exchanged one last glance with the Negress lamp before leaving.

‘Now that’s what I call a motor! There’s a proper engine under that bonnet! And German too, they don’t come more reliable.’

Bernard was as ecstatic as a little boy who had just been given his first pedal car. He drove well, smoothly negotiating every corner – and God knows there were enough of them on this road. The rolling hills were tinged mauve and pink in the morning light. The car was so quiet, the suspension so perfect, it felt as though they were sitting still while the countryside sped past.

Although he had taken his pills, Simon had not slept a wink all night. The pains which had abated for a while had suddenly started again. Bernard really was a godsend. Were it not for him, Simon would never have been able to get on the road today. And Bernard’s youthful enthusiasm cheered him up. He was already feeling a little better. The clouds glowed with the pastel blue and pink shades of
sugared almonds. Something odd had happened yesterday as he walked back to his hotel after that unusual lunch with Bernard’s mother. Rue Jean-Jaurès was deserted at that time of day. As he passed the church, he heard a mobile phone ringing from inside; for some reason, the doors were wide open. The phone rang and rang, but no one picked it up. His curiosity piqued, Simon went inside. The church was empty. The phone was vibrating on a prayer stool. He picked it up and raised it to his ear. Three times he said, ‘Hello?’ His voice bounced off the ceiling vaults like a trapped bird, but there was no reply. He put the phone back where he had found it. The church seemed huge to him, though it was actually quite modest in size. Three rays of light – red, blue and yellow – shone through the ugly stained-glass windows, converging in a multicoloured pool at his feet. He had the strongest feeling that something had passed him by, that he had missed some important appointment. It was ridiculous but he could have sworn the phone call was meant for him. He felt abandoned and alone, surrounded by nothingness. He almost ran out of the church. Maybe that was what had kept him awake all night.

‘If we keep on at this rate, we’ll be there in less than two hours. Are you OK, Monsieur Marechall?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Where are we now?’

‘Le Teil.’

‘Let’s stop for a minute. I need to use the toilet.’

They pulled up in front of the train station and dived into the first bar they came to.

‘What would you like, Monsieur Marechall?’

‘Anything, a coffee.’

Bernard watched him disappear off to the toilets. He looked pale, his brow dripping with sweat. It was a pity; Bernard was in holiday mood. Twirling the keys of the Mercedes for all to see, he casually asked for two coffees and two croissants. The waitress winked at him and smiled. The joys of having money … He stretched his legs out under the table, clasped his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling with its fake beams. There was only one other customer, a tall, skinny, spidery man perched on a bar stool, his gaze lost in the celestial void that filled the window. In his right hand he held a half-pint, in his left a cigarette. Spinning out the hours. He didn’t bat an eyelid when a petite blonde woman carrying a baby in an orange blanket stormed in and started screaming at him.

‘You fucking bastard!’

The spidery man let his left arm be shaken, but clung fast to the half-pint in his other hand.

‘Give me the keys, you bastard!’

‘The keys are gone.’

‘What do you mean, “gone”?’

‘The bailiffs came this morning. There’s no flat, no keys, no nothing.’

He put an end to the discussion by downing the rest of his beer. The young woman opened and closed her mouth over and over again, without making a sound.

‘But … You told me you’d paid the rent, you said it was all sorted.’

‘Well, it wasn’t. So shut your mouth and piss off.’

The owner looked up from his newspaper and frowned.
The woman swivelled round, clocked Bernard, plonked the child on his lap, grabbed an ashtray and lunged at the man. It was 9.30 a.m. on a sunny day in Le Teil. The owner grudgingly came out from behind the counter armed with a cosh. His weary expression showed he had seen all this many times before.

‘Right, out of here now. Sort out your domestics somewhere else! Go on! Out!’

‘I haven’t paid for my half!’

‘It’s on the house. Now fuck off before I call the police.’

A warm liquid ran onto Bernard’s lap. The kid was emptying itself like a leaky hot water bottle.

Simon pulled the chain and the toilet bowl was spotless again, all traces of the blood he had vomited wiped clean. The light coming through the window coursed through his body like fresh milk. He felt empty and hollow, but better. Sometimes the illness loosened its grip on him, like an executioner tired of delivering blows. It would be back for more, no mistake, but not right away. They were getting to know each other rather well, him and his illness.

Coming out of the toilets, he was astonished to find Bernard in Madonna pose, cradling a baby.

