Gallic Noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ ogre gobbling up the house like a mere chicken carcass. All that could be seen now was blackness. Even the water arcing from the hoses was black.

      Blanche collected him from where he stood, wild-eyed, arms hanging limply by his sides, amid the firemen crawling over the wreckage like golden scarab beetles. They reminded him a little of Breton Removals, in a more drastic form.

      ‘You’re spending the night at my house. Then tomorrow, we’ll see.’

      ‘Yes.’

      Blanche’s suggestion seemed entirely fitted to the situation. He allowed himself to be led away, like a blind man. The speed with which events were unfolding made any initiative on his part unnecessary. He had only one word left: yes.

      ‘I’ll get a room ready for you.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Would you like a bowl of soup?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The bowl was identical to the one from which he had drunk his hot chocolate as a child, with a border of blue and white squares, and a chip in almost the same place, as if someone had tried to take a bite out of it.

      ‘Will it be all right?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Have they told you how it happened?’

      ‘A cigarette end or exposed wire, they don’t know exactly.’

      ‘Ah. You can stay here for a few days until you’ve had a chance to think more clearly.’

      ‘That’s kind, thank you.’

      No, his childhood bowl wasn’t blue and white squares, it was yellow and white … or even red and white.

      ‘The room’s ready!’

      Spoken like a true soubrette. Blanche absolutely looked the part, spruce, pink-cheeked, sparkly-eyed. Before she resumed an air of sympathy, he could have sworn she was rejoicing in the situation.

      It was as if she were on springs. Brice had difficulty keeping up with her on the stairs.

      ‘There, it’s this one.’

      The room was spacious, with a large bed in dark wood, an impressive wardrobe, a small table, a chair and, on a tray by the bed, an artificial flower in a tooth glass. On the quilt lay a towel and a wash mitt. Blanche pulled back the curtain.

      ‘It’s very quiet. It looks on to the cemetery.’

      It was a clear night. The rows of little tombs were reminiscent of an outdoor cinema auditorium.

      ‘This is my father’s room. No one has slept here since he went. He didn’t go far – he’s over there, just behind the cypress. Would you like me to run you a bath?’

      ‘No, I just need to sleep. Thank you, Blanche.’

      What the hell difference did it make to him whether the room was her father’s, the Pope’s or Napoleon’s? He collapsed on to the bed and removed his shoes by rubbing them against each other, one arm covering his eyes. He couldn’t get the taste of ash out of his mouth.

      Blackened beams, twisted pieces of metal, shattered windows, melted plastic, objects bloated and reshaped by the fire … The end of the world had the acrid stench of saucepan bottoms. Through the holes in the roof, the sky glanced in at the debris with the half-curious, half-blasé look of a passer-by. The spectacle was not without a certain charm, rather like a visit to Pompeii on a rainy day. Apart from the insurance – and that would take time since the cause of the disaster was unknown – there was precisely nothing to be salvaged.

      What miracle had enabled the cat to escape? It was a mystery. The most likely explanation was that it had found a way out through one of the gaps only it knew about, which make our impregnable fortresses veritable sieves. At all events, Brice had found it marching around in the blackened rubble, looking disgusted and carefully picking up its paws, but without a single hair singed.

      ‘Right, well, that’s over.’

      Nestled in his arms, the cat gave a grunt of approval to Brice’s rigorous summing up of the situation. Goodbye boxes, stuff, whatsits and things: once again he could travel light.

      A builder had been called in to make the house safe. The window openings were held in place by timber struts, and metal jacks were propping up the stumps of beams gnawed by the flames.

      ‘We didn’t last long together. We can’t have been suited. Sorry.’

      A tile shattered on the pavement right behind him as he crossed the road.

      ‘And she bears a grudge!’

      ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it?’

      ‘What’s wonderful?’

      ‘Springtime, and the two of us taking a walk through the vines. It’s like before.’

      ‘Before what?’

      ‘Like in Papa’s day.’

      The sky was like the lid of a sweet jar, the breeze like a baby’s breath. The spring was pretty, if a little sticky. Everything you touched was dripping with sap – the buds, the grass shoots, even the insects struggling to get out of their chrysalises. Nature was running with amniotic fluid, streaming with glimmering saliva which was polished by the first rays of the sun. Everyone came out of their shells rumpled, amazed, greedy, and drunk on that insolent youth which made them ready to take on death.

      Brice was walking in front, lifting flounces of foliage with his stick like a cad lifts girls’ skirts. He had been living with Blanche for a month already, and the time had flashed by. There was one place in the house that he was particularly fond of: the attic. It was huge and light. In the past Louis Montéléger had used it as his artist’s studio. The bare wooden floor was spattered with multi-coloured splashes of paint. It looked like the aftermath of a carnival. Even in dull weather, the light pouring in through the window was strengthened by reflecting off the whitewashed walls. The only piece of furniture was a sagging old club arm-chair, its arms torn by generations of tomcats.

      The very next day after he moved in, he had put up two trestles and a plank and set to work immediately. In a week he had dashed off the drawings for his editor and received, by return of post, a cheque with the compliments of both Mabel Hirsch and Dominique Porte. He had not derived any pride from it; it left him completely indifferent. He hadn’t thrown himself into his work to make money or from virtue, but so as not to think any more, to watch his hand tracing lines and spreading colours from morning till night until his eyes were popping out of his head.

      Blanche fussed round him, rather too much. Not an hour went by without her coming to offer him a cup of Viandox, or coffee, or tea …

      ‘No, thank you, Blanche. I’m working. Later.’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

      To be honest, after the drawings he hadn’t much to do. But he needed to be up there, on his own, with the cat on his knee, sitting in the armchair, gazing at the cemetery. СКАЧАТЬ