‘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.’
The vendor rolled his eyes, but since neither of them had much grasp of the language the transaction soon descended into farce. The poor man’s prospective customer was a hardline eco-warrior, signalled by her tow-coloured hair cut in a severe bob and Birkenstock sandals. From the way she was clutching it to her chest, it was obvious she liked the bag, but the idea that it might have come from a living creature repulsed her. Still, the consummate salesman would not back down.
‘Vrai croco! My uncle kill it with his hands! Good price for you!’
‘Nein! Plastic, yes, animal killed, no.’
It was all getting too confusing. The trader wearily agreed to knock the price down, reluctantly admitting that the bag was indeed made of plastic, ‘but good plastic!’ The German woman left delighted with her purchase while the stallholder counted the banknotes, making a gesture to indicate that she must have a screw loose.
Further up, where the road opened out in front of the post office, two trucks stacked with tapes and CDs vied noisily with each other, belching out the voices of dead or obscure singers, accordion music, Algerian raï tunes, rock and local folk in a primordial cacophony. Other vehicles spewed hunting gear from their open flanks; everything from thick hand-knitted socks to deerstalkers, long johns, tartan shirts, sheepskin-lined gilets and the full range of combat trousers.
There were garments to tempt the ladies, too. Almost inconceivably large flesh-coloured knickers and bras hung from metal hoops, swaying among flirtily floral nylon blouses and other items from an era so remote that it was difficult to imagine any survivors still out shopping.
In front of one of these stalls, Simon felt a hand on his shoulder.
‘Hello, Monsieur
Marechall.’
‘Hello, Bernard.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘It’s very … colourful.’
‘Ooh, look over there!’
‘What?’
‘The tall man with the white hair and the moustache!’
Simon’s eyes followed the direction of Bernard’s finger. A dignified old man in an olive-green velvet suit was filling a crate with vegetables.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Jean Ferrat!’
‘Good heavens, you’re right, it looks just like him.’
‘It doesn’t just look like him, it is him! You’re in luck, he doesn’t come every Sunday.’
‘Very lucky, indeed. Now, Bernard, do you have time for a coffee?’
‘Yes, I’ve done my shopping.’
Nobody was asking Jean Ferrat for his autograph.
They sat outside the betting café facing the church and ordered two espressos. The smell of pastis and cigarette smoke wafted out from the doorway along with the shouts of punters clustered like flies around the TV screen. Simon insisted on moving to a table where he could sit with his back to the wall, even though it meant being out of the shade of an umbrella advertising some brand of aperitif.
‘You did the same thing at the restaurant last night.’
‘It’s a habit of mine.’
Bernard looked around smiling, his shopping basket wedged between his knees. The comings and goings of the motley crowd seemed to delight him.
‘I love market days. There’s a sort of holiday atmosphere. There’s no one along here during the week. Apparently it was a bit livelier before.’
‘Before what?’
‘Before the factories shut. The pulp mills, basalt … there were jobs, you know. Now the only places where there’s any life are the spas, the hotels and casino – and that’s only in high season.’
‘I think I smell roast chicken, do you?’
‘Oh, that’s me, I bought one. My mother doesn’t eat much but the smell of roast chicken always gets her mouth watering. She’ll only have a wing, but it’s something at least. I’ll make some mash to go with it.’
‘You love your mother very much, don’t you?’
‘Of course, she’s my mother. Everyone loves their own mother.’
‘But from what you’ve told me, she hasn’t had a great deal of time for you over the years.’
‘I don’t blame her for that. She just wanted to make a success of things. If everything had gone to plan, she would have sent for me.’
‘And how does she manage when you’re not around?’
‘A couple of neighbours pop in … I send her a bit of money. It’ll be harder now though; I won’t be earning as much.’
‘Would you like some cherries?’
‘Yes, thanks. They’re still expensive – this is my first of the season. I should make a wish.’
The sweetness took away the bitter taste of the coffee. Bernard puffed out his cheeks and spat out the stone which bounced off a ‘No Entry’ sign on the other side of the road.
‘You’ve got a good aim.’
‘I was catapult champion when I was a kid.’
‘What did you wish for?’ asked Simon.
‘If you say it out loud, it won’t come true.’
Simon lit a cigarette. The smoke coming out of his nostrils made him look like a dragon. Bernard was tying knots in the cherry stalks.
‘Tell me, Bernard, do you have a driving licence?’
‘Damn right I do! I passed first time when I was in the army.’
‘Are you by any chance free for a couple of days?’
‘To do what?’
‘I have to get to Cap d’Agde for a business trip but I’m feeling rather tired. I could really use a driver. Three hundred euros a day, all expenses paid. Only we’d need to leave early tomorrow morning. How does that sound?’
‘Are you saying it would be six hundred euros for two days?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Jesus! That sounds great … but I’ll have to talk to my mother first.’
‘While I’m working, you can enjoy yourself and see the sea.’
