The A26: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ at right angles to the horizon. There was no house nearby. Here was a chap who had simply said to himself, ‘I know what, I’ll stop here for a cigarette because this is absolutely the best place in the world for that.’ It was over in seconds, just the time it took for the motorcyclist’s image to disappear in the rear-view mirror, but Bernard felt every bit of that man’s happiness in his own body: ‘I feel good.’

      ‘And what’s going to happen to me as long as Yolande’s still alive?’ He realised he had never asked himself that question before. He would very much have liked to be a biker stopped at the roadside for eternity. No doubt Yolande had never asked herself that question either.

      She didn’t care, had never cared about anything but herself. It couldn’t really be called egotism, she had simply never been aware of other people. They were bit parts, at most, even her brother. When she had come home with her head shaven, never to leave the house again, she had appeared relieved, her face serene like that of a young nun. They didn’t want her any more, and she had never wanted them. At last things were clear, ordered, everyone in his own place. She had never wanted anything but this cat’s life of cosseting and food.

      Bernard slowed down as he passed the works on the A26. The pillars supporting the slip road had advanced a few steps. RIP Maryse.

      ‘Now, Bernard, that’s not an empty glass, is it?’

      ‘Yes, but I’m fine, thanks.’

      Roland’s eyes looked like two egg whites, pastis yellow shot through with red.

      ‘It’s lovely to see the young ones having fun, so full of life!’

      In the back room of the café, where the tables had been arranged in a horseshoe, the young ones were jigging to one of the summer’s hits. The acrylic of the girls’ little skirts was stretched out of shape over their bulging thighs. The boys, a glint in their eye, were blowing themselves a smoke screen to hide their acne and drinking out of cans. Jacqueline, hair dishevelled, was zigzagging amongst the dancers with a tray in her outstretched arm. She looked like a statue carrying its upturned plinth.

      ‘She’s not bad, even now, huh?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Even with a few miles on the clock she’s still a catch, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘I’m telling you, Bernard, not only am I not angry with you, I feel sorry for you. Yes, I do, don’t argue. What’s more, out of all the men who’ve come sniffing around after her, you’re the one I like best. You are! Because you’re going to kick the bucket soon – before me. Not by much maybe, but before me.’

      Roland’s brow was dripping with sweat. The few hairs he had left were plastered to his temples. He’d been a very good footballer, the best goalkeeper Subligny had ever had, and had inherited the café-restaurant from his parents.

      ‘I had to tell you, Bernard – it may not look like it but I respect you. Look, if you want to, you can have her right here and now, before my very eyes, and I won’t say a thing. Scout’s honour.’

      ‘You’re talking rubbish, Roland. You’re sozzled.’

      ‘Not at all! You’ll see. Jacqueline! Hey, Jacqueline!’

      ‘What’s the matter? Have you taken leave of your senses, yelling like that?’

      ‘He won’t believe I respect him! Do your business, you two, and I won’t so much as raise my little finger. Go on!’

      ‘You’ve got to be mad! There are children present!’

      ‘So, there’s children. They’ve got to learn the facts of life, haven’t they? Like on the farm, the pigs with the sows, and the mares with the … I don’t know what, but that’s nature’s way, isn’t it, shit!’

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