Moon in a Dead Eye (6 page)

Armed with a long-handled net, Monsieur Flesh was clearing the swimming pool of the insects that had come to drown there during the night. Without interrupting his slow circuit of the water’s edge, he nodded at Léa and immediately turned away. He was wearing nothing but khaki-coloured shorts and a pair of flip-flops. His body gave off an unsettling aura of brute force. Everything about him was hard: the expression on his face, his close-shaven hair, his muscles and his refusal to talk. Solid as a block. Léa set down her canvas bag and laid her towel over a deckchair, took off her sunglasses and made her way to the steps leading into the pool. It was barely nine o’clock and the water was already lukewarm. Léa let go of the rails and flung herself backwards. It was like putting on a second skin: cool, supple and soft. She lay floating on her back with her eyes closed, lulled by the gentle lapping of the waves that rippled around her body at the slightest movement. She was revelling in the sensation of dissolving into the water, when something floppy brushed against her shoulder. The contact with her skin stunned her like an electric shock. She felt her whole being recoil. Thrusting her
hips to pull herself upright, she took in a mouthful of water and spluttered. She threw her head back, flicking the hair from her face. Through the water streaming over her eyes, she saw Monsieur Flesh looming above her, silhouetted against the dazzling sunlight, holding his net up like a trident.

‘My apologies.’

He stood absolutely still, like a bronze statue staring blankly at her, eyes devoid of all expression. Again, he muttered, ‘My apologies’, before pulling the net towards him and carrying it away over his shoulder.

Léa got out and grabbed her towel. No matter how hard she scrubbed, she could not shake off the unpleasant sensation of the mesh brushing against her skin.

‘He did it on purpose …’

She suddenly felt very lonely. It was as though the world had ended, and she was the last to know. She lay down on the lounger and closed her eyes. The Sudres should be here by now … As keenly as she had wanted to avoid her neighbours yesterday, she now desperately missed them. The episode with Nadine when her mind had ‘gone blank’ had really shaken her up. She had opened her eyes to find the younger woman sitting beside her, a look of deep concern on her face. Of course, Léa could not remember what had happened; she never could. She had tried her best to reassure Nadine that she would be OK. It was just something that came over her now and then, a funny turn, nothing serious. All she had to do was take her tablet and she would sleep like a baby. Nadine could go home; there was nothing to worry about. It was so kind of her to have stayed and looked after her, thank you, thank you … Left alone, she had sat outside waiting for the first light of dawn, her mind still full of the nothingness that had all but engulfed her.

She had headed into town first thing and, after wandering aimlessly for a while, had come across a brass doorplate which read: Dr F. Glaive, GP. No, she didn’t have an appointment. Yes, she could wait. Three others were already sitting in the waiting room: a young woman with a little boy of six or seven, and a shrunken old man, squashed into the chair like a stubbed-out cigarette. Léa took her place among them, whispering a soundless ‘Hello’ which met with a similarly low-volume murmur in reply. Apart from the child swinging his legs under the chair, everyone was stock-still, like ornaments on display. The dark wooden panelling, the smell of beeswax and the stuffy, silent atmosphere made it feel like being shut inside grandma’s dresser. The mother gave her son’s leg a sharp slap.

‘Will you stop jiggling about!’

A regular rattling sound rose from the old man’s chest, fading into a high-pitched whistle as it passed between his cracked lips. You could hear the dust falling, and see it dancing in the ray of sunlight filtering through the frosted window panes. The cannibal minutes fed on the silence. Léa felt a growing urge to cry out, to release some kind of primal scream. She stood up abruptly, left the waiting room, made her way down the long corridor, mumbled a few words of apology to the receptionist and tore down three flights of stairs. Leaning back against the heavy carriage door, she breathed the street air deep into her lungs; despite the whiff of sewage and petrol fumes, it seemed miraculously pure.

She wanted to eat something, drink something, laugh out loud. At a nearby tea room, she ordered a cup of coffee and a madeleine. Yes, a madeleine, that was just what the doctor ordered!

Afterwards, she treated herself to an expensive pair of shoes, 
along with a sackload of useless trinkets that seemed essential. She lived the whole day in the moment, or rather, in a series of moments, each fading away as another took shape: exchanging a few niceties with a German woman in a restaurant; flicking through a newspaper on the beach; watching a seagull flying in a corner of the sky; looking at the film posters outside a cinema; hearing them say on the radio, ‘There are 50,000 roundabouts worldwide, with 25,000 of them in France alone’; the smile of the supermarket checkout girl, the feet, so many feet pounding the pavements, a face in the crowd, a bell ringing … Putting all of that together, lined up end to end, made a full day, a day like any other, nothing to mark it out, the kind of day she must have experienced thousands of times before, passing without a trace, and yet this time, she wanted to soak up every tiny detail. She carried on late into the night, threading the moments together like a string of pearls. When she arrived home, she was surprised to see the lights still on at the Sudres’ house.

