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

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СКАЧАТЬ was wearing a wig. He had been to pick up the keys from Madeleine, whom his mother had often talked about, but whom he had never met.

      From the moment they laid eyes on one another, he could see she had hated him for a long time.

      ‘Oh, Monsieur Olivier, you look so much like her! My sincere condolences, Monsieur Olivier. It’s so sad! Excuse me.’

      She plunged her nose (which looked like a rancid hunk of Gruyère) into a handful of tissues, while continuing to give him the evil eye. She was much as he had pictured her, voluntarily enslaved, even more of a Versaillaise than her mistress. A by-product. She had insisted on coming with him to the home of his ‘poor maman’, whom he sadly could not see until the next day because the undertakers had transferred the body to the morgue. The trouble was, with the weather like this and the Christmas holidays approaching, people were dying in large numbers. The funeral might not be held until the 26th or even 27th.

      ‘The 27th?’

      ‘That’s what they told me!’

      For a good half-hour she carried on about his poor mother’s poor armchair, his poor mother’s poor mirror, his poor mother’s poor life. All the above swam in a poor whiff of poor leeks.

      ‘Thanks for everything, Madeleine. If you’ll excuse me, I’m rather tired …’

      ‘Of course, you poor thing, I understand. I’ll leave you to your memories. If you need anything at all …’

      ‘That’s very kind of you, Madeleine. Thanks again.’

      Everything he touched had been touched by the hand of a dead person and he found the idea vaguely disgusting, even if that person was his mother. He wondered where he was going to sleep. Not in the bed, that was for sure. Tomorrow he would look for a hotel, but he didn’t have the strength to go out again in the bitter cold tonight, roaming this ghost town in search of a place to stay. The sofa, maybe? Curling up like a winkle, he should fit. He plumped up the cushions and removed the ubiquitous lace doilies from the arms. Before anything else, he must call Odile to let her know he had arrived safely and that proceedings might be delayed.

      What had the old bat been talking about, having the funeral on the 26th or 27th? It was the 21st today. A whole week to kill here! She must have got her wires crossed. Either she was losing the plot or was saying it to wind him up because she couldn’t bear him. He could just picture his mother leaning on Madeleine’s bony shoulder and pouring her heart out. ‘Ungrateful child … cast me aside like an old apple …’ That was exactly what he should have done instead of having her down on the coast with them for a fortnight every August. She was never satisfied, always putting Odile down, constantly criticising and complaining – her legs, her shoulders, her head, off with her head … No doubt the two old biddies exchanged notes on everything. He would find out for himself tomorrow.

      It was an old telephone with finger-holes, covered in garnet-red velour with an elegant trim of gold braid. The receiver smelt of dried spit.

      ‘Odile? It’s me.’

      ‘How are you? Did you get there OK?’

      ‘Yes, I’m here now. How are you?’

      ‘I’m OK, but it’s getting a bit much. Have you seen how busy it is everywhere? Mireille came to give me a hand. She said she’d help out until you get back.’

      ‘About that … the funeral might not happen until the 26th or 27th.’

      ‘What? What do you mean?’

      ‘Calm down. It was Madeleine who said it but she’s completely insane; I’m sure she’s got the wrong end of the stick.’

      ‘I certainly hope so! What am I going to do with the shop? And we said we were going to spend Christmas—’

      ‘Do you think I want to be stuck here? Listen, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’m going to the undertaker’s, I’ll ring Emmaus to get the flat cleared, I’ll swing by the lawyer and then I’ll be on the first train or plane out of here. I just want to get back. Believe me, this whole thing’s a total pain.’

      ‘I know, darling. I love you.’

      ‘I love you too. Right, I’d better see if I can find something to eat.’

      ‘Will you call me tomorrow?’

      ‘Of course. Speak then, darling. Love you lots.’

      ‘You too, speak tomorrow.’

      People who love each other always say, ‘You too, speak tomorrow.’

      After putting the phone down, he felt terribly lonely. The sound of Odile’s voice floating in his ears underlined the oddness of the situation. It was the first time they had been apart for more than twenty-four hours since they got married. There was something bizarre about parachuting into another life – if you could call this empty flat a life. He had long since scrumpled all family ties into a ball and chucked it over his shoulder. His mother must have made doilies out of hers. He had no memory of them ever having loved one another. It was Odile who had insisted, ‘Olivier, she was still your mother!’ What did ‘still-a-mother’ mean? It was like ‘a-father-after-all’, ‘parents-can’t-live-without-’em’, or ‘a-baby-yes-why-not?’ He had not come up when his father died. A family for a fortnight a year … The hand that feeds you. Hunger forced him to pull himself together.

      More than anywhere else in the flat, the kitchen glowed yellowish like the colour of nicotine-stained teeth; even the sink enamel looked like old ivory. The fridge was empty and had been unplugged. All he could find to eat was a bottle of Viandox sauce at the back of a cupboard and half a packet of alphabet pasta for soups. Before he closed the cupboard door, the alluring label of an almost full bottle of Negrita caught his eye. He shrugged and put a saucepan of water on to boil.

       The Islanders

      ‘Rodolphe, will you stop that?’

      ‘What’s the matter, don’t want anyone to see you sulking?’

      ‘I’m not sulking. You’re annoying me with the camcorder. Stop it, please.’

      Rodolphe put the camera down beside a plate on which a piece of cheese rind and an end crust of bread were languishing. The low-hanging ceiling lamp held the table in a cone of orange light. Jeanne was sitting in one of the two identical armchairs facing the TV. With her back turned to her brother, she was haloed by the bluish rays of the screen. The rest of the room was plunged in darkness.

      ‘You’ve started getting so high and mighty, making a fuss whenever I try to film you.’

      ‘Don’t be silly. It’s just irritating to feel someone’s eye on you all the time.’

      ‘A blind man’s eye!’

      ‘An eye all the same. It produces images.’

      ‘But you said you liked my films.’

      ‘I do, but I’m fed up with being your only star and having to look at myself from every angle.’

      ‘You’re СКАЧАТЬ