Authors: Pascal Garnier
The new potatoes were soon bobbing up and down in the boiling water, the shallots slowly caramelising in the pan to which he added the two good-sized pieces of calves’ liver drizzling them with balsamic vinegar and sprinkling a pinch of finely chopped parsley. The surrounding white ceramic tiles, unused to such aromas, blushed with pleasure. Madeleine’s face appeared in the doorway, her nostrils twitching.
‘Mmm, it smells nice.’
‘You can sit down if you like. It’s almost ready.’
The liver was cooked to perfection, the onions melted in the mouth and the potatoes, glistening with butter, were as soft as a spring morning.
‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve had calves’ liver. I never think to buy it. It’s delicious. And the shallots …!’
I am cooking for you because I like you. I am going to feed you. We barely know each other and yet here we are, just inches apart, where together we’re going to drool over, chew and swallow the meat, vegetables and bread. Our bodies are going to share the same pleasures. The same blood will flow in our veins. Your tongue will be my tongue; your belly, my belly. It’s an ancient, universal, unchanging ritu
al.
‘… and that’s why she was worried.’
‘Who was?’
‘My grandmother, of course.’
‘Ah, yes, sorry.’
‘It was just a bit of anaemia. It often happens to kids who grow too quickly. I hated that.’
‘What?’
‘Minced horse meat cooked in stock. I just told you. Weren’t you listening?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. Minced horse meat cooked in stock. It’s true. It can’t have been that appetising for a little girl.’
‘You said it. But she thought she was doing the right thing. I was very fond of her. I’ll have a bit more wine, please. Thanks, that’s enough! I think I’m a little bit tipsy.’
‘Did she die?’
‘Yes, five years ago.’
‘And your cat as well?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘I accidentally overheard you mention it on the phone this morning.’
‘It’s true. Last year. She was called Mitsouko, after my perfume. She lived to be fourteen.’
‘And you haven’t replaced her?’
‘No, but I often think about it.’
‘When you have your Nutella nights?’
‘Nutella nights? What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.’
‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
The flat had already changed. It was now filled with
the smell of cooking, rather than the smell of nothing at all. Things had been moved around and the sofa cushions were creased. There was another person there. Madeleine must have been aware of it when she heard him moving around in the kitchen. Gabriel walked over to the window and raised the net curtain. It was a small, anonymous street, the sort of street you go down on the way to somewhere else. How many times had Madeleine stood by the window cuddling her cat, waiting for something to happen down below? And how many times had she drawn the curtains without witnessing anything but the slow flowering of her picture-postcard red geranium?
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘The street isn’t exactly lively, is it?’
‘It’s a street.’
‘I sometimes think it’s more of a dead end. The rent is cheap, though, and it’s quiet.’
‘I once lived on a street like this. One day I saw a Chinese man fall from a sixth-floor window.’
‘That’s awful!’
‘It took me a moment to realise that it was the Chinese man from the sixth floor. He flashed past. It was a beautiful day; the window was open. I didn’t see what happened, but I felt it, like a large bird or a shadow passing over. And then I heard shouts. I leant out of the window to have a look and saw something lying in the middle of the road in the shape of a swastika. There was an elderly couple across the street. The woman was screaming. All the other windows opened at once. Someone yelled, “It’s the
Chinese man from the sixth floor!”’
‘What did you do?’
‘I think I closed the window. I didn’t know him that well. We’d met a few times on the stairs. A neighbour told me later that he was a bit unstable and part of a cult, something like that.’
‘It must have been a weird feeling.’
‘You feel a bit of a voyeur, even if it’s unintentional. All day it felt as though I had something in my eye I couldn’t get out, a kind of indelible subliminal image. It was quite annoying. I don’t know why I’m telling you this – it’s stupid.’
Gabriel regretted telling the story. The room now teemed with falling Chinese men. Madeleine was hunched over, staring into her cup, her brow furrowed. Would she ever dare open her window again? Would she let her geranium die of thirst? What if she was indeed sporty and her hobby was parachuting? He was an idiot.
‘Do you do much sport, Madeleine?’
‘Yes, I like swimming. I go to the pool three or four times a week. I love it. How about you?’