The sound of a car pulling up roused Léa from her dozing. The Sudres parked outside the Nodes’ house. Marlène was with them. They waved hello and began unloading a large number of tins, packets and bottles, along with a folded wheelchair. While Martial helped Marlène carry in her provisions, Odette crossed the road to join Léa beside the pool. She plonked herself onto a chair with a sigh. In her red polka-dot sundress, she looked rather like a deflating beach ball. She swung round to face Léa.

‘Are you OK, Léa?’

‘Um, fine, yes.’

‘Are you sure? Nothing’s happened?’

‘No, nothing at all. Why? What’s the matter? You seem a bit on edge …’

‘It’s the gypsies.’

‘What gypsies?’

‘Haven’t you seen them? They’re camped out next to the main road.’

‘No … so, what about them?’

‘At least nothing happened to you. That’s the main thing. I’ll tell you, there’s been a lot going on here over the last
twenty-four
hours!’

Odette launched into a blow-by-blow account of the previous day’s events, which had so nearly ended in tragedy: Monsieur Flesh’s warning, the gypsies, the berry tart, the gunshot … The whole thing was so barmy Léa could not help but let out a snigger.

‘Sorry, Odette, it’s just so … absurd!’

‘That may be, but Martial’s still at sixes and sevens about it.’

‘I’m not surprised! Maxime must be out of his mind … It’s ridiculous, I’ve been past there twice, during the day and at night, and nothing at all has happened. I didn’t even see any gypsies. And besides, what do we have to be scared of? Why on earth would they want to attack us? It’s ludicrous! We live in the safest place in the whole area … Don’t you agree, Odette?’

The fly must have landed on the end of Odette’s nose because she was staring at it cross-eyed, screwing up her face.

‘Of course, Léa, my thoughts entirely. It’s nonsense … Although, when we went out shopping this morning, there were ten caravans, when there were only five yesterday, and on the way back I counted fifteen … fifteen caravans!’

‘And?’

‘And nothing … it’s just becoming rather a lot of them.’

‘Come on, Odette, it wouldn’t make any difference if there
were a hundred of them. Why would they wish us any harm? And I’ll say it again: the security here’s enough to rival the Bank of France.’

‘But that’s just it! The yobs will come running if they think we’ve got safes to crack.’

‘Not you as well, Odette, please! Maxime may have lost it, but we’ve got to stay calm.’

‘But what about Monsieur Flesh? He knows the area …’

‘Listen, to tell the truth, I’d be more likely to trust the gypsies than him. I don’t like that man, there’s something sly about him.’

‘I’m not too fond of him either … But sometimes you need men like him around. I don’t know what to think any more … In any case, you should take care, Léa. I respect your wish to be independent, but as the saying goes, there’s no smoke without fire.’

She swiped the end of her nose and brought her closed fist up to her ear. She slowly loosened her fingers. There was no fly in her palm.

While Marlène piled up tins of food and bags of pasta, rice, flour and sugar on the shelves in the cellar, Maxime practised going from room to room in his wheelchair. The house’s clever design meant he could get around just as easily indoors as out. The chair handled beautifully; with a bit of practice, he’d be able to get it doing some pretty nifty moves. It reminded him of his first tricycle, a red one. He had soon learnt to hurtle through the flat at breakneck speed, frantically ringing his bell. The wheel had always seemed to him to be man’s greatest invention. He had racked up a few tricycles in his time, then bicycles, mopeds,
motorbikes and cars … A few accidents too, along the way … one of them serious – for the driver he hit head-on, at least. On a road he knew like the back of his hand, ten miles from home! … What the hell was the silly bugger doing there? … Yes, he was going a bit fast and yes, he had had a bit to drink … But damn it, there was never usually anyone else around! … They had had to cut the body out of the Renault 5. Not a pretty sight, by all accounts … He was young, the chap … At times like that, it helps to know people in the right places. He got off with a
six-month
suspension and a 10,000-franc fine. His Saab had hardly a scratch on it. Bloody good motors, Saabs … He had spotted one in
Autosport
: a smashing, top-of-the-range 4 × 4, a real tank of a car, with bull bars and tinted windows. A car like that could take on anything, which was exactly what he needed, living out here in the country … Especially now these gypsies had turned up! … And if they stuck around, then what? Yes, let’s talk about the gypsies, shall we? The other three had taken the mickey out of him the night before, but they had certainly changed their tune this morning, coming back from the shops! They had seen with their own eyes the speed at which those gypsies were multiplying, so who was having the last laugh now?

