How's the Pain?

by Pascal Garnier

  ‘Let’s get out of here, Bernard!’

  ‘Uh, where to?’

  ‘Spain.’

  ‘Spain? When?’

  ‘Straight away, right now, this minute.’

  Even the sky looked different today. Milky clouds trailed across a sun as ill-disposed as Bernard to starting the new day. The landscape seemed dull and flat, patches of land blistered with characterless houses.

  ‘I’ll have to stop and get petrol.’

  ‘OK, I’ll sort Violette out.’

  They stopped at a service station selling any old rubbish at any price to anyone who would buy it. As he paid for his tank of petrol, Bernard noted bitterly that they were getting through money like there was no tomorrow. They were running low already and by the time they got to Barcelona there would be nothing left. Spain, for goodness’ sake! The petrol station was already trying to flog plastic bulls, castanets and models of gleaming toreadors and flouncy flamenco dancers. They had not yet crossed the border and already he felt homesick. But what was troubling him most was the dirty trick they had played on Monsieur Marechall. OK, he was a hit man, a criminal, but he was much more than that. Monsieur Marechall had always been straight down the line with him and had put his trust in Bernard. He had taught him things like … that the Red Sea isn’t red, for one. He had treated him like a man, like a son almost, and he, eight-fingered Bernard, had behaved like the lowest of the low, nothing but a common thief. His reflection in the window disgusted him. He would never be able to look himself in the eye again. He was worth less than a cigarette butt in an ashtray.

  Fiona reappeared, spruced up. She had caught the sun on her nose and cheeks, which made her look like a shiny little toffee apple.

  ‘They’re selling car seats for babies in there – what do you think? It would make things a lot easier. I’ve had enough of sitting there with Violette plonked in my lap. What’s the matter? What’s that face for?’

  ‘Listen, I’m not going any further, Fiona. Here, take what’s left of the money and you go to Barcelona, but I’m taking the car back to Monsieur Marechall.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind? We’re almost at the border – we’ll be in Barcelona by this evening!’

  ‘I couldn’t care less about Spain. I’ve never cheated anybody and I can’t do it, I just can’t do it.’

  One big, tight ball of words was stuck in Fiona’s throat, which she could not spit out or swallow. She was choking and looking helplessly about her. All around people were getting into their cars, munching snack bars and holding paper cups. Others were getting out, stretching their legs with hands on hips, walking their dogs or scolding snivelling kids … Normal people.

  ‘Christ, Bernard! Look around you. Don’t you want to be happy? Don’t you want an easy life like all these people have? You and me, we met each other and that means something. We can have a life of our own, just us, like we’ve never had before. We have a right to that, damn it! We deserve it!’

  ‘I want that too, Fiona, it’s all I want. But I can’t do it by going behind someone’s back. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror again.’

  ‘But he doesn’t give a shit about you, your Monsieur Marechall! He’s using you, and once he’s got what he wants from you he’ll put a bullet through your head.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Fiona, I don’t believe that. Listen, here’s what we’re going to do. You take the money and go to Barcelona to stay with your friends. I’ll take the car back and then I’ll come and meet you there. I promise you, I swear.’

  ‘I don’t know if you’re just stupid or completely naïve, or both. You’re leaving us here in a fucking service station car park to go back to a murdering old bastard, and you’re telling me you can’t bear to let somebody down? What kind of an idiot do you take me for? It would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic!’

  Fiona sat down on a low concrete wall, her eyes brimming with tears. Violette started to whimper, then cry.

  ‘Oh, don’t you start!’

  ‘Calm down, Fiona. Don’t talk to her like that. Give her to me.’

  ‘NO! Don’t you touch her! Go on, fuck off! Get out of here! I don’t want your fucking loot! I’m telling you, get the hell away from me!’

  People were turning to look at them. Bernard crouched down in front of the girls with his head in his hands and his back bent. Why did life have to give with one hand and take away with the other?

  ‘They seemed like such a nice couple as well. Are you going to report them?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘They looked as though butter wouldn’t melt though, didn’t they? It makes you wonder if you can trust anyone … You know, I saw that man on the news the other day, the one who killed the three English girls, being taken into court by two policemen. Believe it or not, they were the ones who looked dodgy. The killer just looked like your average man in the street, like you or me.’

  Simon was stroking the sand with the flat of his hand, making figures of eight, building little heaps and watching the grains running through his fingers. He had not moved since sunrise, having stayed up all night waiting for it. Rose had passed him on her morning jog and sat down next to him. She had not stopped to draw breath, eagerly filling every silence the way people do when visiting sick relatives. It did not bother him; she was just another part of the scenery. The sky had clouded over and an easterly wind ruffled the crests of the waves, threw up swirls of sand and tossed light objects about.

