How's the Pain?

by Pascal Garnier

  ‘You’re not very well, are you, Monsieur Marechall? I’ll leave you to rest. I’ll sort everything out. I went to check out the shops – what do you think about having mussels for supper? … Take your time. I’m just going down to the beach to see Fiona and the baby and then I’ll get some food in.’

  ‘They’re here too?’

  ‘Not in the same caravan – I’m not stupid! I’ve rented one for them just next door. Now you lie back and relax, you’ll be snug as a bug in a jug.’

  ‘In a rug.’

  ‘Yes, if you like. Happy?’

  ‘Delirious. Now bugger off.’

  ‘OK, rest up, Monsieur Marechall, see you later. You know, I just can’t thank you enough for all this, the sea, this whole adventure …’

  ‘Get out.’

  The bed was hard and, even with the bottle-green chenille blanket over him, Simon was cold. The pillow was as comfortable as cardboard. None of it mattered now; Simon’s sole desire was to escape from his body, which he managed to do after swallowing a handful of pills that shut off his brain with a watertight seal. Really it was no worse being here than anywhere else. He did not feel bad or good; he felt nothing at all. The lingering stench of cleaning products, used to scrub away all traces of the previous occupants, left Simon with a curious feeling of virginity.

  Simon did not really sleep. It was a kind of semi-slumber, bobbing just beneath the surface, which left him wishing he could grow scales and inhabit the aquarium. The light of the setting sun made the room blush girlishly. His watch gave the time as 6.12 p.m., and he accepted it.

  Outside, the breeze carried the tang of pine and salt water. When Simon reached the beach he did as everyone does; he took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and made for the water.

  There it was, waiting faithfully. The sea glimmered with copper shards of sun, dribbling white foam and babbling the time away with idle chatter. Standing upright in a world without vertical lines, Simon dropped down on the sand and laid his shoes out next to him as though waiting for Father Christmas to fill them. A red ball bounced close by. A little boy and his father came running after it. They looked happy – the ball especially. With a burst of imagination, the sun had turned a hopelessly clear sky into an engaging spectacle, taking the lonely little cloud no storm had wanted and trimming it with gold.

  ‘All right?’

  Fiona loomed behind him in silhouette like a harbinger of doom, hunchbacked under her daughter’s grip.

  ‘What do you care? Where’s Bernard?’

  ‘Gone shopping. Can I sit down?’

  ‘It’s a beach, it’s public property.’

  She was wearing a red T-shirt and white shorts. She had nice legs. The little girl was staring at the horizon as solemnly as a child can contemplate such things. The sky and sea were coming together like the two edges of a bloody wound.

  ‘Bernard’s nice, isn’t he?’

  Simon made no comment.

  ‘Are you related?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were. It must be because he looks up to you. He walks the way you do, has the same frown … You end up looking like the people you’re fond of, don’t you think?’

  Simon was studying his feet, which were so pale they were practically blue, with a bunion on the left big toe and calloused nails. His ankles were ringed with the imprint of his sock elastic. He buried them in the still-warm sand. If he had been alone, he might have interred himself up to the neck.

  ‘Why don’t you like me?’

  ‘Why should I? I have no interest in you.’

  ‘Why did you get me out of that fix then?’

  ‘Because of Bernard. He would have made a pig’s ear of it. I didn’t have time to waste. Now, would you mind leaving me the hell alone?’

  ‘Fine! You were right to hide your feet, they’re disgusting.’

  Fiona’s buttocks left two perfectly round craters in the grey sand beside him.

  On the dot of eight o’clock, the TV news signature tune spread like a powder trail down the row of caravans, the newsreader’s chubby face replicated endlessly. It was a mild evening and most of the holidaymakers were eating outdoors. Bernard was at the stove, Fiona was laying the table and Simon was trying to outstare Violette, who was propped up with cushions on a camping chair. All around them, corks were popping, ripples of laughter broke out and cooking smells mingled in the evening air. The whole situation was so bizarre that Simon had not even tried to protest when Bernard told him there would be three and a half of them for dinner. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done except sulk. He felt like a serious stage actor who had wandered onto the set of a slushy movie. He could not follow the plot, but it was too late to back out now. The mischievous director had already called, ‘Action!’