Marlène managed to squeeze one last packet of turkey escalopes into the jam-packed freezer. There, now they were ready to face a siege. As she stood back to survey the overloaded shelves, she sang to herself: ‘
Et maintenant, que vais-je faire, de tout ce temps que sera ma vie?’
Go for a swim and then make lunch, that was what. It was so hot she wished she could strip off her skin. She went to the bedroom to get changed, but wasn’t happy with any of the swimming costumes she tried on. It was one of those days when nothing looked right. She ran her hand over her legs. How
was she going to get a wax if she couldn’t go out? Those damned gypsies! … They were awfully good-looking though, the men, women and children … Not dirty or scruffy. The kids ran around laughing, the women hung out multicoloured laundry, the men sat chatting … They seemed at home in the sunshine. The caravans looked roomy and well-kept, just like the Mercedes that towed them. They couldn’t have paid for all that by selling baskets, that was for sure … Maybe Maxime was right after all … They didn’t seem to mind not having walls, brazenly going about their business for all to see, as if they had nothing to hide. That was a sure sign they weren’t like the rest of us; how could you feel at home wherever you went? No, they weren’t normal. Yet both times she had passed them, she had stared hungrily at them with a mixture of apprehension and attraction, the same way she had felt as a little girl being taken to the zoo. Even in their cages, the animals had seemed freer than she was; they could roar, roll about, shit, piss, mate or masturbate in front of the visitors without a trace of shame. Unlike humans, the look in their eyes was clear, direct and unsullied. At the time, she had wanted to be a vet. She had started out as a
petit rat
, a young ballerina at the Paris Opéra. She liked dancing. Sometimes, when performing a leap or a twirl, she felt as graceful as a deer or a cat, sharing the same innate understanding of her body. The space belonged to her, there were no walls holding her back … It was a feeling in her stomach, yes, around her navel, vibrating like the needle of a compass … Like … when Régis was born … And never again since.

Marlène put on the first swimming costume that came to hand, a black one-piece, and stormed out of the room in a kind of rage. Maxime almost ran her over as he sprang out from the corridor at top speed.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Where do you think I’m going dressed like this? To mass?’

‘All right, keep your hair on! What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I’m just hot. Need to go for a swim.’

‘Bloody hell, someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning! Fine, go to the pool, see if I care.’

She would have liked to slap him, just like that, for no reason at all, or maybe because he looked like a stupid, ugly bastard slumped in an old man’s wheelchair.

The fly swatter struck the corner of the table with a loud thwack. Martial turned it over and presented his wife with what was left of the fly.

‘That’s it, gone!’

Odette peered closer, adjusting her glasses.

‘That’s not the one.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It was kind of you to try. I think I’m going to have a lie-down, this heat’s knocked me out.’

It was indeed oppressive that day. The air hung stagnant, thick and muggy, not a breath of wind. Everyone felt weighed down, their every move an enormous effort. Besides killing flies in the hope of catching Odette’s, there was very little to do. Martial waved the fly swatter idly before his nose. He had killed twelve since this morning and had found it surprisingly enjoyable. Martial had never been hunting, had never cut a pig’s throat or bled a rabbit or wrung a chicken’s neck. The only blood he had ever spilt was his own. That’s not to say he had never felt the urge. Sometimes in his dreams he had let rip a little, but in
dreams, anything goes. It was strange, but since Maxime had shot at him, he had become fixated on the revolver; he wanted one of his own, the same as Maxime’s. Not because of the gypsies, or to defend himself from anything, no; just so that he could feel the weight of the weapon in his hand, the roughness of the grip, to hold out his arm, close one eye, cock the hammer, and then … The target was not important. His parents, staunch pacifists and strict vegetarians, had never even let him have a pop gun, dart gun or water pistol, nor indeed anything that might in any way be seen to mimic war play or hunting. At tea time, Martial would nibble his way through his Petit Beurre biscuits so that he could go out and play with his classmates and swap his chocolate bar for slices of saucisson. The disappointment every Christmas at finding another miserable board game, Meccano No. 4 set or a light-up globe under the tree, while his friends strutted about dressed as Zorro or Robin Hood … Wham! … The thirteenth fly gave up its flattened ghost on the arm of the chair. Maxime blew sharply on the swatter and a speck of existence fell away.

