Moon in a Dead Eye

by Pascal Garnier

  Though he could not put his finger on why exactly, Martial did not feel at ease in mini Switzerland. The golf course reminded him of the extra-terrestrial landing grounds described in the science-fiction novel he had just finished. Ever since Maxime had put that laboratory idea into his head, planting the notion they were all being watched, Martial had begun reading all manner of off-the-wall books which had led him to doubt everything around him. What if those red flags were some kind of signals and the bunkers, the craters left by space ships? And what if Maxime …

  ‘Martial, old boy, look at me, I’m showing you what to do! … You hold your club like this, left hand here, right hand there, feet flat on the ground parallel to the direction the ball’s going to take. Roll your shoulders back …’

  Martial watched his neighbour whipping his club to and fro over the short grass, all the while wondering why the Martians were so keen on colonising Earth. The whole place had gone to the dogs, you only had to listen to the news to know that. It must be a complete dump where they came from …

  ‘Right. Now I’m going to show you what a real swing looks like!’

  Maxime bent over, wiggled his buttocks and shifted his feet as though stubbing out a cigarette. Then he suddenly lifted the club above his head and struck the ball with all his might. It all happened in the space of a few seconds, the time it would take to draw a comma, or cut off a king’s head. The ball flew up in the air, high enough to join other galaxies, while Maxime was left standing twisted as a grapevine, letting out a piercing cry before falling onto the grass in the position he would remain fixed in. Luckily, since they had only just teed off, the clubhouse (yes, there was one here too) was close by and Martial managed to haul Maxime there without too much trouble. Once inside, an off-duty doctor had given him first aid. Well, he said he was a doctor, but his ears were a bit too pointy …

  Léa and Nadine had watched the Sudres walking back towards their bungalow, she a few steps in front with her head held high, he dragging his feet as though carrying some heavy burden. Both women felt the urge to laugh.

  ‘Do you fancy a glass of wine?’

  ‘That would be lovely!’

  Léa’s house felt strangely like a hotel. Of course, there was furniture, paintings hanging on the walls and expensive ornaments, but nothing gave the impression of having been expressly chosen. The furnishings were only there to fill the rooms. It was a kind of B-movie set on which everything seemed to have been screwed permanently in position. The only things out of place were the clothes strewn about as though a suitcase had just been unpacked. The living room was filled with the scent of melon.

  ‘A nice chilled rosé?’

  ‘Sounds perfect!’

  ‘Head out onto the deck, I’ll be right with you.’

  Nadine settled into one of the loungers. A bath towel was hanging over the arm. She lifted it to her nose; it smelt of Léa. A single hair caught in the fabric formed an arabesque, like an initial.

  The wine was delicious. Léa had brought out cubes of frozen melon which melted in the mouth. The sun was setting. The world seemed to be at peace again.

  ‘Léa, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why did you decide to move here?’

  ‘To be honest, it wasn’t me who decided. It was … a gift.’

  ‘Oh … how funny …’

  ‘Why is that funny?’

  ‘It’s just a bit odd, isn’t it? I mean, the person who gave you this … “gift” must have known you pretty well?’

  ‘Yes, and …?’

  ‘I’m sorry to be rude, I barely know you, but I don’t think this place suits you. It’s not your style.’

  ‘Don’t you think? It’s quiet, comfortable, and I have very nice neighbours …’

  ‘It’s quiet, all right! I’ve been to graveyards livelier than this!’

  ‘Now, really, it’s not that bad … Perhaps it’s not what I would have chosen, but I had no other option.’

  ‘Why don’t you sell up?’

  ‘The thought has crossed my mind. I even looked into it, but it’s practically unsellable. I mean, look at all these empty houses. And anyway, would I really be better off anywhere else?’

  ‘See, you’re talking as if this place was your tomb! What’s making you so sad?’

  ‘You know, sometimes I feel like going back to bed before I’ve even got up. I was sitting out here last night, looking at the stars, and I wished I could pull the sky down and wrap myself in it, and then go to sleep for a very long time …’

  ‘You’re unhappy …’

  ‘No, I’m not. Why should you have to be unhappy to want to die? Anyway, let’s talk about something else. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a bite to eat? A bit of salad maybe?’

  ‘OK then. I’ll help you.’

  The kitchen could not have been used much either. Utensils were kept to a bare minimum and the inside of the fridge was like a wasteland. They began slicing tomatoes and onions as comfortably as old friends. Nadine did a pitch-perfect impression of Odette, while Léa tried to copy Maxime’s blinding smile. The wine had made them a little tipsy, breaking the ice between them.

  ‘I bet you have a good laugh at us, don’t you?’

  ‘I have to admit it can be hard to keep a straight face sometimes. Like the other day, when Marlène … Léa? … What are you doing?’

  Léa was smiling, dead-eyed, while filling the salad bowl with everything that came to hand: vegetable peelings, her keys, her purse … Nadine looked on, stunned.

  ‘Léa, are you drunk?’

  Léa did not hear her. Unfazed, she simply carried on adding things to the bowl.

  ‘Léa, are you OK?’

