How's the Pain?: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

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СКАЧАТЬ past Béatrix ice-cream parlour down the road from his hotel, Simon gave in to a childish whim. He sat down at a table underneath the plane trees whose leaves filtered the sunlight, casting extraordinary shadows. With the defiance of a little boy, he ordered the biggest and most expensive ice cream on the menu. While he waited for it to arrive, he flicked through the spa brochure he had picked up from reception that morning. The town boasted six springs: Constantine was the best for treating weight problems, dyspepsia and gout; Précieuse was the one to go to for liver conditions and diabetes; Dominique was very effective against anaemia and fatigue; Désirée was recommended for its laxative effects; Rigolette was prescribed for colitis; Camuse, to ease digestion. These waters could only be drunk on prescription, but there were three others – Saint-Jean, Favorite and Béatrix – which could be consumed in limitless quantities. The list of the conditions they were capable of curing was both endless and disconcerting: industrial dermatitis, nasal fractures, tropical liver diseases, trigger finger, abnormally large intestines … There were as many ailments to treat as there were ice creams on the menu. Who could claim not to suffer from a single one of them?

      He glanced up. The average age of the clientele was somewhere between sixty and a hundred. Though he fell into this age bracket himself, the sight of so many pensioners in one place made him dizzy. While he had always considered his presence on earth to be a miscasting and had done his best to distance himself from his playmates from a tender age, he had never felt so trapped, in the clutches of some merciless predator. A young waitress set down in front of him the huge glass of garish ice cream studded with ridiculous cocktail umbrellas. Aside from her, he could see only three humanoids who had so far escaped the ravages of time. All of them were on wheels (bicycle, skateboard and rollerblades) as they zipped past, intent on dodging the Zimmer frames.

      Why on earth had he stopped at Vals-les-Bains? It was simply down to a pun. A Strauss waltz had been playing on France Musique as he drove towards the town. ‘A last waltz … a last Vals?’ Admittedly a violent bout of sickness had also forced him to stop for an hour, leaving him feeling shaky. He was in luck, a Belgian couple had just cancelled and there was one room left at the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. He had planned to stay just one night, but when he woke up to a glimpse of spring sunshine, a coffee and some excellent croissants, something in the air had made him want to truant for the day.

      He still hadn’t touched his ice cream, which was beginning to resemble a jaundiced cowpat. He toyed with his spoon, looking at his reflection in its curved surfaces. What had come over him, inviting that lad to dinner? He probably took him for an old queer. What if he didn’t turn up? He hadn’t seemed too bright, but that was what he liked about him: his honesty, his awkwardness, and that bandaged hand he moved about like a glove puppet. There was no denying it, he had made some strange choices since his arrival, like this ice cream he had never even wanted in the first place and which was now just a mess. He tried a mouthful anyway. All the flavours had mingled together and it was impossible to identify a single one. It was just cold and sweet.

      While he was fishing for change in his jacket pocket, his revolver almost fell out.

      ‘Shit, it really is time to call it a day.’

      ‘So why’s this man invited you to dinner then? You don’t think he might be a poofter?’

      ‘Don’t think so, no. He seems normal.’

      ‘What’s “normal”? Everyone seems normal, but they’re not really. Anyway, you’re a big boy now, you can look after yourself.’

      ‘Don’t you want any more of your chop, Mother?’

      ‘No, it’s too fatty.’

      ‘Lamb’s always a bit fatty, that’s what makes it so tasty. You never eat anything.’

      ‘Well, you can’t do everything. Eat or drink, you have to make a choice.’

      ‘You drink too much. You smoke too much as well. No wonder you’re always tired.’

      ‘I like being tired, it’s relaxing. What are you doing today?’

      ‘Not sure. It’s a nice day, might go for a walk down by the river. How about I make you some vegetable soup for tonight? You like veggie soup, don’t you?’

      ‘If you like. How’s your hand?’

      ‘It’s all right. I went to see Dr Garcin this morning to get the dressing changed. He asked after you.’

      ‘And what did you say?’

      ‘That you were fine.’

      ‘You’re a rotten liar … just as well.’

      ‘And what are you going to do?’

      ‘Same as usual. A nice nap before I go to bed.’

      It was a place only he knew. You went under the bridge before taking a pebbly path beside the Volane for about fifteen minutes. Then you had to jump from rock to rock, without worrying about getting your feet wet, to reach a little sandy cove shaded by gnarled willows. No one could see you. The bubbling of the water drowned out the hubbub of the town and the cars on the road above. He had discovered this spot when on holiday here at the age of ten. It was in the days when his mother was selling strange herbs with Daphne. He’d never much liked that lady. Firstly, she was ugly, with all that red hair and hippy clothes. She couldn’t smile properly either; every time she tried, stroking his head, she looked like the wicked stepmother offering Snow White the poisoned apple. She smelt bad and painted her nails black like claws. If he’d been a dog, he would have bitten her.

      Bernard leant against the warm rock, took off his shoes and socks and wiggled his toes in the grey sand. The pebbles formed a pool where the water could catch its breath before continuing along its course, foaming at the mouth. Dragonflies flitted across the surface and sometimes you might see a trout circling in the clear water below. They were beautiful, the dragonflies, as delicate and glittery as Tinkerbell. The trout were pretty too; so gentle, so shiny, so alive. Once he had caught one in his hand. That was a moment he would never forget. It was like holding life itself between his fingers with its golden eyes, supple body, shimmering scales and gills that pulsed like pipe valves. He stroked it for a long time, too long. It bucked one last time and all that was left in his hands was a limp, motionless object. He had tried to put it back in the water but it had instantly capsized, baring its white belly to the sky. He had buried it tearfully, right there under the willow stump. Even after washing his hands ten times, it took two days to get rid of the smell of sludge. He never did it again.

      No, this Monsieur Simon Marechall was no queer. He had invited him out because he liked him, simple as that. It was spending all her time shut away in that dump of a shop that made his mother see the dark side of everything. Anyway, he had known queers who were no worse than the people who didn’t like queers. All you had to do was say no. Once he had said yes, just to see what would happen. It was in the third year of secondary school and the boy’s surname was Gambin or Gamblin or something. Gamblin’s dick had the same effect on him as the trout between his hands. He let it go. Gamblin wanted to be a diver when he grew up. He swam like a fish. Everyone dreamt of being something then: diver, pilot, fireman or farmer. But Bernard had never found his calling.

      ‘What do you want to do for a living?’

      ‘Dunno.’

      Having miraculously got to the end of the fourth year, borne along like a stowaway, he was advised to take the vocational route, not being academically inclined. Baking, hairdressing, mechanics, plumbing – he was СКАЧАТЬ