Authors: Pascal Garnier
‘There you go. Five hundred. Good evening.’
The man’s Adam’s apple rippled up and down his neck. He gulped like a fish out of water.
‘It used to belong to my father. You’ve got a good deal.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m no expert.’
Gabriel went back to the bar and placed the small coffin on the counter. Behind him, out of view, the couple grasped each other’s hands, basking in their good fortune. José, his elbow on the counter and the tea towel on his shoulder, rubbed his cheeks.
‘Can you play the saxophone?’
‘No. Do you think your children would like it?’
José didn’t answer. He lit a cigarette and took a few short puffs, squinting through the smoke.
‘Maybe you’re just mad?’
No matter how hard he tried, his key wouldn’t turn in the lock. Through the door he heard hurrying footsteps. ‘Who is it?’
Gabriel took a step back. Room 12.
‘Sorry, I …’
As the door opened, the man from the café was revealed, silhouetted against a yellow glow.
‘Oh, it’s you! Have you changed your mind about the saxophone?’
‘No, no. It’s just that this used to be my room. It was habit. I made a mistake, I’m sorry.’
The man stood there in his underpants, dishevelled, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He seemed confused by Gabriel’s presence. The corridor’s timer light clicked off.
‘Which room are you in?’ the man asked.
‘Number 22 on the next floor. I’m sorry—’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Come on in. We owe you one. Rita? It’s the man from the café, the one who bought the saxophone. He’s in the same hotel as us.’ The man leant forward towards Gabriel. ‘She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?’
The room, his room, stank of alcohol, cigarettes and medication. The window was closed and the radiator was on full. The woman sprawled on the bed wearing very little, her legs spread and her hands behind her head, shamelessly showing off her hairy armpits. She resembled a piece of meat lying on a cloth ready to be sliced up, Gabriel thought. Sleepily, the woman looked up at Gabriel. She seemed almost as bleary-eyed as her partner.
‘Well, shit, it’s a small world, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Sit down. We don’t do standing up.’
Gabriel sat down at the foot of the bed on the room’s only chair while the man poured him a mouthful of gin in a toothglass.
‘Apparently, when you drink from someone else’s glass you see their thoughts. Bad luck for you!’
‘Thank you.’
The man rejoined the woman on the bed, his back propped against the wall. He was obviously not used to making pleasantries, but he said, ‘It’s not everyone who would do what you did! You really got us out of a hole you know.’
‘No, I didn’t know. But I’m happy to have been of some help.’
‘We were broke.’
‘It happens sometimes.’
‘More often than we’d like! What brings you here? Are you passing through?’
‘Yes.’
‘Lucky you. I spent my entire childhood here. The only good thing about this shitty town is it encourages you to move on as soon as possible!’
‘But you’re back.’
‘Forced to come back. My father. Family stuff. Money, you know.’
The man emptied his glass and handed it to Rita, who, with what looked like a huge effort, extricated herself with a sigh from the tangle of sheets and went to fill it up again. Her hip brushed Gabriel’s shoulder on her way past. It was she who gave off that smell of medication, sweat and disease. She drank half the glass and then slumped back down next to the man. She kept scratching herself, on her nose and her arms. Her nails left long red scratch marks on her pale skin. Gabriel felt as though he was on a hospital visit. Just to be polite, he took a tiny sip of gin. It was lukewarm and tasted medicinal. He set it down on the table and tried to work out the best way to leave as soon as possible. But the man started up again, more for his sake than his visitor’s.
‘A sodding saxophone. That’s all I could get out of the old bastard. This time I really thought he was done for, no fucking chance though! He’s like a tick hanging on to his shitty life. A bag of decaying organs, that’s all he is. But with a heart like a Swiss watch, indestructible. Tick tock,
tick tock. The old fucker. He knows full well I’m up to my neck in shit and that all he has to do is sign a rotten piece of paper to get me out of it. But no! He enjoys having me on a leash like this. It’s the only thing which gives him a hard-on,’ the man said. ‘Do you have any family?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you don’t know how lucky you are! All my life, he’s been a pain in the neck! You can smell how this town stinks, but, I tell you, it’s not the manure, it’s him! Yeah, him! Jesus Christ, I’m not going to settle for just the sax! No way! I don’t know what the hell it was doing there. I’d never seen it before. It was in front of the door next to the umbrella stand. So I just took it. Sometimes you do things without knowing why. So as not to leave with nothing …’
Somewhere in the far distance a clock struck eleven, the noise muffled by the dark of the night. Gabriel stood up.