‘Sometimes. I like swimming in lakes. It’s peaceful and relaxing.’
‘I’ll swim anywhere, in lakes, rivers or the sea. Ever since I was little I’ve loved the sea. I was never scared of it. To be honest I feel more at home in the sea than on dry land. I went scuba diving in Guadeloupe a few years ago. It was incredible. Have you been to Guadeloupe?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
‘It’s like paradise. Would you like to see some photos?’
‘I’d love to!’
Madeleine’s happy memories were stored in a little imitation-leather album labelled ‘Holiday 2002’. She sat down next to Gabriel and opened her bible on her knees. Every photo showed white sand, coconut palms, rolling waves, a riot of flowers, a blindingly blue sky above a turquoise sea, all framing Madeleine’s perfect body, sitting, lying, standing, swimming or frolicking with the clown fish. A celebration of Madeleine as God had made her.
‘If you only knew how beautiful it is over there. Everything smells great, everything feels soft, everything tastes sweet …’
‘Even the sea?’
‘Even the sea. Here, hold this. All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m there. Close your eyes. Can you hear the sea?’
As the album slipped onto the floor, Madeleine leant against Gabriel who shrank back into the sofa.
‘I don’t think it would be a good idea, Madeleine.’
‘Don’t you like me?’
‘Yes, I do. You’re very beautiful.’
‘Do you think I’m a nympho?’
‘Not at all. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with that.’
‘Do you prefer men?’
‘No, it’s not that.’
‘Are you ill?’
‘No, not that either.’
‘So why not then?’
‘I don’t know what to say. But what does it matter? I cooked for you.’
‘So?’
‘So nothing. It’s just how it is. There’s nothing to understand. Don’t be offended. I like you a lot.’
Carefully, Gabriel extricated himself, got up and smoothed down his hair. He was as pale as a plaster saint, haggard, tired of a life that was bringing him down.
‘I’m sorry. I would have liked to make you happy. Don’t hold it against me; it’s not your fault.’
Madeleine stared at him from the depths of the couch like a discarded rag doll, her legs and arms splayed.
‘You’re weird. Really weird.’
‘See you tomorrow, Madeleine.’
The wardrobe took up most of the shop window. It was a beautiful piece and the owner of Obsolete Antiques must have been proud of it to display it so prominently that it overshadowed everything around it. Made of blond wood with a shiny satin finish, it was the perfect size, a classic, devoid of cumbersome ornate embellishments. Gabriel’s reflection in the shop window fitted it perfectly. It was as if it had been made for him. The wardrobe’s door was invitingly ajar. The perfect sarcophagus. The journey into the afterlife would be a cruise.
‘Eight hundred euros you say?’
‘It’s solid birch. And well built. Dovetail joints. No nails or screws.’
‘Edible then?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s edible. There’s no metal in it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Forget it. It’s very beautiful. Thank you.’
It was a shame that Mathieu was dead. He would have liked to buy it for him. Mathieu had already eaten one, the one in which his wife had died. She had locked herself in by accident, the door closing on her, and had suffocated amongst her own furs. Mathieu had been infatuated with his wife and the grief had driven him mad. He had blamed the wardrobe and vowed to eat every last bit of it. It took him years. But bit by bit, splinter by splinter, he had eaten the entire thing. Each morning, using a penknife, he had sliced a piece off and chewed it with the single-mindedness of which only a spurned lover is capable. It had been a mahogany Louis-Philippe wardrobe. He took barely two years to finish one door.
‘You know what, Gabriel, it’s the fittings that are the problem. The wood itself is fine. It’s the fittings that slow me down. That’s what’s annoying about a Louis-Philippe.’
But Mathieu’s appetite for revenge eventually diminished, and even though he was loath to admit it, his hatred for the wardrobe had turned into the same
all-consuming
love he had felt towards his wife. He savoured the object of his resentment with a gourmet’s relish.
‘I boiled a corner piece in water yesterday and you know what? It tasted just like veal!’
One night Mathieu called Gabriel in tears.
‘Gabriel, come over. I’ve finished.’
