Stone Bruises

by Simon Beckett

  I shift my weight on the crutch. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  He unhurriedly squints down the barrel’s length before lowering it. Folding his glasses, he puts them in his breast pocket then sits back in his chair. Only now does he look at me.

  ‘Mathilde says you’re looking for a job.’

  That’s not how I remember it, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘If there’s one going.’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ Arnaud’s jaw works as if he’s trying to crack a nut. Below it, the flesh of his throat has loosened with age, like an ageing weightlifter’s. ‘My daughter can tell you what she likes, but I’m the one who’ll decide who works here. Ever worked on a farm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any building experience?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Then why should I take a chance on you?’

  I can’t actually think of a reason. So I remain silent, trying not to look at the rifle. Arnaud sniffs.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s because of his traps, but that would only provoke him. Even if I’m no longer quite so worried that he’ll shoot me, I’m uncomfortably aware that any job offer depends on his good graces.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean what are you doing wandering around a foreign country like a tramp? You’re too old to be a student. What do you do for a living?’

  I can tell from his manner that Gretchen’s been talking. ‘This and that. I’ve had a few jobs.’

  ‘This and that,’ he mocks. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? Got something to hide?’

  There’s a moment when I feel weightless. I’m aware of my colouring betraying me as blood rushes to my cheeks, but I make myself stare back.

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  Arnaud’s mouth works, either ruminating or chewing some titbit he’s found between his teeth. ‘I expect people to respect my privacy,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll have to stay down at the barn. You can eat your meals down there. I don’t want to see you any more than necessary. I’ll pay you fifty euros a week, if I think you’ve earned it. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘OK.’

  It’s a pittance but I don’t care about the money. Still, the glint in Arnaud’s eyes makes me regret rolling over so easily. Showing him any weakness is a mistake.

  He looks me up and down, weighing me up. ‘This is Mathilde’s idea, not mine. I don’t like it, but there’s work needs doing and since she seems to think we should hire some English deadbeat I’ll let her. I’ll be watching you, though. Cross me so much as once and you’ll regret it. Is that clear?’

  It is. He stares at me for a few moments more, letting his words sink in, then reaches for the rifle.

  ‘Go on, get out.’ He begins wiping it with an oily cloth. I limp to the door, angry and humiliated. ‘One more thing.’

  Arnaud’s eyes are glacial as he stares at me over the rifle.

  ‘Keep away from my daughters.’

  7

  IT’S TOO HOT to even consider going back up the scaffold after my audience with Arnaud. Besides, it’s lunch time, so when Mathilde comes back I wait outside the kitchen until the food’s ready and then take my plate down to the shade of the barn. I need to cool off, in every sense. I’m still smarting, already questioning whether I wouldn’t be better taking my chances out on the road. But my own reluctance at the prospect is all the answer I need. The only thing waiting for me beyond the farm’s borders is uncertainty. I need time to work out what I’m going to do, and if that means abiding by Arnaud’s rules then I can live with that.

  I’ve put up with worse.

  Lunch today is bread and tomatoes, with a chunk of dark and heavily spiced sausage I guess is homemade. There’s also what on examination I find are pickled chestnuts, and to finish a small yellow apricot. I don’t think I’ve eaten anything since I’ve been here that hasn’t been grown or produced on the farm.

  I eat it all, leaving only the apricot’s stone and stalk, then sit back and pine for a cigarette. The spicy food has made me thirsty, so I go to the tap inside the barn. The faintly sweet air around the disused wine vats smells better than the wine itself. Crossing the rectangular patch of concrete in the cobbles, I catch my crutch on a deep crack running across its surface. Not enough cement, I think, prodding at the crumbling edges with my crutch. If this was the same builder who worked on the house, he made an equally bad job of it.

  I run the tap water and drink from my cupped hands. It’s cold and clean, and I splash some on my face and neck as well. Wiping it from my eyes, I come out of the barn and almost bump into Gretchen.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  She smiles. She’s wearing a short T-shirt and cut-down denim shorts I’m surprised Arnaud lets her get away with. She’s carrying a bucket, this one plastic rather than metal like the ones I saw Georges using. The springer spaniel accompanying her fusses around me, tail wagging. I scratch behind its ears.