  Nadine took hold of Léa and turned her round to face her. She was so vacant it was as though she had been hypnotised.

  ‘Come and sit down. Come on.’

  Léa let herself be led to the sofa. No sooner had she sat down than she closed her eyes and fell asleep. She was still smiling.

  ‘It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  It seemed to Marlène that Monsieur Flesh, with both hands on the car door, holding his face inches from hers, bore an uncanny resemblance to the dog they had had to part with. He smelt like a dog too.

  ‘Are there … are there many of them?’

  ‘Three or four caravans. But this is just the beginning, there’ll soon be others. It’s the same every year, always around this time. Honestly, you’d be better off getting your husband to go with you.’

  ‘He can’t get about. It’s his back …’

  ‘In that case … It’s up to you. Anyway, have a nice day.’

  Gypsies … Marlène turned back, her forehead creased with worry. What a nuisance, the fridge was almost empty and Maxime had asked her to get him some magazines … It was only 10 a.m. People didn’t get their throats cut at 10 a.m. … But Monsieur Flesh seemed to be taking it seriously.

  Sitting in his armchair, propped up with cushions, Maxime saw his wife pulling up outside the house.

  ‘Did you forget something?’

  ‘No. I’ve just seen Monsieur Flesh. They’ve set up a gypsy camp right by the junction with the main road, you know, that scruffy patch …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, he told me it’s not safe for a woman to go that way alone.’

  ‘Oh … so what are we going to do? We haven’t got any bread, or any … What about my magazines? … Go and ask Martial.’

  ‘Their car’s not there.’

  ‘What about Léa?’

  ‘She’s gone out too. I saw her leave first thing this morning.’

  ‘Damn it! … Go and get my revolver from under the bed.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just get it!’

  Over the past two days, Maxime had not spoken more than a dozen words, and those he had spoken were short and sometimes very coarse. Unable to move from his chair, he sat brooding and staring through the window in th
e hallway at the nothingness outside. You could almost see the thought bubble hanging above his head, filled with daggers, skulls and crossbones and lit bombs. These gypsies had turned up just at the right moment to become the focus of his hatred for the whole of humanity. They were the ones taking the bread out of his mouth, stopping him reading Autosport, lying in wait, with knives between their teeth, to jump out and rape his wife! And of course they would have to come on a day when everyone else just happened to be out. You could never rely on anyone but yourself. Marlène held out the Smith & Wesson he had used only once at a shooting club. Maxime’s score had been so pitiful he had never set foot in there again. He checked the barrel was loaded and slid the gun between two cushions.

  ‘You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?’

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do, stuck in this chair? Push me closer to the window so I can see them coming.’

  ‘See who coming?’

  ‘The gippos, obviously!’

  ‘They can’t get in here! We’ve got Monsieur Flesh …’

  ‘Him! Honestly, darling, what do you expect Monsieur Flesh to do against that lot? They’re crafty, believe you me, they’ve got it all worked out!’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘How? Well, they’ll have lookouts. They will have seen the Sudres’ and Léa’s cars going past and know we’re here on our own. Trust me, they’ll grab their chance!’

  ‘But what about Léa … she was on her own … You don’t think …’

  ‘How are we to know? … Go and make us a coffee, I think we’re going to need it.’

  Monsieur Flesh must have been mowing the lawn on the other side of the village; they could hear the motor going back and forth like an insect buzzing persistently. Marlène had managed to throw together some emergency rations of crackers, tinned sardines and tomatoes.

  ‘Can’t fight on an empty stomach! Do you know what gypsies eat?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘Hedgehogs. That’s right, hedgehogs!’

  ‘Makes sense. There are so many squashed on the side of the road … Gypsies, roads, hedgehogs, it all fits.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You get hubcaps all along the road too and they don’t exactly eat those.’

  ‘No, they steal them. I’ve heard they can take a car apart in the time it takes to buy a loaf of bread.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about bread! Thanks to those mongrels we’ve got nothing but crackers. How are you supposed to mop up your sauce with that? … Where the hell are the others? It’s almost two o’clock! I’ve got a bad feeling about this. And him, over there, he should stop driving us up the wall with that bloody lawn mower and keep guard!’

  ‘It is getting quite irritating. Reminds me of that fly Odette keeps going on about. Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s all in her head. Might be the only thing in there …’

  ‘Why do you have to be so mean? I think she just needs her eyes testing.’

  ‘She always has to have everything her way. I’ve had enough of it!’

  ‘Why do you care? You never want to join in anyway.’

  ‘No, and it’s because of her!’

  ‘I don’t believe that for a minute. You’ve been funny with everyone for ages, even Léa. You can hardly bring yourself to give her the time of day.’

  ‘Oh, you are something else! May I remind you that five minutes ago you were jealous of me getting on too well with her!’

  ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Anything. Do you want to watch TV?’

  ‘No, I do not!’

  ‘Fine. Suit yourself. I’m going to have a nap.’

