Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

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      ‘Bin bag. In the car …’

      Bernard took charge of everything. The dog was nothing but a piece of rubbish.

      ‘What next?’

      ‘How should I know? Better dig a hole.’

      ‘Go on then.’

      ‘Bloody hell, you’re cruel!’

      ‘I’m a killer not a gravedigger. There’s a spade in the boot – off you go.’ Nowhere, here was nowhere. Unconsciously, while Roland was digging a hole for his dog, Bernard adopted the stance of the motorcyclist at the roadside. He smoked a cigarette; the sun was not there, however, and nor was the serenity which had made that moment special. At best, there was the complicity between two killers, one of them too cowardly to do the deed. The cigarette butt he flicked down on the wet tarmac was out in less than three seconds.

      ‘I’m done. We can go.’

      Roland was green, the colour of goose shit. ‘That’s another reason you’ll have to be angry with me.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I’m the person who killed your dog. Who will you have to complain about once I’m gone?’

      ‘There’s always someone. Do you think you’re the only man who’s screwed Jacqueline?’

      Bernard smiled. If nothing else, humans were marvellously resourceful.

      Getting out of the car outside the restaurant, Roland did not say thank you. He ran off, jacket up over his head, a hunched figure. People never said thank you to those who did their dirty work for them.

      He already knew which dog he would buy next.

      The same, no doubt. Roland always bought the same car, and if Jacqueline were to die he would find another one. A Nadine or a Martine maybe, but a Jacqueline even so. There are people like that, who think they can make things last for ever if they try hard enough.

      For the past hour, Bernard had been driving around aimlessly, turning left here and right there, as luck or misfortune would have it. He had no idea where he was going but one thing he was sure about, he had no desire to go home, not straight away. Like a fly trapped under a glass he was looking for the way out while knowing only too well that none existed. As when he had left the station he felt burdened by the excess of freedom he was unable to use. Signposts pointed him in different directions: Lens, Liévin, Noeux-les-Mines, Béthune … but they were traps, leading only to fields of mud crushed under the weight of the impending dark. Occasionally he passed through villages, brown brick houses set out like Lego belonging to a child devoid of imagination, blank windows hung with lace curtains depicting a pair of peacocks face-to-face or else plump cherubs in the same pose, and roofs topped with TV aerials resembling giant dragonflies. Who could possibly stop off in one of them, unless he had broken down? And yet people lived there, had their joys and sorrows no less than those who lived in picture-postcard landscapes drenched in sunlight and azure. In those parts you would stop to buy regional pottery, local honey or to visit an old Romanesque church. Here there was nothing but home-brewed beer and war memorials of a soldier pointing his bayonet towards an indifferent sky, framed by four artillery shells with chains between them.

      But you can’t continue going nowhere for long, especially when night is falling, and so Bernard convinced himself he felt like eating moules-frites beside the station in Lille. It was years since he’d done that. He smiled at his own audacity. There was Yolande, it was true, but how could he let her know since she never answered the phone? In any case, she wasn’t aware of the passage of time. And anyway, stuff Yolande, stuff Roland’s dog, stuff it all! Illness made you self-centred, that was its greatest advantage.

      He didn’t order moules-frites but doughy, cheesy flammekueche. Inside Aux Brasseurs, once he had tucked himself away in a corner, he had felt so overwhelmed by all the noise, the belching and smoking throng – it was like something out of Breughel – that when the waiter had come to take his order he had asked for the same as the people at the next table, just to keep things simple. By now he was ruing his rashness. He hadn’t even got a newspaper to read to make him look in command of the situation. This was taking ages, he’d already looked through the menu a dozen times. The clientele here were groups of friends or at least couples. Hang on, there was another man on his own. He even thought he recognised him as the travelling salesman who was cutting a swathe through the area, persuading lonely housewives to buy lingerie on credit, much to their husbands’ anger. The man was eating mussels with no concern for the fact his loud slurping was getting on the other diners’ nerves. He had the dispassionate and ice-cool air of a bounty hunter in a western. Or maybe it wasn’t him after all. As a result of looking at people, since he had nothing else to do, Bernard ended up recognising everyone. That was odd, but not as improbable as all that. He had never left the area, and had seen a lot of people pass through the station. That said, no one recognised him. It was all an illusion, a whirl of faces seen here and there, a fug of beer and cigarette smoke. You rub shoulders with the whole world in a lifetime, but forget people again as you go along, like friends you make on holiday – you promise to keep in touch only to consign them to oblivion at once. How could it be otherwise? You’d need ten lifetimes to keep on top of all that. Besides, at the end of the day, we only need a few satellites to make up our galaxy. All stars are alike. That old pal Robert we were so fond of, who was lost in the mists of time, reappears one fine day calling himself Raoul or François or …

      ‘Flammekueche with lardons!’

      ‘For me, please.’

      ‘Another beer?’

      ‘Umm … all right.’

      ‘Excuse me, Monsieur, but there’s a lady on her own looking for a table, and there aren’t any free. Would you mind if she shared yours?’

      ‘Well, no, I …’

      ‘Thank you, Monsieur. Madame? This way, please.’

      She wasn’t beautiful, she wasn’t ugly, she almost wasn’t, full stop, and yet she was very fat, first-rate camouflage.

      ‘Good evening, Monsieur, thank you so much. It’s so crowded here that it’s hard to find a table if you’re on your own.’

      ‘Don’t mention it, it’s fine.’

      ‘And this way, we’re not on our own any more.’

      They both gave an embarrassed little laugh, which lent them a family resemblance. Not wanting to appear as if she wished to invade Bernard’s privacy, the lady pulled out a pair of glasses and a theatre programme which she began to study with a frown of concentration while she waited for her food. For Bernard the situation was even more embarrassing than when he had been alone. He tackled his flammekueche in small mouthfuls, dreading that at any moment he might drop slivers of onion or lardons on his lap. In any case, by halfway through his meal he was no longer hungry. He felt torn between the desire to run away as fast as his legs would carry him or to fall deeply asleep then and there. But he could do neither. The lady had already started on her grilled ham hock and he would have to ask her to stand up if he wanted to leave the table. He was doomed to spin out his beer for as long as he could, whilst affecting the air of someone wishing to enjoy the moment to the full. It was strange, but he felt he recognised her too. It wasn’t her facial features, nor her general appearance but rather something in the way she chewed, switching her food from one cheek to the other СКАЧАТЬ