  ‘I’m taking some scraps down for the sanglochons. But I think I overfilled the bucket.’ She holds it in both hands, making hard work of it. ‘You could help me, if you’re not doing anything.’

  I try to think of an excuse. Her father’s warning is still fresh in my mind, and I’m not sure how I’ll carry the bucket that far with my crutch anyway. Gretchen’s smile widens, emphasizing her dimples.

  ‘Please? It’s really heavy.’

  At her insistence, we carry it between us to start with, each of us with one hand on the bucket handle. After we’ve struggled for a few yards, Gretchen giggling all the time, I lose patience and carry it by myself. It’s nowhere near as heavy as she made it look, but it’s too late to change my mind now. Hopefully even Arnaud can’t object to my helping feed his pigs.

  ‘Are you growing a beard?’ Gretchen asks as we follow the track through the vines.

  I self-consciously feel the bristles on my chin. ‘Not really. I just haven’t shaved.’

  Gretchen tilts her head, smiling as she considers. ‘Can I touch it?’

  Before I can say anything she reaches to stroke my cheek. The burnt-caramel smell of sun-heated skin comes from her bare arm. Her dimples are deeper than ever as she lowers her hand.

  ‘It suits you. I like it.’

  The dog bounds ahead of us as we walk through the chestnut wood. Gretchen takes a dirt path that forks off from the main track. It leads through the trees to a clearing, in which a large pen has been built from wire and rough planks. Standing off by itself is an unlovely cinderblock hut, but Gretchen passes that without comment as she heads for the pen.

  The air in the clearing hums with flies. The ammoniac stink is so strong it hurts my sinuses. A dozen or so animals are lying prostrate on the churned-up ground, the only sign of life the occasional bass grunt or flap of an ear. They aren’t like any pigs I’ve seen before. They’re vast, darkly mottled, with a coarse, bristly pelt. Slumped in the shade of corrugated-iron shelters, they look as if they’ve been dropped into the mud like unexploded bombs.

  Gretchen opens a gate in the fence and goes in. ‘Where’s Georges?’ I ask, looking uneasily at the basking creatures. There’s no sign of the old pig-man.

  ‘He goes home for lunch in the afternoon.’ She holds the gate open for me. ‘Aren’t you coming in?’

  ‘I think I’ll wait here.’

  She laughs. ‘They won’t hurt you.’

  ‘I’ll still wait.’

  I’m still a little uneasy about being here, but limping all this way with the bucket has winded me. I need to catch my breath before heading back up the track. Taking the bucket – she doesn’t seem to find it heavy now – Gretchen pushes back the dog as it tries to dart through the gate, and goes to the trough. Some of the pigs lift their heads and make inquisitive grunts when she empties the bucket into it, but only one or two can be bothered to get up and come over. I’m struck again by how big they are, sacks of flesh balanced precariously on ridiculously dainty
legs, a horse’s body on cocktail sticks.

  Gretchen comes out again, closing the gate behind her.

  ‘What did you say they are?’ I ask.

  ‘Sanglochons. Wild boars crossed with black pigs. Papa’s been breeding them for years, and Georges sells the meat for us in town. It’s very popular. Much better than ordinary pork.’

  One of the creatures has ambled over. Gretchen picks up a wizened turnip that’s rolled under the fence and drops it back over. The pig crunches it easily in its jaws. It makes my foot hurt again just seeing it.

  But Gretchen isn’t concerned. She scratches behind the sanglochon’s ears as it noses hopefully for more food. The curve of its mouth gives it the appearance of a sweet smile.

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I ask. ‘Having to kill them, I mean?’

  ‘Why should it?’ She sounds genuinely bemused. Her hand rasps on the heavy bristles as she rubs its head. ‘You can stroke it if you want.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘It won’t bite.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ I’ve noticed there’s a smaller fenced-off area at one side of the main pen. It looks empty, except for a solitary corrugated shelter. ‘What’s in there?’