  How long had it been since the two of them had made love, even badly? So long that Marlène wondered if she really missed it. Every so often an intense rush of desire might come over her, when even a piece of music, a waft of perfume or a certain quality of light were enough to bring her out in a hot flush … But it would soon pass, like a projector moving on to the next slide. She had never breathed a word of it to anyone and had ended up telling herself it was just a part of getting old. But deep down she was not so sure, now lying semi-naked in the blue light of the bedroom, the heat seeping in through the shutters, beads of sweat forming on her top lip … Inside her belly, her chest, there was someone fighting to get out of this useless body that had been washed up on the bed, a voice protesting at the imposture, the unfairness of it all. And yet she knew she could still turn a man’s head in the street. A real street, obviously, not here where it was a toss-up between Martial and Monsieur Flesh … She had been in such a good mood that morning, getting herself ready to go into town on her own. What did the gypsies have against her? What had she ever done to them?

  In the living room, Maxime was nervously whistling the theme tune of The Alamo, the cult western that held the top spot in his cinema hall of fame.

  The bullet had whistled so close to Martial’s head that ten minutes later it was still ringing in his ear. It was as though Odette’s fly had moved in there.

  ‘He’s mad! Mad, I tell you!’

  On the way back from their walk, Martial had stopped off to give Maxime and Marlène a berry tart, the speciality of a village he and Odette had visited that afternoon. He was about to push open the garden gate when the shot rang out. For several seconds he stood frozen, the only movement his eardrum vibrating like a tambourine, endlessly replaying the sound of the gun going off. The tart, loosely wrapped in paper, slid out of his hands, landing on the white flagstone like a scarlet cowpat. He slowly took a step backwards, then another, until he reached the middle of the road, where he turned and broke into a sprint. It felt strange to be running, like having his whole body picked up and shaken. Other than hurrying to catch a bus or a train, he had not run anywhere in decades.

  Martial had arrived home breathless, deathly pale and incapable of either stringing two words together or controlling the shaking in his legs. Odette sat him down and tried to get him to drink a glass of water. He managed only two mouthfuls; his teeth were chattering too much against the glass. Once he had finally prised his tongue from his palate, he gave a jumbled account of his bizarre brush with death.

  ‘But why would he have shot at you?’

  ‘I don’t know! I told you, I was just about to open the gate, like I always do, when … A gun going off, the bullet, a scream … all at once.’

  ‘A scream?’

  ‘Yes … there was a scream from somewhere in the house, from the same place as the shot … But it was me being fired at, I can still hear the bullet …’

  Odette let go of his hands. He was shaking so violently that she in turn found herself vibrating from head to toe.

  ‘He must have gone mad … unless it was someone else … not Marlène … Look, that’s her running over here now! … What on earth is going on?’

  No sooner had Odette opened the door than Marlène flung herself at Martial’s feet, sobbing.

  ‘You’re not hurt, Martial?’

  He stiffened, his jaw clamped shut, and shook his head. Marlène clutched her chest.

  ‘Thank God, oh thank God! It was an accident, Martial, he made a mistake. It wasn’t you Maxime meant to fire at.’

  Odette stood between them, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘Who did he mean to fire at then?’

  ‘The gypsies.’

  ‘Gypsies? What gypsies?’

  ‘The ones camped out by the junction with the main road. Surely you must have seen them …’

  ‘A gypsy camp? Did you see any gypsy camp, Martial?’

  ‘I don’t think so … Oh, actually there were a couple of caravans … So, what about them?’

  Marlène picked up the abandoned glass of water from the table and finished it in one gulp, before patting her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry. Well, I was heading out to the shops this morning. We had nothing to eat in the house. I saw Monsieur Flesh at the gate and he w
arned me about this gypsy camp. He seemed to know a lot about it; he said they come back every year and it’s not safe for a woman to go near them on her own. The thing is you’ve no choice but to stop there to give way to the main road. He seemed like he really meant it. So I turned back and told Maxime what had happened. You weren’t home, neither was Léa; we felt … vulnerable on our own. Maxime thought they might take advantage of the situation to try something, so he got out his revolver. If only I could tell you how sorry he is now! Even more so since the kick from the gun put his back out again. Please come back with me and tell him you won’t hold it against him … He so wants to say sorry …’

  Maxime had had to buck himself up before facing the music. He had made serious inroads in the bottle of Scotch sitting beside him. His voice thick, he set the scene of the drama once again.

  ‘You see, I’d been sitting here waiting for them since this morning and I must have nodded off for a minute. I heard footsteps coming and started opening my eyes, but you had the sun behind you, Martial – I couldn’t tell it was you! I shot into the air, just to scare them off – obviously at such close range, if I’d wanted to hit them … And then, crack! The most excruciating pain went through my shoulder and down my back, as though I was being snapped in half. You see, a gun like that has a hell of a kick to it! … Anyway, everyone’s fine now. That’s all that matters.’

  Maxime downed the rest of his drink and clicked his tongue. The silence crackled, like champagne quietly fizzing in a flute. Marlène stood up and looked out of the window. It was dark outside.

  ‘Everyone except Léa. Her light’s not on.’

  Martial could not tear his eyes away from the gun lying on the table, which now looked as banal as a piece of cutlery. Odette cracked her knuckles and got to her feet.