‘I don’t give a damn what special powers you have and, as for your report, you know where you can stick it! My gun licence is entirely in order and if that’s not enough, let me tell you I have friends in the very highest places. If you bloody well got on with your job instead of hounding good, honest people, we wouldn’t have to worry about defending ourselves! For crying out loud, it’s a free country, isn’t it?’

Monsieur Flesh shrugged and turned on the doorstep of Maxime’s house, leaving its wheelchair-bound owner beetroot-red
and spitting venom. On his way out of the garden, he shoved past Martial coming the other way, having overheard the end of the argument. Something along the lines of ‘stupid old fart’ emerged from the caretaker’s pursed lips. Martial carried on up the path, his hand outstretched.

‘What’s going on, Maxime?’

‘Some bastard’s told him I shot at you … Martial, it wasn’t …’

‘The very idea! I’d never dream of it, nor would Odette! We keep those sorts of things to ourselves.’

‘What about Léa then?’

‘She wasn’t here.’

‘Well, someone must have told him! … Forget it, I don’t give a damn. Let’s have a drink, that moron has got me all wound up.’

The umbrella kept the men in a cone of shade, like two sad clowns left in the gloomy big top at the end of the show. They could hear laughter and splashing coming from the swimming pool. Maxime was on his third glass. Beads of sweat, darkened by hair dye, streamed from his temples to his neck.

‘That pool … That damned pool! There’s nothing to do in this place but swim. We’re not bloody ducks! … Are all three of them in there?’

‘I didn’t see Léa.’

‘With all that coming and going, that woman’s going to come to no good. It’ll be her own doing.’

‘Will you tell me something, Maxime? During the war, did you kill anybody?’

‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘I don’t know, I just wondered … what it’s like …’

‘It’s like … well, it’s not like anything, because you never
know. Most of the time it’s dark or you’re surrounded by smoke and you can’t see anything. You just shoot … and maybe.’

‘What about bodies? Did you ever see dead bodies?’

‘Of course I did! I don’t see quite what you’re getting at.’

‘Oh nothing. Like I said, I just wondered … I’ve seen dead people too, but they died naturally – my father, my mother, an uncle, an aunt … You see what I mean, it’s not the same … because they were old, I suppose.’

‘You’re right, it’s not the same. It’s like they’re just playing dead. It all happens so quickly in war … I’ve seen bodies twisted out of all recognition, blown to bits, torn apart, blackened … Could we talk about something else?’

‘Yes, of course, sorry … Maxime, would you mind showing me your revolver?’

‘If you like. Are you keen on guns?’

‘I know nothing about them.’

Maxime took the Smith & Wesson from behind his back and held it out to Martial.

‘Watch yourself, it’s loaded. The safety’s on, but still …’

Martial took the weapon like a relic in his outstretched palm.

‘It’s heavy!’

‘It’s the real deal. You have to know what you’re doing. That’s an ergonomic grip; I had it made to fit my hand. You’re untouchable when you’re holding it, every shot on target …’

He was interrupted by the sound of the telephone ringing. To Martial’s great surprise, Maxime leapt out of his chair to answer it. While he was speaking, Martial took aim at the gate, then a bird and the window of the house across the road … Bang! Bang! Bang! …

Maxime sat back down.

‘What the hell would I want a new fitted kitchen for?! … So, what do you make of it?’

‘It’s grand! Thanks, you can have it back now. So you’re back on your feet, are you?’

‘Some of the time. Let’s just say I’ve got rather used to this chair. It suits me pretty well. We all deserve to be looked after now and then, don’t we?’

‘Absolutely.’

Maxime slipped the gun under the cushion behind his back and poured himself another drink, which he sipped pensively.

‘It was Léa …’

‘What was?’

‘It was Léa who reported me to that idiot caretaker. Odette and Marlène will have filled her in – women can’t help but gossip. Not that I’m surprised, coming from a dyke like her!’

‘A dyke …?’

‘A lesbian, in other words.’

‘Are you saying Léa’s …’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying! I can spot them a mile off. She’s been all over Marlène from the minute she arrived.’

‘No! … Marlène?’

‘You’d better believe it! Hands off, my girl, that’s private property!’

‘Léa … Well, I never! Who’d have thought it …’

‘That’s how it is, Martial old chap. Even here, I know, even here!’