‘Well, it’s late. I’ll be on my way. Thanks for the drink.’
‘I’ll see you out.’
Before opening the door, the man whispered to Gabriel, ‘What do you think of Rita?’
‘Well, uh … I hardly know her.’
‘Physically?’
‘She’s, erm, well endowed.’
‘Well endowed?’
‘Attractive then.’
‘Because I could always … if you want … I could go for a wander. You know what I’m saying?’
‘That’s kind but no. I’m up early tomorrow.’
‘Ah, another time then perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. Goodnight.’
José’s car smelt of wet blankets, grease and stale cigarettes. As Gabriel got in, José asked him to ignore the mess; he meant the used tissues, crumpled sweet wrappers, oily rags, old chewed pens, screws, bolts, springs, the greying remains of the stuffed toy rabbit and the set of tattered road maps.
‘I haven’t had time.’
With every jolt, the saxophone on the back seat knocked against a big gift-wrapped box. On either side of the road, fields of mud stretched towards the hazy horizon. The landscape felt unreal. Did Gabriel believe in it? Even the presence of a few crows failed to convince him. Gabriel had felt this way all morning. He had gone through the motions, but felt nothing. Madeleine had been in her usual place, behind reception, encased in a tight-fitting grey suit, like soft armour. She had said ‘good morning’, asked him if he had slept well, if he liked his new room, without ever
referring to the previous afternoon. They had wished each other a good day. The pavement under his feet might as well have been a rolling walkway transporting him from his hotel to the Faro. José had shaved, combed his hair and put on a clean shirt.
‘What’s in the box?’
‘A little kitchen on wheels for Maria. Where did you eat last night?’
‘Nowhere. I went for a walk and had a few peanuts before going back to the hotel. How about you?’
‘I wasn’t hungry. I watched TV.’
‘Watch anything good?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I went and slept in the children’s bedroom. I can’t sleep in our room any more.’
‘Any news from the hospital?’
‘No. I’ll call later. It’s good that you’re here. I have to speak to Marie’s mother, Françoise. Would you look after the kids while I talk to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘She’s a good woman, Françoise. And brave. She lost her husband just before Marie was born. She’s always managed by herself.’
Françoise stood on her doorstep flanked by the two children. Had they been replaced by weapons then she would have made a magnificent war memorial: a Grandmother Courage draped in a charcoal-grey shawl, her chin raised high, her wiry hair tamed in a tight bun and her steely eyes challenging the futility of the human condition. How long had they been standing there in front of the door? The children timidly returned José’s wave as
he parked the car in front of the gate.
Everything here was strangely symmetrical. Identical squares of lawn lay either side of the gravelled driveway next to identical fruit trees and identical hydrangea bushes, which grew in front of identical grey-green stone walls. You could have folded the scene in half along a vertical line starting at the point of the roof and everything on the left would have corresponded exactly with everything on the right, square of lawn on square of lawn, tree on tree, hydrangea bush on hydrangea bush, brother on sister, half of the grandmother on the other half. The grandmother now opened her hands and released the children, who ran over and wrapped themselves round their father’s legs. Gabriel followed behind, smiling at the scene – the daddy bear playing with his cubs.
‘All right now, kids, careful!’
‘Papa, Papa! Presents!’
Gaël, a stocky little creature with curly black hair, took after his father, while Maria, with her blonde hair, pale skin and her grandmother’s bright blue eyes, had obviously inherited her looks from the maternal side. They were handsome children, clean and fresh and full of life.
‘Presents! Presents!’
‘Say hello to my friend Gabriel first.’
The two children went over to Gabriel and planted sugary kisses on his cheeks before falling on the presents.
‘Françoise, this is my friend Gabriel.’
