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

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      ‘No more than anywhere else on earth. If you think about it, our planet is nothing more than an island in space.’

      ‘Maybe, but a pretty big one. It’d take quite a while to get around the whole thing.’

      ‘Not all that long. Anyway once you’ve had enough of an island, you just set sail again and it’s like starting from scratch.’

      ‘Why would you want to start from scratch? You seem like you’ve done well in life. I can’t seem to get off the starting line.’

      Probably by association, Bernard ordered the floating island for dessert. Simon was happy just to finish off the bottle of wine. He could consume huge quantities without showing the slightest sign of inebriation; only his gaze became more intense and unsettling. He never stumbled or raised his voice. In actual fact, he couldn’t stand drunks. He generally stuck to water, so as to keep a steady hand. But some days, some nights … The strange thing about this young blockhead was that he wasn’t actually stupid. He displayed a kind of guileless common sense which Simon found refreshing. It reminded him of the possibility of a simpler life. It was like coming across a spring gushing with cool water at the end of a long hot walk. Bernard’s vulnerability made him invincible.

      They left the restaurant and headed back up Rue Jean-Jaurès (steering clear of Bernard’s mother’s shop), crossed the Volane and walked down Boulevard de Vernon towards the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. It was a mild evening, almost as bright as daylight with the full moon swinging like a pendulum amid the stars. They passed only two people on their way: a man walking his dog and another leaning against the trunk of a plane tree, vomiting.

      ‘Which countries have you been to, Monsieur Marechall?’

      ‘Oh, I’ve been all over the place: Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Latin America, anywhere that’s had a war. I was in the army before setting up my business.’

      ‘Ah, I see. Being in the army takes you places. I was in Germany once; even then it was just over the border. Apart from the language it’s the same as here. I went to Switzerland with school once too. It was really nice, just like the postcards. Have you been?’

      ‘Yes. It’s very pretty. It makes you want to die.’

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Well, because it’s so quiet … and full of flowers.’

      ‘You’re right actually. They know a whole lot about geraniums.’

      ‘So what’s this building here?’

      ‘That’s the Vals mineral water plant.’

      There was something feudal about this massive structure whose shadow loomed over half the street. Its arched windows reflected the moon’s pearly light. Most of the surrounding warehouses had been boarded up, making the building’s long, towering walls seem even more formidable. Who could tell what dark deeds went on behind closed doors? Simon seemed entranced.

      ‘It’s like the hull of the Queen Mary coming in to dock …’ he muttered.

      ‘That’s a boat, isn’t it? What was it called again?’

      ‘It’s more than a boat. It’s a giant of the seas!’

      ‘Only here, the water’s inside rather than all around it. Thirty million bottles come out of there every year. The factory’s been going over a hundred years, so that’s a whole lot of water – enough to make the place float!’

      ‘You’re right. Perhaps it will sail away one day.’

      ‘I was only joking.’

      ‘Have you been to the sea much, Bernard?’

      ‘No, never. The closest thing I’ve seen to the sea is Lake Geneva.’

      ‘Would you like to go?’

      ‘Yes, why not?’

      They carried on walking in silence, Bernard trying to imagine a body of water greater than Lake Geneva, Simon racking his brains to think of the ultimate island.

      The multicoloured lights strung among the trees outside Béatrix ice-cream parlour were still on. A waiter in shirtsleeves was clearing tables and stacking chairs. A few stragglers hung around the rotunda hoping for some excitement before returning to their hotel rooms to stuff themselves with sleeping pills. The more optimistic ones made straight for the casino whose lights could be seen flickering through the trees. It was only ten thirty, and Simon wasn’t ready to go to bed.

      ‘One last drink?’

      ‘No, I’d better get going. I have to look after my mother. Thanks again for dinner, I really enjoyed it.’

      ‘OK then. See you around.’

      ‘Tomorrow’s market day.’

      ‘I’ll see you there then. Good night.’

      Simon ordered a pear brandy in the lounge. Two men were playing snooker, badly, but they strutted around like world champions. While waiting for his drink Simon inspected the bookshelves and lighted on an old, yellowed copy of Treasure Island. He settled into a cracked leather armchair and thumbed through it, hoping to recapture the pleasure he had felt when he first read it. The island had not changed, but he had.

      Anaïs was snoring loudly on the sofa, a spirituality guide propped open on her chest like a little tent. The blanket had slid off and her dress had ridden up, revealing her legs splayed wide. She wasn’t wearing any knickers. Her bushy pubic hair crept up over her belly. Bernard saw nothing indecent in the scene; he was just a bit surprised that that was where he came from. He put the book down, taking care to mark her page, before lifting his mother up and putting her to bed. He tucked her in, pulled the quilt up to her chin and planted a kiss on her forehead. She rolled over with a moan.

      On market days, Rue Jean-Jaurès was unrecognisable. The stalls lining the pavements hid the empty windows of closed-down shops. A constant stream of people swarmed down the narrow street, their heaped baskets occasionally colliding and creating pedestrian traffic jams. The cool morning air fragrant with the smells of flowers, fruit, roast chicken and fresh fish could tempt even the most abstemious to indulge. Trestle tables sagged under the weight of mountains of cherries, transformed by sunlight into piles of shimmering rubies. Simon couldn’t resist buying himself a handful, biting into them as he walked. There were no subtle shades here, only vivid kaleidoscope colours.

      Market traders improvised skits to charm customers into parting with their cash. In front of a stall selling local handicrafts in the shape of goatskin drums, snake-head charms, plywood Bantu masks, glass-bead necklaces, elephants made out of tyres and an array of boiled leather hats, a German tourist was haggling over a bag that appeared to be made from reptile skin. The seller was a burly African wearing a thick overcoat despite the heat.

       ‘Nein! Moi acheter, mais pas vrai croco!’

       ‘Si! Croco véritable!’

       ‘Si croco véritable, moi pas acheter. Imitation, oui.’

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