Significance (37 page)

‘Now,' he said, glancing from one man to the other, ‘which one of you gentlemen called the police?'

Both answered in the affirmative.

Lamy considered this, then as one man was illegally parked and a good deal smaller, he asked the Renault owner to get back in his car and approached the blond man.

‘So what's the trouble here?'

‘I don't know, sir. My wife and I were about to leave. We were in the car, in the drive,' he jerked his head to indicate the parked estate car, ‘when this guy,' he nodded in the direction of the other car, ‘blocks our exit.'

His French was laboured, but fairly good, Lamy noted, though the accent was slightly off.

‘And?' Lamy asked.

‘And we tried to get him to move, but he wouldn't. I mean, he just sat there. I don't get it. It was like he had done it on purpose. But why? It doesn't make sense.'

‘Is this your house?'

‘No, but it's ours while we're here. The house belongs to a distant cousin. We're Canadian. Here on holiday; we come every year.'

‘And do you know this man?' Lamy thumbed the air in the direction of the other man.

‘No, never seen him before.'

Lamy considered this, and looked from the parked car in the driveway to the Renault on the pavement.

The blond man was growing agitated, shifting his tall frame around impatiently.

‘God damn it, this asshole is gonna make us miss our flight.'

‘All right, sir. Now let's keep things under control, eh?'

‘I mean, is there some stupid French law that says if you want to use your goddamn cell phone you can just pull up wherever?'

The phrase ‘stupid French law' was not music to Lamy's ears.

‘Seems you are a little angry, sir,' Lamy said.

‘Damn right I'm angry,' the man said, through clenched teeth.

Lamy pretended to write something in his notepad, then said, ‘Could you go and get in your car now.' As he said it he turned to indicate where he wanted the tall man to go, and happened to glance at the ground floor of the house where he noticed a red
-
haired woman standing at the window, watching them. One arm was crossed over her chest with the hand tucked into her armpit, while the other was raised to her lips. She was frowning and chewing on a thumb nail. Watching her, he heard a car door open and slam shut. His eyes followed the sound and he saw the blond man sitting in the passenger seat of the vehicle. He watched him for a moment, then indicated that the Renault driver should come forward now.

The smaller man began to speak in rapid and formal French. His tone was pompous and he delivered his words with a jerky emphasis.

Lamy hushed him; he wanted to get to the point.

‘So you pull up here,' Lamy said, ‘and he asks you to move?'

‘Yes, but you see the heart of the issue is…'

‘Sir, please just answer my questions.'

‘Alright, I apologise. I'll try.
Yes, he asked me to move my car.'

‘And you didn't move straight away?'

‘No, you see what you are failing to appreciate here is the seriousness of…'

‘Sir,' Lamy held a silencing palm up.

‘Sorry.'

‘Just the questions for now. So you didn't move the car quickly enough for his liking and then what, he got angry?'

‘Oh, yes. Yes, that's right. Very angry. Swearing, waving his arms about, threatening me.'

‘He threatened you?'

‘Yes,' the man was getting very animated now. ‘He threatened me. I stayed in my car, of course, but that just enraged him more. So then I tried to ring the local station, but I couldn't get through, so then I called the emergency services and he starts banging on my windows.'

‘He banged on your car window? With force?'

‘Yes, I thought the glass would shatter. Then he started on the bonnet.'

‘What do you mean, he started on the bonnet?'

‘He hit it, three, four, maybe five times.'

‘With a weapon?'

‘No. Or at least I didn't see a weapon. Perhaps it was concealed. I don't know … but the noise it made!'

Lamy looked at the Renault's bonnet, tilting his head from side to side to detect a dent or mark of any sort. He drew closer, still moving his head and studying the car.

‘Is it damaged?' Lamy asked.

‘It must be,' the man replied. He came nearer, then squatted down on his haunches so he was nose level with the tip of the bonnet. He couldn't see any damage, but that, in his mind, meant nothing. His car had been violated.

Lamy leant over and stared carefully at the perfect blue surface. He couldn't see any dents or damaged paintwork and was about to say this when he happened to glance over at the blond man sitting in the other car. Scott happened at that moment to be signalling his frustration to Marilyn who had been watching everything from the front room. Scott had pointed to his wristwatch, then to the two Frenchmen and then he tapped the side of his head to indicate madness.

‘I think there is a dent,' Lamy said, noticing how an unusual shadow fell on one part of the bonnet's curved surface.

Lamy took the Renault driver's name, his address, the registration number of the car and ordered him to delay any repairs until the matter was sorted out. Then he sent Jean
-
Pierre Laniel happily on his way. Once the blue Renault had disappeared down the road, Scott got out of his car. He checked his watch again. There was still just enough time if they could get Aaron into the car quickly, if he floored the accelerator and drove like a lunatic, they might yet make the airport in time.

He gave a thumbs up sign to Marilyn and was about to thank the policeman when he spoke.

‘Sir, I must ask that you accompany me to the police station.'

‘What?'

‘I am charging you with intent to cause criminal damage and threatening behaviour.'

‘What? Are you kidding me?'

‘No, sir. This is an extremely serious charge and I would ask that you come quietly.'

Lamy, with deliberate calm and grace, gestured towards his police car as if he were the lord of the manor inviting one of the lower orders to ride in his gilded carriage.

