Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ short cuts if you’re going nowhere? What’s the point of going away, leaving those you love? Why do they all go away? They know they’ll hurt us, so why d’they do it? Go and hide in their dirty dark holes. They chuck us away like cast-offs … They’ll never come back, never!’

      With these last words she had stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled over, scraping against the floor. Brice reached towards her shoulder but thought better of touching it for fear of electrocution. It was like being near an exposed wire. For several long minutes the room seemed alive with electricity. Then the church bell shook the walls eight times, and Blanche relaxed.

      ‘Blanche, can I do anything for you?’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘Would you like me to call a doctor?’

      ‘For what?’

      ‘You seem so … nervous.’

      ‘It’s nothing. It happens to me sometimes … Forgive me, I’m tired.’

      ‘I’ll leave you then. See you tomorrow at half past eight, for your programme.’

      ‘Oh yes, the programme … Yes, of course. Good-night.’

      He went home feeling he had narrowly escaped being struck by lightning, yet already with a sense of loss.

      Élie’s van smelled of scrap metal, engine grease, chicken shit and other rotting organic matter. In the back, Blanche and Brice were being jolted about like parachutists in an aircraft cabin, seated opposite each other, he on a tyre, she on a heap of grey blankets. Blanche looked in seventh heaven. The angels were shut up in groups of four inside a dozen perforated crates from which occasional rustling of feathers and muffled clucking could be heard. Three hens and one cock pheasant to a crate.

      Élie had not seemed exactly thrilled to have Brice there too, but had nonetheless offered him the tool which served him as a hand, while trading pointed glances with Blanche. The light was fading gently above the hills. All that could be seen was lavender blue, and purple streaks in a weary sky. Turning off into a side track, the van stopped at the edge of a field of maize. The noise of its sliding door was like a guillotine. Blanche leaped out, alert and fresh as a trout, while Brice struggled to extricate himself from his tyre under Élie’s mocking gaze. The gamekeeper took out a crate and set it down at the edge of the field.

      ‘Blanche, come and do the honours.’

      ‘No, Brice and I will do it together. Come on, it’s very simple. You undo the wire hooks and … Are you ready?’

      The inside of the crate was humming like the wings of a theatre before curtain up.

      ‘I’m ready.’

      ‘One, two, three.’

      Once the lid was lifted, the birds burst out, the deafening beating of their wings sounding more like slaps than applause. In a split second, at a height of three metres, each of them chose its direction, some opting for the forest, some the field, others the main road. One of them refused to leave the crate and had to be persuaded with a kick. A fraction of a second to choose your destiny, or rather the place where the huntsman would put an end to it, forest, field, main road … The one which had refused to come out of the crate, a splendid cock, settled a few metres away by the roadside, resigned. Élie aimed a clod of earth at it. Brice heard him mutter right beside him, ‘It’s not just the cocks that should clear off.’

      Blanche was clapping her hands, looking at the sky which, as per usual, appeared to have no interest in anything.

      ‘Another, Élie, one more …’

      They released others up on the crest, among the vines, along the edge of the motorway. Brice held some in his hands, felt their hearts swell at the call of a freedom they had never demanded, since they were all bred in captivity. His hair and beard were flocked with grey down. All the crates were empty now, but it was as if a pulse were still beating there. Darkness had gathered in the back of the van. Only the oval of Blanche’s face could be seen, like a veiled moon. She was wearing the same beatific smile as that morning in front of the TV.

      She had rung the doorbell at eight-thirty on the dot. He had just had time to pull on trousers and a shapeless sweater and open the door, bleary-eyed, with wisps of dreams floating round his head.

      ‘Has it started?’

      ‘I don’t know. Do come in.’

      She followed him into the dim maze of the garage and sat down on the edge of the camp bed, knees together, twisting an invisible handkerchief between her fingers, like a little girl on her first visit to the cinema.

      ‘It’s on Channel One, you said?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘That’s lucky. The reception’s bad on the others.’

      With a little adjustment to the aerial, the picture settled down. A couple of presenters – the male component being a former weather man in a new toupee – were in a show house, brimming over with enthusiasm about a batch of non-stick film, available either in rolls measuring 40 × 33 centimetres or in 33-, 26- or 24-centimetre discs, to protect the base of your saucepans or baking trays for eternity, for the modest sum of €24.95. Blanche could not believe her eyes.

      ‘I’m going to make some coffee. Would you like some?’

      ‘No, thank you, I’ve already had my hot chocolate. Did you see that? Only €24.95 for eternity!’

      Brice no longer had the heart to make himself real coffee, making do with a jar of instant. He carried his bowl back in and sipped it next to Blanche, who applauded at the appearance of each new product. A 72-piece canteen containing twelve sets of top-quality gilt stainless-steel cutlery for €59.95 – that’s right, just €59.95! The must-have laser level in sturdy carry case, for €79.95. The protein-enriched instant rejuvenating cream that fights dark circles and puffiness, endorsed by a showbiz veteran wheeled out for the occasion, at €29.95 a jar. The multi-purpose, natural, ecological, hypo-allergenic cleaning product that makes everything look like new, from the children’s dirty trainers to your copper pans or the inside of the fridge, for €14.95. The unmissable 250-watt juicer with two-year guarantee, for great vitamin-packed breakfasts, at €151.95. And the famous massage cushion covered in little electric fingers to tickle you from head to toe, at €69.95 …

      Blanche marvelled at all these wondrous inventions, and Brice ended up getting into the spirit as well. When it came down to it, the programme was no more stupid than a political debate, or a documentary on coelacanths or the arduous life of a clogmaker in the Ardèche. TV was TV. It was not what it showed you that mattered but the way you looked at it, like the ever-changing patterns of a kaleidoscope. It could still be watched when it was switched off.

      Lolling on the bed like a twist of soft marshmallow, he felt comfortable beside Blanche. It reminded him of childhood days when he was kept at home with a cold or touch of flu. The bedroom smelled of herbal tea and suppositories. The thermometer struggled to reach 38.2°C; comics lay strewn over the bed. He didn’t really feel unwell; he just had no desire to do anything. From the kitchen came the sound of saucepans, wafts of bouillon, and his mother’s voice humming along to a tune on the radio. It was like being alive and yet dead, a phantom who could go through walls, infiltrating the domestic intimacy of the woman busy at the stove. Even his father had no access there. Very СКАЧАТЬ