  Bernard brought over the mussels and doled out generous portions. He and Fiona were like an old married couple, sharing habits, exchanging knowing winks and making thoughtful gestures, with Fiona helping him as he struggled to open the mussels with his bandaged hand. Simon swallowed three or four and drank half the bottle of white wine by himself. His forehead creased in a frown, he sat wondering what casting error had landed him here, a stranger in paradise. By odd coincidence, it had just been announced on the news that Gloria Lasso had died. Her biggest hit was none other than ‘Étrangère au Paradis’, the soundtrack to the four years he had spent in the Aurès mountains of Algeria, hunting down fellagha militants. The song had been on wherever he went – in the barracks, in tents and in brothels, trickling from the transistor radios glued to every soldier’s ear, their stomachs heavy with nostalgia and warm beer.

  ‘Who was Gloria Lasso?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘Dunno. More mussels?’

  It all seemed so distant that Simon began to wonder if it had really happened. Most likely it had, since that was where he had learnt to kill. Everything was going so fast, even the present day had to be glimpsed through a rear-view mirror.

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish your mussels, Monsieur Marechall?’

  ‘I’m too tired. I’m going to bed. Don’t forget, eight o’clock tomorrow morning!’

  ‘Without fail, Monsieur Marechall. Good night.’

  He had barely made it into the caravan when Bernard and Fiona heard him coughing and throwing up in the bathroom.

  ‘Do you think it was my mussels?’

  ‘No, they’re lovely. It’s him – he’s not well, your Monsieur Marechall.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Death, that’s his disease. You can see it on his face and it’s nothing new. That man has never had feelings for anyone.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong there. I think he likes me a lot.’

  ‘Maybe … Maybe he loved someone once but she turned him down and he never got over it. Watch out. A drowning man never wants to go down alone.’

  The sea and the sky, vying with each other in their vastness, traded handfuls of stars.

  ‘I’m a bit chilly. Violette’s asleep; I think I’ll head indoors.’

  ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  A few TVs still hummed, but most had been turned off. With the little girl in his arms, Bernard felt he could go anywhere, do anything. He took strength from the warm, squidgy human ball of dough he held against him – and the sight of Fiona’s moonlike buttocks strutting in her tight white shorts.

  ‘You can come in if you want.’

  ‘That would be nice, but I can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just I’m a bit worried about Monsieur Marechall. He might need me. See you tomorrow then?’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Fiona’s lips …

  Monsieur Marechall was sprawled across the dishevelled bed wearing only his boxers, open-mouthed and scrawny as a giant skinned rabbit. Just as he was used to doing for his mother, Bernard put him straight, slid a pillow under his head and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Bernard wasn’t sleepy. If life was as kind to him every day as it h
ad been today, he would never sleep again. Excitement bubbled through his veins like champagne. It was even better than the day he’d passed his driving test, because this time the only thing he was drunk on was pure, unalloyed happiness.

  Once he had made sure everything was in order, Bernard went back down to the beach. The sand was crisscrossed with the footprints of thousands of children, adults and dogs, which seemed almost to come alive in the moonlight. It was as moving a sight as the red clay handprints discovered on the walls of prehistoric caves. Not as ancient, of course, but renewed and immortalised with each passing day. A white plastic bag was lifted high on a gust of wind like a miniature hot air balloon, and then disappeared behind a bush. This thing with Fiona could turn into something, a relationship. And what was more, she already had a baby he had not even needed to have a hand in making. Things with Monsieur Marechall were not so rosy, though. He was worried about him. What was this ‘death’ disease Fiona had talked about? Something he had picked up through his job? The truth was, he was really quite attached to the old grouch. Without a father of his own, he had to find a substitute, and Monsieur Marechall fitted the bill.

