‘What?’
‘I’ll tell you the story. He must have been seventeen or eighteen. He was with three mates in a car going off to a party in some godforsaken corner of Auvergne. All the guys had to dress up as girls, and the girls as guys. Some stupid teenage game, you know. So they go off in their old banger, completely stoned, dressed up to the nines in wigs, miniskirts, high heels, bras and suspenders – the perfect male fantasy. They were having the time of their lives, taking coke and passing around joints. Everything was going great until about nine o’clock, when the car broke down in the middle of nowhere. It was pitch black. There was a little village a couple of miles away and so Marco and one of his friends decided to go and call for help or get a tow. The thing was, they’d forgotten to take a change of clothes, normal clothes, with them. But they had no choice so off they went, hobbling along in their heels, completely off their heads. They arrived at the village only to find that everything was closed – apart from a transport café. Well, what do you think happened? Two drag queens in a room full of tanked-up knuckleheads, with tattoos like toilet-door graffiti. It was no party, I can tell you. He never really got over it. Something like that must have happened to Gabriel. Everyone’s got baggage. Mine is so full I can’t even close it.’
‘You’re still thinking about him, after everything he’s done?’
‘Of course! When you sleep with one man for so long, even if he’s the scum of the earth, at some point you will have seen him hanging on to your breast as if it were a life belt, looking so small, fragile and vulnerable. I know it’s stupid, but it’s things like that that make you forgive and forget everything. Has that never happened to you?’
‘No. I’ve had the odd fling, but nothing serious. I haven’t found The One yet, that’s for sure.’
‘I’m not talking about finding your one true love. Just love, full stop, the kind that everyone enjoys.’
‘No, I don’t think I’ve ever found that either.’
The two women thought he was asleep, curled up on the couch. Madeleine had covered him with a blanket. He had pretended to drift off when they started dancing together and feeling each other up. It was awkward, touching and a little sad. And now they were whispering, one sitting on the pouffe stroking the hair of the other, whose head rested in her lap. A woman’s soul is like the Lascaux caves, only older and deeper, so deep that you need a torch, wandering endlessly, leaving handprints, hugging the walls to find your way. Once you enter, there’s no way out. You give yourself entirely, getting under her skin to the point that two become one. Madeleine’s blanket smelt of her perfume. He would love to drift away down the river, to not exist any more.
‘Gabriel? Are you awake? Are you crying?’
A soft hand touched his shoulder, a soft hand heavy with life.
‘I was dreaming. What time is it?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘No, that’s just what you say when you wake up, isn’t it? Is it morning?’
‘Not yet. Do you want a coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
The lovely Madeleine. Her face was as blank as an unwritten letter. Rita was skimming through a book, the sound of the pages passing through her fingers like the fluttering wings of a bird. She stopped at a page and began to read out loud in a voice that wasn’t hers: ‘“I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not. The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?”’ Rita closed the book and turned towards the window. Maybe it was the new morning’s light on her cheeks, but it looked as though she were crying.
‘Isn’t it funny – books can really speak to you sometimes. Gabriel, will you help me find Marco?’
You can follow footprints in snow and sand but not in town. The pavements are etched with footsteps, the tarmac is blistered, swollen, dented by them. They come, they go, they leave, they return, walk about, slow down, drag. And then, when their number’s up, after a moment’s hesitation, they disappear for ever, somewhere, up there.
‘We’ve got to find him, Gabriel! We’ve got to find him!’
‘It’s too early, Rita. We can’t go and wake the solicitor up now.’
‘Why not? Solicitors always get up early; they don’t want to miss out on a case.’
‘We’ll find Marco, but not like this. Not by searching for him. I’ve got to go and see José.’
‘José? What about me?’
‘One thing at a time. Go back to Madeleine’s, please. You didn’t sleep at all last night.’
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a kid. You promised me.’
‘Rita. I told you I’d help you find Marco and I will. But not now. Later, okay?’
‘You’re a false saint, Gabriel! That’s all you are. You pick us up and then drop us whenever it suits you.’
‘Rita! I never said I was a saint! I’m only a man.’
‘You’re worse than a man. You’re an angel – you’ve got no balls.’ Rita aimed a kick at a rubbish bin. Her lizardskin bag swung on the end of her arm like a hammer. She stamped her feet on the pavement; two large tears filled her eyes. Her mouth twisted with rage. She was a balloon ready to burst. ‘A miracle? Shit, it’s not much to ask, is it?’
And with that she turned on her heel and raced off down the street like a bowling ball. Luckily there was no one in her way.
‘Excuse me, sir …’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to open my shop. You’re leaning on my shutters.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
The man was small and sepia-toned from head to foot. He looked as if he had been born old; or, rather, he was ageless. A mist of a man. For the one thousand and first time he opened the padlock and lifted the shutters just enough to slip into the shop. He reappeared almost immediately armed with a long hooked pole, which he used to push the shutters up fully. Cachoudas Cobblers. The shop’s window was decked out with an array of cork-bottomed sandals, sheepskin boots, jars of cream, cans of shoe polish and heels of all sizes; anything and everything to do with feet. A strong smell of glue, leather and rubber drifted through the open door. The cobbler came back into the doorway, buttoning up his overall and taking in one final breath of fresh air. Gabriel was still standing there.