‘What’s all this?’

‘I don’t know! A couple are having a row. It’s peed on me and I haven’t got a change of trousers.’

The infant, swaddled in its orange blanket, looked as bewildered as Bernard.

‘What on earth’s going on?’

The woman was now grappling with the nineteen-stone bulk of the bar owner, who was blocking her way.

‘Just let me past, dickhead! My kid, I just need to get my kid and I’ll never come back to this shithole again!’

She managed to squeeze past him, cross the room and retrieve the child without a word of thanks to Bernard, then stomped out with a determined stride. The coffee had gone cold. Simon gulped his down in one go. Bernard’s arms were still held in a cradling position.

‘For a moment you made me think of St Christopher carrying Jesus across the river. It bodes well, since he’s the patron saint of drivers.’

‘I stink!’

‘Come on, let’s sort you out.’

Simon paid the bill.

‘Sorry about that,’ said the owner. ‘There’s more and more of that sort round here. Scroungers, living off benefits we slog to pay for. And then they go and breed, God only knows why.’

Bernard walked with his legs slightly apart. Simon steered him into a passably stylish shop – quite possibly the only one in town.

‘We need a suit for this young man. Something smart but not too “old”.’

Bernard stared at Simon in amazement.

‘A suit?’

‘Well, you’ll need one sooner or later. Anyway it’s for my benefit, not yours. We can’t have you driving a Mercedes dressed like that. People will think you’ve stolen it.’

The jacket was a perfect fit, but it felt to Bernard as rigid as a suit of armour. He squirmed his way into the driving seat, trying not to crumple it.

‘I’ve never worn any of this formal stuff before, you know?’

‘It’ll be fine, just try not to think about it. Now tell me, what are you going to do when we get to the sea?’

‘Well … sit down and look at it, I suppose.’

‘Good idea. I envy you, seeing the sea for the first time.’

The plane trees lining the road broke up the light. The air coming in through the windows smelt of distant shores. Bernard drove one-handed, his head cocked slightly to the left.

‘Monsieur Marechall, can I ask you something?’

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Were you unwell earlier?’

‘I was just a little light-headed. Remembering Africa, times gone by … old age … Hang on, what do you think you’re doing? Why are we stopping?’

Bernard had pulled up on the verge and twisted in his seat.

‘Back there, behind the red car! It’s the girl from the café with her baby. The tall guy’s hitting her!’

‘So?’

‘So we should do something.’

‘Don’t get involved. It’s none of your business. Now drive.’

‘I can’t, Monsieur Marechall. The kid peed on me, it’s like we’re family.’

‘Family? For God’s sake! No, you stay there behind the wheel and keep the engine running. I’ll go, it’ll be quicker.’

He was right, it did not take long. Everything was played out in the rear-view mirror: Monsieur Marechall walking calmly towards the red car, hands in the pockets of his raincoat. Reaching the scene of the argument, he says a couple of words to the girl who begins running towards the Mercedes, hugging her child to her chest. The tall guy lifts his arm and Monsieur Marechall takes something out of his pocket. The tall guy lifts his other arm and disappears into the ditch as if by magic. The girl with the baby scrambles into the car, her face beetroot red, hair dishevelled, panting, wild-eyed; Monsieur Marechall walks back just as calmly, gets into the car and does up his seat belt with a sigh.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Go!’ He turned to the woman in the back. ‘Where shall we drop you, Madame?’

‘I … I don’t know, down the road.’

Shortly after Montélimar they had to stop at a service station, the little girl’s ear-splitting cries signalling she was hungry. While the young mother took her baby off to the toilets, Simon leant against the car door, smoking a cigarette, and Bernard kicked around a battered Orangina can. Simon stubbed his cigarette out under his foot and turned up his collar.

‘Let’s drop them at Nîmes.’

‘Why Nîmes?’

‘Because we’re not going to have them trail along with us all the way to China. And Nîmes is very nice.’

‘But what if they don’t know anybody in Nîmes?’

‘It’s not my problem. We helped them out – what more do you want? I’ve got work to do and we’ve already wasted a lot of time.’

‘You’re right, Monsieur Marechall. Got to get to work.’

Bernard adroitly struck the can on the volley, sending it into a bush. He threw his arms up.

‘Goal! … Monsieur Marechall?’

‘Yes?’

‘How did you handle that guy?’

‘Which guy?’

‘The one who was hitting her. He looked a lot stronger than you.’