  Gretchen straightens, wiping her hands together as she goes over to it. Some of the fence panels here look new, the wood pale and fresh compared to the older sections.

  ‘This is where Papa keeps his boar.’

  ‘You make it sound like a pet.’

  She pulls a face. ‘It’s not a pet. It’s horrible. I hate it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s got a bad personality. Georges is the only one who can do anything with it. It bit me once.’ She extends a tanned leg, twisting it slightly to reveal where the smooth skin of her calf is marred by a white scar. She smiles. ‘Feel it. It’s all rough.’

  ‘So I see.’ I keep my hands to myself. I’m not interested in flirting. Even if she weren’t Arnaud’s youngest daughter, there’s something about Gretchen that makes me want to keep my distance. ‘If it’s that bad why doesn’t your father kill it?’

  She lowers her leg. ‘He needs it for breeding.’

  ‘Can’t he get another?’

  ‘They’re expensive. Besides, Papa likes this one. He says it does what it’s supposed to.’

  As if on cue a sudden noise comes from the pen. Gretchen turns towards it.

  ‘He’s heard us.’

  For a second I think she means Arnaud before I realize she’s talking about the boar. There’s a movement inside the shelter, a shifting of shadows. The tip of a snout emerges. Gretchen picks up a handful of soil and throws it to clatter on the corrugated roof.

  ‘Pig! Come out, pig!’

  No wonder it’s bad-tempered, I think. Another handful of dirt follows. There’s an angry grunt from inside, and then the boar bursts out.

  It’s even bigger than the sanglochons. And uglier. Small tusks jut from its lower jaw, and ears big as dock leaves flap over its eyes as it peers around myopically, trying to see where we are. Then it charges.

  ‘Christ!’ I say, hopping backwards as the boar slams into the fence. My crutch slips and I sit down, hard, in a patch of dried mud. I scramble to get the crutch under me again as the fence shudders. Gretchen hasn’t budged. She’s found a length of stick, and as the boar shoves at the fence she jabs at it over the top.

  ‘Go on, pig! Pig! Go on!’

  The boar squeals, enraged. The spaniel sets up its own commotion as Gretchen lashes at the pig’s back with the stick, the impacts meaty but insignificant against its bulk.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I tell her.

  ‘I’m only teasing it.’

  ‘I don’t think it sees the joke.’ The boar is battering at the fence in an attempt to get at the barking dog, making the planks creak and shudder. No wonder Georges had to repair it. ‘Come on, leave it alone.’

  Gretchen regards me haughtily, out of breath. ‘What’s it got to do with you? It’s not your pig.’

  ‘No, but I don’t think your father would want you to beat up his prize boar.’

  She glares, still clutching the stick. For a moment I think she might use it on me, but then a rusty old 2CV bumps into the clearing. It stops by the pens and Georges climbs out. He doesn’t seem any taller now he’s standing than when he was in the car. His face is rigid with disapproval as he comes over.

  He takes in the boar, still attacking the fence. This time I merit a cursory glance before he addresses Gretchen. ‘What’s going on?’

  She looks sullenly at the floor. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why is the boar upset? What was the dog doing by his fence?’

  Gretchen shrugs. ‘Just playing.’

  His mouth tightens. ‘You shouldn’t bring the dog down here.’

  ‘We didn’t. She ran off.’

  Georges just looks at her. I’m not happy that she’s making me complicit in the lie, but I don’t contradict her. Not that he seems interested in me anyway.

  ‘You shouldn’t bring the dog down here,’ he says again. He goes past us to the pen. The boar snaps at him when he reaches over the fence, but then subsides and lets him scratch its head. I can hear him talking to it, soothingly, but can’t hear what he’s saying.

  Gretchen pulls a face at his back. ‘Come on. We mustn’t upset Georges’s precious pigs.’

  She takes angry swipes with the stick as we leave the clearing. ‘He’s such an old woman! All he cares about are the stupid pigs. He even smells like them, did you notice?’

  ‘Not really.’ I did, but I’m not going to side with her. This was a bad idea in the first place: all I want now is to get back before Arnaud sees us together.