Bernard was squirming in his chair as though sitting on an anthill. The three good digits on his left hand were drumming on the tabletop while he scratched his nose with his right hand and frowned. He wasn’t used to making snap decisions.
‘I’ll have to talk to my mother … The thing is, Monsieur Marechall, I don’t like to say it, but she thinks you’re a poof.’
‘Well, why don’t we go and see her together? I’m sure we can make her change her mind.’
‘When?’
‘How about now? Let’s not beat about the bush! Why don’t you invite me round for lunch? If there’s enough for two there’ll be enough for three. We can buy her some flowers, or a cake – or both!’
‘I think she’d prefer a bottle of something.’
‘I’ll take care of it. Tell me where she lives and go and let her know I’m coming. Ladies don’t like it when you turn up unannounced.’
There was a definite spark between Simon and the tall Negress lamp. She was just his kind of woman: her full lips made no sound and her big white glass eyes shone with total devotion. He heaved himself up from the sofa to put the raffia lampshade straight, and blew on it to clear the dust, which rose up in a little grey cloud and settled again on a nearby surface. He couldn’t resist running his hands over the perfect curves, the breasts, belly and hips of this synthetic wooden body. He had known a woman like this once, in Djibouti … Safia, yes, that was her name. Just as silent and just as radiant. He had been happy with her. He had even thought of staying. In fact, he almost did end up there for good when a riot broke out.
‘You all right there, Monsieur Marechall?’
‘I’m fine, yes. Take your time.’
‘I just have to toss the salad and I’ll be right with you. Mother will be ready in five minutes.’
Bernard’s voice seemed to come from much further away than the shop’s storeroom, from a distant land Simon had once known and sometimes regretted leaving. He had been to some weird and wonderful places in his time, visiting pagodas and brothels in Asia, sleeping in huts or under the stars in the African desert, but he had never come across anything like Anaïs’s shop before. Time itself seemed to have deserted this nowhere land, for fear of being bored to death. He returned to the sofa, perching on the very edge; for if he had the misfortune to sink right into it, he might never make it out of the quicksand of worn velvet cushions.
Bernard had laid the table with mismatched plates and odd knives and forks. The champagne, a cake box from Baudoin and an already wilting bunch of red roses lay side by side. Bernard emerged from the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel over his shoulder, clutching a bowl of salad.
‘Here we are, it’s ready! Mother’s just coming. The thing is, she likes to look good, and she doesn’t have people round very often. Mother? … Mother?’
‘Coming!’
It was a strange, double-pitched voice, like the famous Mongolian singers who can hit the low and high notes at the same time. The vision that appeared afterwards was just as remarkable. Anaïs had ‘done herself up’, decking her shapeless frame in all her showiest finery: moth-eaten silks, faded lace, oil-stained satin, multi-string bead necklaces, clattering metal bangles, globe-sized earrings, Moroccan slippers with worn-out soles, and a frayed turban. Her face was plastered with a thick layer of makeup.
She leant against the doorframe for a moment, her cartoonish kohl-lined eyes judging the distance between herself and Simon and sizing up any obstacles to avoid on the way. Then, like a bull charging the matador, she puffed out through her nose and lunged forward with her hand held out, her face split by a smile reminiscent of a gash made by a machete in a watermelon.
‘Enchantée, cher monsieur, enchantée! You’re most welcome!’
Simon caught her just in time to stop her tripping over a fold in the rug
and smoothly kissed her hand. The patchouli oil she had splashed all over herself could not disguise the lingering smell of rum.
‘It’s unforgivable of my son not to have warned me! So it’ll just be a simple meal, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s my fault for turning up out of the blue.’
‘Not at all, not at all! Do please sit down.’
Bernard just managed to slide a chair under his mother’s buttocks in time to avert an accident. It must have been a considerable effort for her to get to the table, as she was short of breath and clutching her chest. She fluttered her false eyelashes, one of which was coming unstuck.
‘Goodness me, roses! Champagne! And a Baudoin cake! You shouldn’t have!’
‘Honestly, it’s the least I could do, turning up like this.’
‘It’s a wonderful surprise. Bernard, would you put these flowers in a vase for me please?’
‘What vase?’
‘Well, I don’t know, just a vase, a jug, something!’
Bernard disappeared off to the back of the shop with the flowers, leaving Simon and Anaïs alone at the table.
Though time had not been kind to her, leaving her with sunken eyes, a mouth twisted in bitterness, slack cheeks, skin as dimpled as a peach kernel and straggly hair falling from her turban, Simon could see this woman must once have been beautiful. There were still traces of gold sparkling in the green of her eyes. But her liver-spotted hands, weighed down with jewelled rings as false as her teeth, were incapable of remaining still. They toyed with her knife and fork, folded and unfolded her napkin. Her restless hands gave away her unease at having no place in the world.
‘So you’re just passing through Vals?’
‘That’s right. I was on my way down from Paris and was getting bored with the motorway, so I took the back roads and stopped when I got tired. I ended up here by chance, really.’
‘Chance, yes, what a thing … And where are you staying?’
How's the Pain? Page 3