  Bernard lay down on the sand, which moulded snugly around his body. The waves were lapping, the stars whispering. Everything was as it should be, perfectly still, until he caught sight of a stupid green satellite flashing in the distance, reminding him that time was passing. Monsieur Marechall had an important meeting in the morning, at nine thirty on the dot, and then … then it would be time to say goodbye to Fiona and Violette and he would be back to square one, in Vals-les-Bains. He didn’t fancy the prospect of going back to his humdrum existence one bit. Except … he could drive Monsieur Marechall back to Vals and maybe, if he had done a good job, he might even get a bonus, in which case there was nothing to stop him coming back here. Fiona’s caravan was booked for three weeks. If he set his mind to it, he could make a lot of headway in three weeks …

  The moon grinned down on him as he built up his little Lego bricks of hope.

  ‘And have you ever been to the bottom of the sea, Monsieur Marechall?’

  ‘I went diving in the Red Sea once.’

  ‘Ooh … is it really red?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s it like then?’

  ‘Just like where we’re going now.’

  ‘The aquarium, OK … The reason I asked is because I had this dream last night that I was down there, at the bottom of the sea. I could breathe just like normal. Everything was slow, quiet and warm, like being inside someone’s tummy. There were other creatures down there and weird wavy seaweed. We all swam around, brushing past each other and saying hello. It was so calm, so – I dunno – peaceful. Then suddenly I was being pulled to the surface. I was flapping around but there was nothing I could do to stop it. My mouth was full of bubbles when WHAM! I hit the surface of the water which must have been frozen or something; it was smooth and hard like a mirror. I was banging my hands against it but it was no use – there was no way up or down.’

  ‘So then what?’

  ‘Nothing. I woke up.’

  ‘Dreams are so stupid.’

  ‘You’re right, Monsieur Marechall, they are. Why do we have them?’

  ‘Because real life isn’t enough. Park over there, just in front, and leave the engine running. If I’m not back in ten minutes, come down and find me.’

  ‘The same place as yesterday, in front of the shark?’

  ‘The same place.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you? You don’t look very well.’

  ‘Ten minutes, OK?’

  Only the thickness of the windscreen stood between dream and reality. It might have been a hangover from Bernard’s dream, but people, objects and animals seemed to be moving in slow motion before him. No sooner had the guard opened the gate to the aquarium than Monsieur Marechall disappeared inside.

  There is nothing as boring as someone telling you their dreams. Simon screwed the silencer onto the barrel of his gun and waited, concealed in a dark corner. The shark continued its endless circling, indifferent to everything including its own existence. The minutes dripped by, like water from clothes on a washing line. On laundry days, Simon used to sit and watch his mother hanging out the washing in the yard. Her apron pocket was filled with wooden pegs; she always kept one between her teeth. Shirts, overalls, long johns and faded woollens flapped like the flags of a ship in distress – or rather a rudimentary raft. There was not a single item that had not been darned or patched. He was ashamed to see their pitiful, intimate garments aired in public. Yet the same show was being staged in every back garden along the terrace of small brick houses. Scrub as they might, the hard-working housewives could never get their laundry clean under that soot-filled sky.

  A figure appeared at the top of the stairs. It was not Jean-Pierre Bornay. He was too tall and thin. Simon gripped his gun and took a step forward. The man noticed him and stopped in his tracks, like a heron that has spotted a fish.

  ‘Marechall?’

  ‘Where’s Bornay?’

  ‘Couldn’t make it. Sent me instead.’

  Simon allowed the stand-in to come within a metre of him. Looking at him straight on was like seeing a face in profile; only one eye was visible, as round and cold as that of the shark.

  ‘Have you got the envelope?’

  ‘Yes, here.’

  He held it out to Simon with his left hand, but his right remained out of sight.

  ‘Open it.’