‘Were you waiting for me to open? Do you need anything?’
‘Yes, some laces.’
‘Laces? Come in.’
The shop was so cramped that Gabriel felt the need to shrink in on himself, half dazed by the fumes of glue, sweat and sagging leather. The walls were lined with shelves crammed with boots, ankle boots, loafers, pumps, brogues, ballet slippers and sandals of varying conditions and sizes. They looked like a defeated army. The area behind the counter must have been raised as the small man now towered over Gabriel by a good head. Well, maybe not such a good head. In the light of his anglepoise work lamp, the cobbler’s face appeared like that of a severe judge, coldly scrutinising his client.
‘Shoelaces. Right then, what kind of shoelaces? There are are all sorts of laces. Short? Long? Rounded? Squared? Thick? Thin? Black? Brown? Red? You’ve got to give me some idea of the type you’re after.’
‘Of course. Long ones, please. Round and red.’
‘For walking boots?’
‘Yes, exactly. For walking boots.’
The man’s face lit up. He spread his arms, and the front of his overall gaped between the buttonholes to reveal a brown, clearly hand-knitted jumper beneath.
‘Okay then, now we’re getting somewhere. Why didn’t you say straight away? I’ve got some Italian ones, virtually in-des-truc-tible. They’re here somewhere … hang on.’
Quick as a flash the cobbler disappeared behind his counter and Gabriel remembered that the thing he liked most about puppet shows was the puppeteer. After a good deal of muttering the man reappeared, his face beaming at having found a pair of twisted red laces wrapped in plastic. He held them
between thumb and forefinger like a fisherman with his prize catch.
‘They’re top quality, two-tone but predominantly red. Fifty per cent cotton, fifty per cent silk, resistant to five hundred kilos, and seventy centimetres long. How many do you want?’
‘Two of course. I’ll take two, a pair.’
‘I’d take two pairs if I were you.’
‘Ah, but you said they were indestructible.’
‘Yes, but you never know. A manufacturing mistake or human error and bang! Can you imagine being stuck on a sheer rock face up in the Alps, a shoe falling into the abyss, into a rushing torrent? Night is closing in. You’re all alone. You’ll regret it.’
‘Who said anything about being on a sheer rock face in the Alps at dusk?!’
‘Well, everyone ends up there at some time in their life. Believe me, I know! So two pairs then? They’re the last ones too. The factory in Modane where they make them is closing down.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Yes, it’s all nylon and plastic nowadays. It’s sad, but that’s life. You’ll never be able to buy laces like this again.’
‘Okay then. I’ll take two pairs.’
‘Good decision. Are they for somebody special?’
‘No.’
‘Well, let me wrap them up anyway – they’re worth it.’
While the cobbler took his time wrapping the laces in sheets of tissue paper, Gabriel became lost in thought, staring at the dozens of shoes and their dangling labels.
Are we nearly there yet? He marched them up to the top of the hill and he marched them down again. One for the road. Three steps forward, two steps back. Left, right, left, right. These boots were made for walking. Where were they going? Where had they been? Where did they come from?
‘Are you looking for someone?’
‘Yes, he’s a bit of a drifter.’
‘What shoe size is he?’
‘I don’t know. A man, in his forties …’
‘Well dressed?’
‘Not really. He’s a drifter, like I said.’
‘Well, in that case he’ll definitely drift in here. They all come by at one time or another. There are the straight-laced types in well-fitting boots. Then there are the ones who squeeze their feet into fashionable heels. Even the monks who suffer like martyrs in their new sandals. I’ve seen them all. It’s a bit like a lost-property office for wayward travellers here – the kind who are away with the fairies. What was his name?’
‘Marco.’
‘Marco, no, I don’t recognise the name. I’ve had a Marcus, Marcus Malte. He made me stick patches on the side of his trainers. You know the kind, an artist! But as for a Marco, no, he’s not been in. That’ll be €24.40, please.’
Gabriel rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the exact amount.
‘Excellent, thank you. The cobbler, you know, is the last stop-off before the desert. If I find your Marco, I’ll let you know. Have a good day, sir.’
The doorbell chimed two notes, a fa and a so.
No, José hadn’t hanged himself in the night. He was polishing the counter and serving espressos with the cloth over his shoulder, in the steam of the coffee machine. He had shaved, brushed his hair and was as spotless as a show house. His eyes were dry, too dry.
‘Hi there, Gabriel. Surely not a beer at this time in the morning?’
‘No, thanks. A coffee.’
José was meticulous in his preparation, mechanical. He was on auto-pilot, but without a plane.
‘Are you okay, José?’
‘I’m all right. I slept for eighteen hours straight last night. No dreams, no nightmares, just real life, I suppose.
How about you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Right then, let’s go.’
Above the counter, the panda’s continued presence demonstrated its ability to be happy everywhere and anywhere.
‘I think I’m going to bring her back here.’
‘Marie?’
‘Yes. She should sleep in her own bed. And, anyway, it’ll give me something to do. I need something to do. I feel empty, like there’s an echoing cave inside me. I’ve got to fill it, that’s it, I’ve got to fill it.’