  ‘It’s the vinegar he rubs on them,’ she goes on, oblivious. ‘He says it toughens their skin against the sun but it makes him stink as bad as they do.’

  Not just Georges. As we near the barn it becomes apparent that something of the sanglochons has accompanied us from the pens.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ Gretchen asks, sniffing.

  I look down at the muddy smears on my jeans and hands. ‘Oh, shit …’

  ‘You smell worse than Georges!’ she laughs, backing away.

  She’s right, but at least it’s encouraged her not to hang around any longer. I wait until she’s out of sight before I strip off my T-shirt. Grimacing, I go inside the barn to clean myself up.

  The sanglochon stink is still in my nose as I cross the courtyard to the scaffold. The sun has lost some of its bite since Gretchen and I came back, but the cobbles still shimmer with heat. It doesn’t seem to have any effect on the storeroom’s dank interior, though. After the dazzling brightness of the courtyard, it’s like stepping into a crypt. I block open the door with a bag of sand, waiting until the shadows take on individual shapes before I go inside.

  There’s something eerie about the way everything has been left. The spade in its petrified mortar, the scatter of tools and materials; it all reminds me of a preserved archaeological scene. As my eyes adjust, I grope behind the door and take down what I’m looking for.

  The overalls are red, or rather they were once. Now they’re crusted with dried mortar, dirt and oil. I’d remembered seeing them in here, and Mathilde told me to use whatever I needed. My skin creeps at the thought of wearing them, but they’ll protect me from the sun. And, filthy as they are, they don’t smell of pig shit.

  Leaning my crutch against the wall, I strip to my shorts and pull the overalls on. The damp cotton feels unpleasantly clammy and gives off a stale whiff of old sweat. Still, they’re not a bad fit so I guess they belonged to the previous builder. They’re too long in the leg for Arnaud, and Georges could fit in one of the pockets.

  I search through them as I go back outside. There’s a pair of leather work gloves in the side pockets, so stiff and curled they look like amputated hands. I discard them along with a pencil stub and a small notepad that’s filled with scrawled measurements. That seems to be about it, but t
hen as I pat down the pockets for a last time I find something else.

  A condom, still sealed in its wrapper.

  It’s not the sort of thing I was expecting to find in a pair of work overalls. I look back at the storeroom as something occurs to me. I haven’t given it much thought, but now I wonder if there’s a connection between the unfinished house and Michel’s absent father. That would explain Mathilde’s strange behaviour earlier, and also Gretchen’s reaction down by the lake. She told me that Michel’s father had betrayed them and let them down.

  Maybe in more ways than one.

  Leaving the condom in a corner of the storeroom, I wedge the crutch under my arm and climb up the scaffold. The ladder rungs are hot enough to sting my hands, and the platform at the top is like a kiln. There’s no shade, and I’m already thankful for the overall’s long sleeves. My doubts start to return as I consider the crumbling wall, so I pick up the lump hammer and chisel before I’ve chance to think about it.

  ‘OK, then,’ I say to myself, and take my first swing.

  There’s something Zen-like about hacking out the old mortar. The work is hard and repetitive, but hypnotic. Each steel-on-steel strike produces a clear musical note. With the right rhythm the chisel seems to sing, each new note sounding before the last has died.

  It’s actually relaxing.

  I have to keep stopping to rest, but I soon find a pace I can maintain. I get around the problem of my injured foot by stacking two or three of the big rectangular stones left on the platform and using them as a rest for my knee. Sometimes for a change I sit on them and work that way. It doesn’t keep the bandage from getting dirty, but there’s no helping that.

  I don’t intend to work for long on my first day, but I lose track of time. It’s only when I break off to blink away a fragment of mortar from my eye that I see how low the sun is. The afternoon has passed without my noticing.

  Now I’ve stopped various discomforts begin to announce themselves. My arms and shoulders are aching and sore, and I’ve an impressive collection of blisters from gripping the hammer. There’s also a livid bruise forming on the back of my hand, evidence of the times when I’ve missed the chisel.