The Front Seat Passenger: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ can’t stay on his own. He’s never been able to manage on his own.’

      Gilles: ‘The lucky bastard! He’s never had to worry about being on his own before … I would ask him to come and live with me at the house. Since Fanchon left, there’s plenty of room. I only have the kid every other weekend. And actually it would suit me to have someone help me with the rent … But will he want that? Hey, did you know about Sylvie?’

      Laure: ‘No, she never mentioned anyone. I knew their relationship wasn’t great any more, but there was never any question of a lover. In fact she disapproved of that kind of thing. I often used to tell her to have an affair, to give her confidence, nothing serious, but it didn’t seem to appeal to her. You think you know people, then it turns out …’

      Gilles: ‘Fanchon and me, we told each other everything. But at the end of the day, the result was the same, except Fanchon isn’t dead.’

      Laure: ‘Well, you know what I think about marriage. Here’s to being single! One boyfriend after another and no more than one night under the same roof.’

      Gilles: ‘Yeah, right. You just can’t hold on to any of them, that’s all. You’d like nothing better than evenings in, drying nappies and cuddling up on the sofa. I don’t know anyone keener to settle down than you.’

      Laure: ‘Me?’

      Gilles: ‘Yes, you. But to avoid being disappointed, to preserve your ideal of married life, you only let yourself fall for passing Californians.’

      Laure: ‘You’re talking crap, Gilles. Anyway, Helmut isn’t Californian.’

      Gilles: ‘He is just passing through though.’

      It was funny to hear them discussing him and chatting on the other side of the wall. Fabien felt as if he didn’t exist any more, as if Sylvie’s disappearance had caused him to disappear as well. Perhaps death was contagious. Or he was morphing into Peter Brady, from H. G. Wells’s The Invisible Man, Sylvie’s favourite hero. When they met she had told him that when she was little she had never missed an episode of that serial. That should have put him on his guard. It was hard to compete with someone like that. She had some strange ideas, like her great regret that she had never managed to become an anaesthetist. He wondered if in fact she had succeeded, at least with him. It was odd, he had expected to see some mark on his face, a scar from Sylvie’s death, but there was nothing, not one new wrinkle, not the slightest redness in the middle of his forehead and yet, God knows, the light from the fluorescent strip over the basin was unforgiving. All that remained of Sylvie was things: pots of cream, lipsticks, mascara, a toothbrush, tweezers, nail files, brushes … What was he going to do with all that detritus? Nothing. He was going to do nothing with it. He wasn’t going to give them to the poor, or burn them; he wasn’t going to touch any of it. He could just disappear, close the door and go and take up residence somewhere else. They weren’t quite right, those two who were cleaning and sweeping in the kitchen: it wasn’t that he was incapable of living on his own, it was just that he could only contemplate solitude if someone else was with him.

      He remembered Gilles and Fanchon’s apartment as a cosy, comfortable jumble of furniture lovingly selected from junk shops, souvenirs of exotic trips, rugs, atmospheric lamps, etc. Now all that remained were pale rectangular patches on the yellowing walls, a scant few pieces of furniture – a round table, three chairs, a telly and a sagging sofa on which Gilles sat cross-legged, a dressing gown round his shoulders. He was smoking weed and a thick cloud of smoke floated above his head. He looked as though he had been abandoned in the middle of an ice field with various toys – a giraffe, a big red lorry, wooden blocks, little dismembered figures, and some other more or less identifiable items.

      ‘The bailiffs or a burglary?’

      ‘Fanchon. Take a seat.’

      Fabien sat down amidst the ruins of a devastated multicoloured Lego town.

      ‘It’s the lack of curtains that makes it look empty. Curtains are important in a room. But I kept the fridge, the cooker and the TV. How do you feel?’

      ‘I feel nothing. As if I’m on automatic pilot. I suppose that’s normal at the beginning. I hardly noticed this week go by; I just slept.’

      ‘You were right to come here. It’s not good to stay there all by yourself. Make yourself at home. Léo is a cool kid, you’ll see. I told him you were going to come and live with us. He was really pleased. He gets bored at his mum’s. Try some, it’s Colombian. It’s been years since I smoked anything this good. It’s better than Valium.’

      The weed filled his mouth with a powerful peppery taste. Coils of smoke twirled in a ray of sunlight.

      ‘How did it go?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘The funeral.’

      ‘All right. Good weather. Laure and your father-in-law squabbled a bit; they both wanted to take charge of things. You know what they’re like.’

      ‘No one said anything? I mean about me not being there …’

      ‘Whisperings here and there. Nothing too bad. Given the circumstances, most people understood. Anyway, they couldn’t say anything in front of your father.’

      ‘How was he?’

      ‘Monolithic. He told me to look after you and that he was sorry.’

      ‘Sorry for what?’

      ‘I don’t know … Anyway, in the meantime you can sleep in Léo’s room. I’ve put his bed in my room. It will be fine like that for the weekend, and as you can see, there’s plenty of space for him to play in here. Guess what? Yesterday she came to take the TV away! Can you believe it? She earns twenty thousand francs a month and she wanted to take the telly from me! I was gutted. I haven’t even got enough to pay the rent. She’s crazy.’

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