‘What about the kids?’
‘I’ll bring them back as well. It’ll be strange for them to start off with, having a mother who sleeps all the time, but they’ll be fine. You get used to everything in the end, kids especially. Everything will be nice and peaceful.’
‘Being peaceful is good.’
‘Yes, it’s restful. Hey, I forgot, that guy who sold you the saxophone was in this morning. He was looking for you. He wanted to see you, here, at noon.’
‘Ah, thank you. I’ll be here. See you later.’
It looked as though the sun had fallen from the sky and shattered like a chandelier on the ground. In the glare, his eyes were whitewashed like the terrace. And then there was the smell, of shit and rotten meat. And the silence, which the buzzing flies served only to accentuate. He clung to the railing with both hands and struggled to breathe. His lungs were tight, gasping for air. His eyes refused to register what they had seen. The space inside his head was filled with the flapping of wings, like tiny black lace fans. Juliette and Blandine lying there, ghostly pale, their faces smeared with dried blood, scribbled over with bluebottles, their blind eyes searching for an answer from the ceiling rose. No, he couldn’t believe it. If he did, he could never believe in anything ever again.
The fly sat in the sunbeam as if under a spotlight. It was struggling in a sticky patch on the marble table. It looked like a circus trick gone wrong.
‘Thank you for coming, Gabriel.’
Marco held his hand out. It was as cold and slimy as a dead fish.
‘Do you want another drink?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Waiter, two more coffees. Thanks again for coming. How’s Rita?’
‘She’s looking for you.’
‘Ah …’
Marco leant forward to take a sip, revealing a small bald patch like a monk’s on the top of his head. There was a little scar on his scalp in the shape of a half-moon. A childhood accident no doubt, nothing too serious. Marco looked like he’d spent the night on the streets under his raincoat. His pockets were full of tissues and he hadn’t shaved. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were red. There was dirt under his fingernails. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘I slept in a skip. Do I smell?’
‘Not much.’
‘How’s she doing?’
‘She’s worried and a bit shaky. But she’s being well looked after.’
‘She’s at 104 Rue Montéléger, third floor on the left, isn’t she?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I followed you. Are you fucking them both?’
‘No, neither of them.’
‘I don’t mind. I’m not jealous. I’m in the shit, Gabriel.’
‘What about your inheritance?’
‘My inheritance!? I can’t get it. My father didn’t exactly die of natural causes. I … how would you say … helped him along. Do you remember that night when you came to our room? Well, after you left, I went out. I was off my face on coke, up to my eyeballs; I couldn’t sleep. I knew that the old bastard kept some cash at his place. There’s no way I was going to settle for just the saxophone. The nurse was sleeping downstairs. I forced open the window and climbed the stairs. I was suffocating in a hat and scarf I’d wrapped round my face. I opened the door to his room. He was stirring in his sleep and snoring like an old locomotive. I didn’t think twice about it. I grabbed him by the throat and started hitting him round the head until he told me where he was hiding his loot. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. All that came out of his arsehole of a mouth were disgusting bubbles of spit. I looked for his false teeth, but by the time I’d grabbed them to put in his mouth he’d slipped out of my hands and banged his head on the edge of the bed. Stone-cold dead. Well, just about. He curled into a bal
l with his fist in his mouth, his knees tucked under his chin. He was naked as the day he was born. He looked like a foetus. He looked like me. I didn’t mean to kill him. You’ve got to understand that, Gabriel. I just wanted to make him talk. I couldn’t breathe. I sat on the edge of the bed and cried.’
Marco drank the rest of his coffee in one go and turned the cup round in his hands. He saw no future in the coffee grounds.
‘I’d thought about killing him a million times, but I never thought it would turn out like this. I felt completely empty. I had no one left to hate. I was like a boxer, alone in the ring, with just myself to fight against. I felt like an idiot. I rummaged under the mattress and found two bundles of cash. There must have been more but I didn’t have the heart to look for them. I gave him one last kick before I left. Yet again, he’d won. And then I went back to the hotel. Rita was fast asleep, snoring. I huddled up against her. I wanted to tell her what had happened but I didn’t want to wake her. The next day, well, you know what happened, we went to the restaurant. It was all an act. Rita had too much. I actually thought she was going to overdose on me. I’d had enough of dead people. I packed my bags and took them to the lockers at the station. I wanted to go and see the solicitor and then leave town. On my way over I thought to myself that people might not believe my father had died of natural causes. There was a black car parked outside the solicitor’s with four guys inside. I turned round and ran straight ahead, for a long time. This fucking town though, it’s tiny. I found myself back where I’d started, the station. It seemed like everywhere I looked there were police. I only had one gram of coke left. I snorted half of it in the toilets. I read everything that people had written on the door. Cries for help. The world’s in trouble, serious trouble. My memory gets a bit fuzzy after that. It was as if I was a cocktail shaker in the hands of an epileptic barman. Time flew by like a film on fast forward, an old black and white Charlie Chaplin film. I hung around the hotel and saw you come back and then go out again. I followed you.’
The Panda Theory Page 8