A firm but welcoming handshake. She had instantly assessed her son-in-law’s friend. She seemed satisfied.
‘Your garden is beautiful,’ Gabriel said.
‘It never looks its best at this time of year. It’s just work, that’s all. It grows all the time, especially the weeds. Come in.’
Despite her slightly brusque response, Françoise didn’t mean to be unfriendly. Order and discipline were what kept her going. It was the only thing she had found to support her through a life punctuated by hurt and suffering. She wore her resignation as a retired soldier wears his medals. A brave, worthy woman, she didn’t ask anything of anybody.
Roast chicken, mashed potato and an apple tart. A simple and filling meal. Throughout lunch, José did his best to appear cheerful in front of the children, but each time one of them mentioned their mother his fork trembled in his hand, and his eyes, red through lack of sleep, would appeal to Françoise and Gabriel for help.
‘Okay, children. I have to speak to your grandmother. Gabriel, if you wouldn’t mind …’
It was ages since he had spent time with children. He had forgotten how to speak to them. He felt awkward and clumsy, oversized … Like poor old Gulliver.
‘Can you show us how to play the saxophone?’
‘I think you have to blow into it and press the keys.’
Gabriel took a deep breath and blew into the saxophone, but only managed a sound like breaking wind, which sent the children into fits of giggles.
‘You farted! You farted!’
They all had a go on the instrument. Gaël blew with all his might, turning bright red, but with little success.
Maria, on the other hand, managed to produce three clean notes on her first go. Gaël and Gabriel couldn’t believe it and were a little put out.
‘I didn’t know I could play! It’s easy!’
She started again. Once, twice, three times. She was good. Her brother’s mood darkened.
‘Okay, that’s enough!’ he said. ‘You’re playing the same thing over and over. Shall we play with the kitchen now?’
Children’s disagreements, unlike those between adults, were always over in a flash. The brother and sister were soon happy organising a tea party. Gaël seemed to take a real interest, sorting out all the pieces and putting them in their proper place.
‘Right, what are we going to cook?’
‘Snails!’
‘Okay then. Gabriel, you sit there. You’re the customer. What would you like to eat?’
‘Snails, please. And then a steak and chips!’
‘We’ve run out. But we’ve got chicken with noodles and Gruyère.’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
Juliette had been the same age. Gabriel had bought a live lobster and was preparing to grill it on the barbecue. His daughter peered at the crustacean waving its pincers and wiggling its tail in the smoky air, her chin just level with the table. She looked like an elf with her little upturned nose, cherry-red mouth and almond green eyes hidden behind strands of sun-kissed and sea-sprayed hair. Both of them were in their swimsuits. It was hot, very hot. The terrace shimmered in the heat.
‘Are we going to eat it?’
‘Yes, it’s very good.’
‘It’s moving.’
‘When it’s cooked, it’ll stop moving. Careful now, I have to cut it in two.’
‘Will it hurt?’
‘No. It’ll be so quick that it won’t feel a thing.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just do. Watch out now.’
He split the lobster lengthwise with a sharp decisive crack. Thick liquid trickled from the white flesh onto the chopping board. The lobster’s pincers stayed open as if seizing the moment. Juliette had watched the whole thing. Clinging to the table with both hands, she hadn’t blinked.
‘Well done!’
And then she had danced round the hot white terrace singing at the top of her voice, ‘Well done, well done, well done!’
He had given her the biggest piece.
‘Here are your snails, sir. Watch out, they’re hot.’
Gabriel pretended to taste the blobs of playdough on the small yellow plate handed to him by Gaël.
‘Mmm, they’re delicious! My compliments to the chef!’
‘That’s me, not her.’
‘Well done to you both.’
Gaël shifted from foot to foot with a tea towel over his shoulder. He looked just like his father behind the counter at the Faro. He sat down cross-legged in front of Gabriel and looked him straight in the eyes.
‘Why do we only eat dead things?’
‘Because … because they cook better.’
‘So when Maman dies, are we going to cook her?’
Maria had picked up the saxophone again. A fourth note rose from under her fingers. She looked astonished.