Scott hesitated. It was all too strange to take in. It was surreal – everything that had happened since they left the house that morning. As bizarre as a René Magritte painting or a film by Louis Bunuel. Even the dappled light. The figure of his wife beyond the window, her face drained of colour, while her red hair suddenly seemed to glow even redder as if it might crackle and spark with fire.

‘Surely…' he began, but suddenly felt defeated.

‘Otherwise I will be forced to place you under arrest.'

‘My wife,' Scott said hopelessly and flapped his arm towards the house.

‘You may inform her. Call her outside.'

Scott put his hands on his hips and letting out a low groan, looked down at his feet. It passed through his mind that one punch aimed squarely at the policeman's jaw could knock him out, then they could get away from this country, never come back.

The absurdness of the fantasy matched the absurdity of the situation. He lifted his head to see Marilyn at the window. She mouthed some words at him which he could not read. With one hand still on his hip, his shoulders hunched in defeat, he gestured for her to come out. She touched her breast bone with the tips of her fingers, as if to say ‘me?'

He nodded then watched as she turned away. Her red hair which had been shining in the light near the window, dimmed, then vanished entirely as she moved into the shadows at the back of the room.

Pleasures Taken

‘Are you hungry?' Florian asked.

‘Maybe,' Suzette said.

‘Yeah? What do you fancy?'

Suzette thought about the food she had in the flat; some bread, some eggs, garlic, a handful of black Muscat grapes, a very little goat's cheese, a short stump of
saucisson
that was probably past its best, apricot jam. In her freezer, wrapped up in a Carrefour carrier bag, a pair of mackerel an American tourist had given Suzette in the bar one day last summer.

‘Oh, I don't know.'

‘You know what I fancy?'

‘What?'

‘Steak and mayonnaise.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Yeah.'

‘It would be nice, but I don't have any…'

‘I know. But, hey, maybe I can conjure some up. Except…'

They were sitting side by side in bed, backs propped against the pillows. Suzette's shoulder was pressed against his, which felt so much warmer than hers. She would have liked to stay that way all day, then on into the evening until it was night and they would snuggle under the covers to make love and then sleep. The next day it would be the same and the one after that too. Nothing would change, they would not get bored. Just his warm skin against her slightly cooler skin would be enough. Forever. Amen.

He was thinking. He had left his last sentence hanging in midair, the last word he'd spoken ‘except…' So she was waiting. Finally, as if to signal that his thoughts and words were still pending, he gave a long drawn out growling, ‘Hmm.' Then he spoke. ‘You got any money?'

‘Pay day's tomorrow, so, no, not much.'

‘Alright,' he said, decisively, then he sprang out of bed and pulled on his jeans. She missed the heat of his body immediately, not because it was cold, but because it had been so comforting.

She gathered her dressing gown from the floor and while still in bed put it on.

‘Stay in bed,' he said. ‘I won't be long.'

‘Oh, where are you going?'

He was putting his shoes on, pale sand
-
coloured desert boots. It made her think of Jean
-
Paul Belmondo in an old '60s film.

‘Never you mind,' he said, and leaned over to kiss her. ‘I won't be long, keep the bed warm, eh?'

She grinned. She could not help herself, even though he was going. And he had given her a purpose. A task. To keep the bed warm until his return.

‘Okay.'

At the door, he turned and blew her a kiss, then he was gone.

Florian set off walking at a fast pace. He had a mission. He was going home to where his mother would be busy in the kitchen. She was always busy; cleaning or cooking or standing at the ironing board in front of the TV watching soap operas. She was a demon with that iron, and the clothes and linens she smoothed and steamed into perfect submission belonged to strangers. Crisp shirts, tiny baby girls' dresses with intricate ruffles and lace, silk paisley
-
patterned boxer shorts, cotton undershirts with indelible stains and a sour, stale odour of sweat that resisted even the hottest wash and should have been replaced long ago. Some people had no shame. But as his mother said, so long as they paid, what did she care?

‘Oh, Florian,' she'd say, always somehow surprised to see her own son back home, then her next question was always the same. ‘Hungry? Let me get you something.'

‘No, Ma, don't worry. I'm fine. I just ate.'

‘What did you eat?' she'd say, staring hard at him. ‘You're too thin.'

‘Ma,' he'd say, then go to her, throw an arm around her neck, plant a big kiss, a wet one, on her cheek. ‘I'm a big boy now, okay?'

She'd smile greedily; wipe the back of her hand over her face where he'd kissed her. ‘All right, son,' she'd say, ‘have it your way.'

Then he'd maybe snatch a piece of fruit from the bowl; an apple or peach. Eat it as he climbed the stairs to his room. This room which had been his for as long as he could remember. Same narrow single bed pushed under the window. Same painted pine chest with the missing knobs and the drawer that stuck. Same athletics and swimming certificates in their cheap frames on the wall. Same ‘Taxi Driver' poster yellowing at the edges, half sticky
-
taped, half blu
-
tacked above his old desk.

He did not quite live here, or anywhere exactly. He mooched, he slept on friends' floors, in women's beds. In cheap hotels in small towns when he had building work. Or other work. Delivering cars. Grape picking. Whatever.

Not by choice. You don't choose to live this way. It chooses you. In the past he'd had rented rooms, flats. Once a house with a duck pond in the garden. But then bad luck caught up with him, sent him to jail, made him drink too much one time too many, made his woman decide she'd had enough. There were countless reasons to find yourself upended, broke, locked up, plans scuppered, bruised, staring at nothing, starting from scratch, back (God bless her and keep her) home with Ma.

And now, here was Suzette.