Moon in a Dead Eye: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ in the space of a month during which Martial felt he was going about his life under hypnosis, signing papers he had not even read, carried along by Odette’s gushing enthusiasm.

      As the first residents to move into the village, they had spent the past month in total solitude. Aside from Monsieur Flesh, the caretaker-manager they sometimes bumped into at the gate, they saw no one. Flesh was a strapping fellow, but didn’t have much to say for himself. He seemed to be very good at his job, but he wasn’t the sort to slap on the back or have a glass of beer with. Judging by his accent, he was from Alsace, or Lorraine. The tight lips of this timid Cerberus had parted just long enough to let Martial know that another couple was due to arrive in March or April.

      Martial stood up and rubbed the small of his back. This new armchair was a waste of space. He should have put his foot down and kept the old one, which had moulded perfectly to his body over the years. Its replacement was stuffed so tightly that when you stood up, it looked as though it had never been sat on. Through the window, the row of TV aerials stretched off into the distance like crosses in a cemetery. We’ve bought ourselves a plot to lie in …

      He heard Odette’s voice calling up from the cellar.

      ‘Martial, what are you doing?’

      ‘Nothing. What do you think I’m doing?’

      ‘Come down here.’

      They didn’t actually need to shout; the bungalow was a good deal smaller than their detached house in Suresnes.

      ‘Look, I’ve made room for the ironing board. I just need you to put a few shelves up, here and here.’

      ‘OK. We’ll need to get some wood and brackets … and wall plugs – I’ve run out.’

      ‘We could go now, it’s only three o’clock.’

      ‘If you like.’

      ‘I’ll get the stuff to make jam at the same time.’

      ‘Jam? You’ve never made jam.’

      ‘Precisely, it’s about time I started. I found an old cookbook. Now we’re living in the country, I’m going to start making my own jams. It’s far thriftier that way.’

      ‘In the country, in the country … With what fruit? There’s nothing but apples at this time of year.’

      ‘Well then, I’ll make some nice apple jelly.’

      ‘Up to you, if that’s what you feel like … Right then, I’ll measure up for the wood and we can get going.’

      Martial pressed the remote control three times, but the entrance gate refused to open.

      ‘What’s wrong with this thing?’

      ‘Beep the horn. Monsieur Flesh will let us out.’

      At the second attempt, they watched through the fan-shaped patch of glass cleared by the windscreen wipers as the caretaker sidestepped puddles to reach them, holding a jacket up over his head. Martial wound down the window.

      ‘Afternoon, Monsieur Flesh. I can’t seem to get the gate open; perhaps there’s something wrong with my remote?’

      ‘No, it was the storm this morning. Must have blown the electrics.’

      ‘Ah …’

      ‘I called the management. Someone’s coming to look at it this afternoon but I’m not sure what time.’

      ‘And it can’t be opened manually?’

      ‘No. It’s for security. If you need something urgently, I can get it for you; I’m parked the other side.’

      ‘No, thank you, that’s kind of you. If you could just let us know when it’s fixed.’

      ‘Of course. Have a good day.’

      They spent the rest of the day like two grounded children, sitting in front of the TV until dinner time, which they brought forward half an hour to get it over with. Afterwards, there was nothing they wanted to watch, so they had an early night. As he turned off the bedside lamp, it occurred to Martial that, apart from the dull glow of the caretaker’s lodge, there would be no lights on for miles around. They held each other very tightly.

      Everything carried on in much the same way until 23 March. The weather had perked up a bit, now raining only every other day. They had on three occasions taken advantage of these temporary reprieves to head into town and to the coast, since the gate had, of course, been repaired. The beach was deserted. They walked along it effortlessly, light-headed from the wind which carried them further and further on. They felt fighting fit. The way back, on the other hand, proved much harder work with the wind against them. Bent double, brows beaten by spray, blinded by the sand flying up in their faces, the soggy trudge seemed to go on for ever. When they finally made it back to their car, their heads were pounding, their eyes bulging, their hearts thumping to a samba beat. It was several minutes before either of them could speak. The wind had played them a siren’s song as they set out, a swan song on their return. The experience left them uneasy, with a lingering sense of having narrowly avoided catastrophe. They had not been to the beach since.

      The shelves above the ironing board were now firmly in place and had even been adorned with a pretty trim of Provençal fabric – the perfect finishing touch.

      New knick-knacks had appeared, like the wrought-iron floor lamp bought for a small fortune from a gypsy artisan, the ultramodern transparent plastic magazine rack, not to mention the nightmarish painting of a storm-battered schooner. It was not advisable for sufferers of seasickness to look at it for more than thirty seconds.

      Otherwise, they filled their time with TV and books, like convalescents. They had come up with a game, ‘the neighbours game’. Monsieur Flesh had twice confirmed that another couple would be moving in shortly. No, he didn’t know their names, nor where they came from; ‘people like you, I expect’. They didn’t know what to make of this ambiguous comparison. What did he mean, people like them? The question had set them imagining their future neighbours in all manner of guises, much to their own amusement.

      ‘Their surname is Schwob. He’s tiny and she’s huge.’

      ‘They’re black.’

      ‘Vegetarian.’

      ‘They’ve been to China.’

      All of which meant that well before their arrival, Monsieur and Madame Sudre’s neighbours were no longer complete strangers; in a sense, they were already living alongside them. The anticipation grew by the day, as though Christmas were just around the corner. Then the long-awaited moment finally came, and that day, there was no watching TV. A huge lorry sporting the logo of Breton Removals drove past on the dot of 9 a.m., preceded by a metallic-grey Mercedes coupé which perfectly matched the colour of the sky.

      Odette was clearing the breakfast table and Martial was poring over the classifieds in the local paper, his latest hobby.

      ‘Oh, here they are!’

      Martial looked up from his newspaper and turned to the window where his wife stood holding the breakfast tray, as though in some kind of trance. The lorry СКАЧАТЬ