  ‘It’s going to rain later.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  It was true. He had not come to any decisions. He was just there, as he always had been, wherever he was in the world. He was an island.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’ll sort itself out. Young people mess about but in the end … Listen. How about I take you out for lunch?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Great! I’ll go and get changed. Come and meet me at the bungalow.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Rose bounced off along the shore like a beach ball. An injured seagull was batting one wing and emitting piercing squawks. All the other seagulls had abandoned it to its fate. Tired of flapping around, it sat on a rock and waited for a miracle that would never come. In which part of Africa was it that people greeted each other every morning with the question ‘How’s the pain?’ Simon could no longer remember.

  ‘No, Marike, he’s not a toy boy, he’s the real deal, our sort of age. But he’s a good-looking man, not an ounce of fat on him, smartly dressed, very proper … You bet I’d like to take him back to Namur …! He’s selling his business, he’s retiring … What’s he like in bed?! There’s more to life than that, you know … Very affectionate, yes … I couldn’t tell you if he’s been married before, I only met him yesterday … Right, I must go, I’ve got to get ready, I’m taking him out for lunch. The poor thing, he had his car stolen … That’s right, Marike, I’ll tell you all about it. Speak soon.’

  In the bedroom of the bungalow, the mirror had given up trying to follow Rose’s hour-long dance of the seven veils. A dozen dresses, each lacier than the last, were piled up on the bed. Rain began to hammer down on the roof. Rose glanced up, wincing.

  Simon was sorry to leave the beach. The sand seemed to bristle with buckshot. The seagull hid its head under its good wing.

  ‘It’s the best fish restaurant in town. I can recommend the squid à la sétoise, it’s delicious!’

  After ordering, Rose slipped off to the toilet. Simon reached over to the next table and picked up the newspaper. Smiling shots of Bornay, his mistress and his wife filled the front page: ‘CRIME OF PASSION OR COLD-BLOODED MURDER?’ He skimmed the article. The three victims had been killed with the same weapon. Strangely enough, the same calibre of pistol had also been used in the aquarium shooting of a man with a murky
past. The guard had seen two men fleeing the scene but had been unable to give detailed descriptions. It was dark, everything had happened very quickly. There was no apparent link between the two incidents.

  Simon folded up the newspaper, indifferent. As far as he was concerned, it was nothing to do with him. He had always wiped the slate clean at the end of every contract, so that remorse and regret had no chance of rearing their heads. Simon was a pro, a sort of bailiff who did what he was told, no questions asked. He took lives the way others removed furniture.

  The squid à la sétoise was indeed excellent. Rose was talking passionately about her craft, the art of preserving the appearance of life. It was a constant struggle against time, as flesh is fragile and, even treated, deteriorates quickly.

  ‘But you can do amazing things these days! Especially with the eyes – I’ve got drawers full of them: dogs’ eyes, cats’ eyes, all kinds of birds’ eyes. It’s what I put on last, the cherry on the cake, if you will. The eyes are where all the life is. Take you, for example. You come across as rather hard, almost severe, but your eyes are full of tenderness, with a hint of melancholy. It’s very touching. I suspect that’s why you rarely take off those dark glasses, to hide any sign of weakness. Forgive me, I’m prying.’

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I can’t help myself. I just can’t resist peering into people’s hearts, because that’s where all the mystery is, don’t you think? Right there, at the heart of the heart.’

  ‘Absolutely. But remember if you peer over too far, you might fall.’

  ‘At my age, there’s not much left to lose. You could just as easily fall in love as into a coma …’

  When Rose blushed, she glowed like hot metal. Simon felt like throwing a bucket of water over her to cool her down. She fanned herself with her napkin. They had been the first to arrive and now that they had reached dessert, the restaurant was heaving.

  ‘It’s boiling in here! Do you fancy going for a stroll? It’s stopped raining.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  This is what he was planning to say: ‘Monsieur Marechall, I’m very sorry for what I did but, as you can see, I’ve brought your car back. I don’t want you to think I’m some petty thief. I don’t know what came over me – maybe I’m in love. Maybe I was scared, too. You have to admit you do a funny sort of job. But I do respect it, and you’ve always been straight with me. So if you want, I’ll carry on with the job and take you back to Vals, even if you don’t give me the rest of the money. You know, I just want a quiet life with Fiona and Violette, earning enough to get by. You see, I’m an honest person and I’ll always have good memories of you, even if you don’t want anything more to do with me. It’s up to you.’

  Fiona was sleeping on the back seat, or pretending to. It had been no easy matter, winning her over, but at the end of the day she had probably had enough of being shunted from pillar to post. On top of that it was raining and maybe, just maybe, she did have feelings for him, even if she had never said as much.

  ‘He’ll put a bullet through that thick head of yours.’

  He had bought the car seat to console her. It was tricky to fit, with all its straps, buckles and hooks. The baby was bright red, strapped into the seat with her arms sticking out like two little wings. But she did not cry. Her big round eyes stared at the treetops, the roofs and the telegraph wires flashing past, outlined against the grey, rain-streaked sky. She had nothing against the car but preferred the beach because it was bigger and the things around her stayed still. When she grew up she would be a civil servant, with an office all to herself and everything neatly arranged. Every day would be like the day before. This dream of stability made her so happy that she pooed and wet herself all at once, and then blissfully wallowed in the warm, soft mulch.