  The stranger’s eye grew even rounder and his mouth twitched nervously. Simon deflected the gun pointing at him and simultaneously fired through his pocket. The stray bullet struck the piranha tank, which shattered like a star and finally burst, spewing out an almost solid wave of seaweed, roots, shards of glass and flailing fish. The man clutched his stomach and fell first to his knees, then onto his side. Simon leant down to pick up the sodden envelope. As he straightened up, he saw Bernard on the third step, rooted to the spot with horror at the scene before him. There was a man squirming at Monsieur Marechall’s feet, soaked in red water and surrounded by funny little fish, all jagged-toothed mouths and tails flapping around in the darkness. An alarm began ringing. Monsieur Marechall grabbed Bernard by the elbow and pulled him away.

  ‘Move, now!’

  As they barged up the stairs, they passed the dazed guard who stammered, ‘What’s going on? What’s happened?’

  The shock of stepping from the gloom into bright daylight made them both teeter. They groped their way back to the car like blind men and clambered inside.

  ‘Drive, damn it! Go!’

  Bernard stalled twice before the car joined the flow of traffic.

  ‘Where to, Monsieur Marechall? Where to now?’

  ‘To the campsite. Go back to the campsite.’

  Simon was breathing heavily through his nose and speaking through his teeth, his jaws clamped shut.

  The town had not seen or heard anything. People were passing, dogs pissing, trees growing.

  Back at the caravan, Simon sat at the table with his head in his hands, glaring at the contents of the envelope: a soggy bundle of Monopoly money.

  ‘The bastard. The fucking bastard.’

  Standing beside him with his arms dangling, Bernard was nodding in agreement, despite the fact he had no idea what to make of the morning’s events. It was as though last night’s dream had carried on in some jumbled way, as mysterious and unfathomable as the deep sea. There was a knock at the door. Bernard halted his mechanical head movement and went to answer it. The faces of Fiona and Violette appeared, haloed in the late-morning sunlight.

  ‘Morning! Did you sleep well?’

  Bernard made a face that could have passed for a smile. Simon did not look up.

  ‘I was thinking, if you’re still around at lunchtime we could have a barbecue. We’ve got everything we need in the caravan, even the charcoal,’ said Fiona.

  Bernard turned nervously to Simon and ad
dressed his hunched back.

  ‘Monsieur Marechall?’

  ‘Piss off, the lot of you.’

  ‘OK, Monsieur Marechall. I’ll be right next door if you need me.’

  ‘Get lost!’

  This was not the first time he had been screwed over, but because this contract was to be the last of his long career, it left an especially bitter taste in his mouth. And it was all down to that pathetic little insurance salesman wanting to pull a fast one. He squeezed the stack of notes and a few drops of greenish liquid oozed out. No one really went out with a bang. No one. But to end up on a campsite in Cap d’Agde, escorted by a simpleton whose only wish was to play happy families, barbecuing sausages on the beach? It was a complete joke. He was going to make J.-P. Bornay swallow this Monopoly money; he would shove the whole lot down his throat!

  Yet all his rage and wounded pride could not propel his spent body into action. It was all he could do to heave his leaden arse off his chair and collapse on the bed, arms outstretched. ‘Poor old thing. You’re worn out, like your dad’s old pants. You’ve got plenty of money put away. As for Bornay, you win some, you lose some – what the hell does it matter? Let it go. You’ve had a hectic life, it’s time to calm down and enjoy a peaceful old age.’

  Simon clamped his hands over his ears, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

  The face of Negrita rum, a laughing West Indian woman, came in and out of view as the bottle rolled across the floor. Once it had come to a stop against the skirting board, only her gold hoop earring was visible on the label. The last dregs of rum ran back and forth from the bottom of the bottle to the neck. Lying sprawled on the sofa, Anaïs followed the liquid’s ebb and flow with bleary eyes. The bottle had slipped from her hands as she raised it to her mouth.