He lay on his bed, emaciated because, ever since his fatal promise, he had stopped eating anything other than mahogany, which is hardly nourishing. The only thing left
of the wardrobe was the imprint of its feet on the dusty floor and the huge oblong of darker wallpaper.
‘It tasted good, you know …’
Those had been his last words. His gaunt hand, lying clenched on his chest, had unfurled like a flower and a key had fallen from his palm.
It was just about the only thing that Gabriel had kept from his former life – a key that would never open, or close, another door. He always kept it on him, deep in his pocket. It matched his body temperature: burning or freezing. He told himself that one day he would give it away or even lose it and that somebody else would find it, as that is what happened to things. They passed from person to person.
It wasn’t far to the Faro, the same short distance as from Madeleine’s house to the antique shop. The town was so small. The café was open. José was reading the newspaper. Behind him, wedged in a corner among some bottles, was the panda, its arms outstretched. A couple sat at one of the tables. José looked up. Because of the cigarette clamped in his mouth, you couldn’t tell if he was smiling or grimacing. Perhaps both. He sighed, blinked, stubbed out his cigarette and dragged himself wearily over to the counter. He hesitated then shook Gabriel’s outstretched hand, holding on to it for longer than normal.
‘The usual?’
‘A beer, thanks.’
José’s beard had grown. Apart from the panda’s determined grin, the two still looked uncannily alike.
‘Well, I couldn’t leave it out there for the dustmen to
take away, could I? It’s not doing any harm in the corner there, is it?’
‘No, it’s very welcoming.’
‘Yes, it’ll cheer up customers. It hasn’t had any effect on those two though.’
José jerked his heavily stubbled chin towards the couple.
‘They look half drowned. And it’s not even raining.’
The man and woman sat opposite one another with their arms folded. They leant over two empty coffee cups, their foreheads nearly touching, looking like two bookends on an empty bookshelf. The man was well into his forties. His face was angular and gaunt with deep-set eyes, hollow cheeks and nostrils. His greasy hair was swept back off his face and curled on his coat collar. The woman had her back to Gabriel, but he could see a little of her face in the mirror. She looked disreputable; a dusting of white powder coated her blotches, spots and wrinkles. She resembled a cake that had been left for too long in a shop window. She seemed roughly the same age as her companion. They both had the same mouth. Fleshy, sensual blood-red bee-stung lips. They must have kissed a lot. They weren’t talking. They were just watching and absorbing one another, oblivious to the world. At the man’s feet sat a dented instrument case. A saxophone, perhaps?
José gave the counter a quick wipe and snapped the cloth.
‘They’ve been here for an hour. They’re not even talking to each other. Listen, I’m sorry about last night. I was drunk.’
‘Don’t worry about it. How’s Marie?’
‘The same. A green line going up and down on a screen. Oh, by the way …’ José paused.
‘What?’
‘I’m going to see the kids tomorrow. Do you want to come along with me? I don’t feel like going on my own.’
‘Of course, I’d be happy to.’
‘Thanks. I don’t know what to say to them. They’re only little. I should buy them a present as well … Excuse me. Yes, what can I get you?’
The man was sitting up, his hand raised like a schoolchild’s.
‘Do you have any peanuts?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Oh … shame.’
Gabriel took a packet out of his pocket. He had bought two bags from a corner shop after leaving Madeleine’s flat. The peanuts he’d had at hers had given him a taste for them. You should always carry a packet of peanuts around with you.
‘I’ve got some. Here.’
‘That’s kind, thanks. How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, really, come on.’
‘I’ve got some more, it’s fine. What’s in your case?’
‘A saxophone.’
‘Do you play?’
‘No. I’m selling it.’
‘Can I have a look?’
‘Of course.’
The man’s hands were very long and thin, like two big
white spiders. His dirty fingernails fumbled at the clasp. Inside, coiled like a snake on dark-red velvet, gleaming under the bar’s lights, lay an engraved golden saxophone.
‘It’s a Selmer. A real one!’ said the man.
‘How much do you want for it?’
‘Five hundred? Four fifty? Four hundred?’
‘Five hundred then. I’ll take it.’
The couple stared at Gabriel as he opened his wallet and spread the notes out on the table.