The Panda Theory: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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      ‘I’m putting you in number 22. It’s on the next floor up.’

      ‘Great. I’ll go and get my bag.’

      ‘One more thing. I wanted to ask you what you were doing today.’

      ‘Nothing really. Why?’

      ‘I’m off this afternoon and I wondered, well, whether you fancied going for a walk? It’s not raining.’

      Her cheeks flushed red. She should blush more often. It suited her.

      ‘Is that too forward?’

      ‘No, not at all. It’s a great idea. Of course, I’d be glad to.’

      ‘I finish at noon.’

      ‘Perfect. I’ll see you later then.’

      It was the first time he had seen her outside work, in her entirety, standing up and not behind the desk. She was tall, as tall as he was, maybe even taller. It was a little intimidating. Even so, it was she who lowered her eyes and clutched her bag with the awkward charm of a young girl caught stepping out of the bath.

      ‘Okay, shall we go?’

      ‘After you.’

      She opened the door as if about to plunge into the unknown and strode off down the road on her long legs in a sort of blind charge, the tail of her raincoat flapping in the wind. She talked as fast as she walked.

       ‘I know a great Vietnamese restaurant, or Italian if you prefer. There’s a very interesting models museum and a cinema, but I don’t know what’s on. It’s a small town. There’s not a lot to do, but it is pretty, especially by the banks of the—’

      ‘I’ve got some calves’ liver.’

      ‘Sorry?’ Madeleine stopped in her tracks. Her dark eyebrows arched so high they almost touched the roots of her hair.

      ‘Calves’ liver. I could cook it for you if you want. I have all the ingredients. Do you like calves’ liver?’

      ‘Yes, yes, I love it, but—’

      ‘At your place. I could cook it there.’

      Madeleine looked bewildered, as if she’d been plonked down in the middle of nowhere at a crossroads of identical streets. She burst out laughing.

      ‘You’re quite something, aren’t you! Why not? I live nearby.’

      They walked side by side at a slower pace. Madeleine didn’t say a word, but shot Gabriel the occasional curious glance, followed by a disbelieving shake of her head.

      ‘You know,’ Gabriel said, ‘I often end up wandering around unfamiliar towns. I like it, but it’s nice to have somewhere to go.’

      ‘Do you travel around because of your work?’

      ‘It’s not exactly work – it’s a service I provide.’

      ‘What sort of service?’

      ‘It depends.’

      ‘And does it take you all over?’

      ‘Yes, all over.’

      ‘Here we are. I live on the third floor. The one with the geranium at the window.’

      The stairwell was unremarkable. It was typical of a modest 1960s building, clean, with a succession of dark-red doors distinguished from one another by nameplates and colourful doormats. Madeleine Chotard’s – that’s what was written on the copper nameplate: M. Chotard – was in the shape of a curled-up cat.

      Cats were everywhere in the two-bed flat in all sorts of varied guises: a lamp stand, wallpaper, cushions. There were figurines in wood, bronze and porcelain of cats jumping, sleeping, arching their backs, stretching …

      ‘The kitchen is on your left if you want to put your stuff down.’

      Even more cats in the kitchen: cat salt and pepper mills, cat jugs … Gabriel put the food on the worktop next to the hob and went back into the living room to join Madeleine. The room was small, but bright and very clean. Not a single cat’s hair in sight.

      ‘Make yourself at home. Do you want a drink before you start?’

      ‘I’d love one.’

      Being at home obviously freed Madeleine from the demeanour required at work. She was comfortable with her body, most probably sporty, natural – what’s known as a fine specimen. The strip of flesh visible between the bottom of her T-shirt and the belt of her skirt when she bent over to take a bottle from the cupboard was smooth and flat, not an ounce of fat.

      ‘I haven’t got a great choice. To be honest, I hardly ever drink aperitifs – I just keep some for friends. Do you fancy a Martini?’

      ‘Perfect!’

      It was as if there were a second world underneath the smoked glass of the low coffee table, an almost aquatic parallel universe where the reflection of the hands dipping into the bowl of peanuts merged with the floral carpet.

      ‘It’s funny seeing you here,’ she said.

      ‘It was you who invited me, the other day. You suggested I cook for you.’

      ‘I was joking.’

      ‘Well, I took it seriously. Would you rather go to a restaurant?’

      ‘No! It’s just that it’s surprising, that’s all. Normally you get to know people in a public place like a café or a club …’

      ‘A neutral place, yes. But why do you want to get to know me?’

      ‘I don’t know. Maybe because you always look a bit sad and bored.’

      ‘You must get a lot of people like that at the hotel, travelling salesmen, loners, people passing through …’

      ‘This is the first time! Don’t think—’

      ‘I didn’t mean anything like that, believe me. I’m happy to be here. Are you hungry?’

      ‘A little, yes.’

      ‘Okay then, I’ll get started.’

      ‘Do you want me to show you …?’

      ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll manage.’

      It was as he had expected. Luckily, he’d thought of everything. It was a typical singleton’s kitchen. The fridge was practically bare and contained just a few fat-free yogurts, half an apple wrapped in cling film, some leftover rice, a half-frozen lettuce stuck to the back of the vegetable drawer and a jar of Nutella for those nights when she needed comfort. It was touching.

      The new potatoes were soon bobbing up and down in the boiling СКАЧАТЬ