  God existed, but He did not look like the pissed-off Father Christmas character people usually imagined. For starters, He was a She, and She was black. She wore a madras cotton turban, two big hoop earrings, and a huge smile. She had created rum in her own image and the little creatures rejoiced at this revelation, breaking out in a frenzied Caribbean biguine around Anaïs.

  She stood up almost effortlessly. Now if that wasn’t a miracle! She took another good swig to buck herself up for her first steps into this brave new world. Then she screwed the lid back on tightly and placed the bottle on the draining board; that way she no longer ran the risk of confusing God with a common cleaning product. Thinking of cleaning, she frowned, taking in just how filthy her kitchen had become; two weeks’ washing up was stacked in a perilous pyramid, the cooker was caked with grease and the lino stuck to the soles of her slippers. Feeling in great shape, she armed herself with a scourer and a floor cloth and rolled up her sleeves.

  The clattering of pans roused Fanny from her sleep. She rubbed her eyes. Anaïs was not on the sofa.

  ‘Anaïs …? What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘The housework, obviously. Don’t come in, I’m washing the floor!’

  ‘But what about the doctor?’

  ‘Yes, what about the doctor?’

  ‘You were …’

  ‘Well, I’m not any more – I’m on top of the world! And it’s not down to that stupid so-and-so, it’s thanks to God. I’ve just seen Him, clear as I see you now. That’s right, dear, it doesn’t just happen at Lourdes, you know. Now listen, Fanny, I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done but, as you can see, I’ve got my work cut out here. It’s getting late and I know Georges doesn’t like to be on his own at night, so please, go back and keep him company.’

  ‘Are you sure …?’

  ‘Positive. Off you go.’

  Fanny took herself off, shaking her head, and Anaïs turned on the radio. As luck would have it, Jean Ferrat was singing ‘La Montagne’.

  The kitchen was now gleaming but Anaïs wasn’t done yet. She tackled the bedroom next, then the sitting room. Untouched for decades, the vacuum cleaner seemed to be enjoying its own second wind, sucking up so much dust she had to change the bag three times. She saved the Negress lamp until last, polishing every nook and cranny with a soft cloth.

  ‘Oh, Negrita, dearest Negrita! We should bow down before you!’

  It was two in the morning when Anaïs finally sank back onto the sofa, basking in the glow of her hard work.

  ‘My God, I’m hungry. I could eat a raw elephant!’

  Anaïs unearthed a tin of sardines and began devouring them, mopping up the sauce with a crust of stale bread. She had patched things up with life now; the last mouthful of rum sealed the deal. Afterwards she let out a loud burp, a delicate combination of oily fish and alcohol. She scrupulously washed her plate, glass and cutlery, brushed her teeth and went to her room, put on a pair of Japanese pyjamas she had never worn before, and slipped between the clean sheets of the freshly made bed. She was not ready to sleep, not with this feeling of serenity bathing her like amniotic fluid. In the warm glow of the bedside lamp, whose shade was draped in a pink scarf, she lay with her hands behind her head and closed her eyes, smiling like a baby.

  ‘Now all I need is a project I can get my teeth into …’

  The pavement of Boulevard du Front-de-Mer was drying in patches. The sky looked off-colour and the sea was the shade of a dodgy oyster. The wind was doing its utmost to get inside the shawl wrapped tightly around Rose’s chest.

  ‘It’s almost like being back home. The weather’s always like this in Belgium, even on a good day. We’re used to it, but you still get sick of it sometimes. You’ve travelled a lot, haven’t you, Simon?’

  ‘A fair amount.’

  ‘To hot countries?’

  ‘Yes. You can get sick of blue sky too.’

  ‘What are you going to do, now you’re retired?’

  ‘Nothing, like everyone else.’

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t! You need to make plans. You could come and see me in Namur?’

  ‘Why not …’

  Yes, why not? Rose’s house was bound to be cosy. He coul
d sit warming his feet in front of the stove, flicking through an atlas in search of an imaginary island. Rose would cook him chicory à la cassonade or au jambon. And then he’d die and she would stuff him, putting glass eyes in his empty sockets to make him look alive. That was as good a plan as any. He was smiling to himself at the thought of it when a searing pain shot through him like a bolt of lightning. It took his breath away. All he could see were streaks and bubbles, like film melting under the heat of a projector.

  ‘Are you OK, Simon? … Simon!’

  Luckily since the promenade was used mainly by the elderly, there was a bench every five metres. Rose sat him down, patting his hand and cheeks and saying words he could not understand.

  ‘I’m going to get my car. We’ll go back to the bungalow and I’ll call a doctor. Stay where you are, I’ll be right back.’

  The pain had gone, leaving nothing behind but the tail of a comet thrashing in empty space. ‘I’m sitting on a bench … I’m sitting on a bench …’ was all he managed to think.

  ‘So what does your mother sell in her shop?’

  ‘Uh, nothing. She’s had a go at selling loads of things but it never worked out. Now she just lives there, if you can call it a life. Have you seen this? Violette loves ketchup!’