Gorski removed his raincoat and folded it on the banquette next to him. He had been sure to arrive a few minutes early. Marie lingered by his table. There were no menus in the Restaurant de la Cloche. The dishes on offer were displayed on a pair of large blackboards attached to the wall opposite the door. It was Pasteur’s first order of business each morning to climb the rickety stepladder kept behind the door of the WC to chalk up the day’s specials.
Gorski explained that as he was expecting someone, he would wait a little before ordering. Marie adopted an enquiring expression.
‘My wife,’ said Gorski. For some reason he lowered his voice.
Marie made no attempt to conceal her delight. She bustled off to the hulking dresser in which the crockery and napkins were kept, returning with a linen tablecloth, which she expertly spread over the waxcloth deemed adequate for less worthy guests. She set two places with various glasses, holding them to the light to verify their spotlessness. When she finished she stood back and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction.
Gorski leaned back on the banquette, embarrassed by this special treatment. The other customers watched resentfully. A man in his mid-thirties, sitting at the table next to the WC, looked up from his newspaper. He was wearing a dark suit. His tie was loosened at the collar. Gorski made an apologetic face, but the man merely returned his gaze to his paper. The Restaurant de la Cloche was not the sort of place where one fell into conversation with one’s neighbours. Marie did her best to foster a convivial atmosphere, pausing now and again to pass a few pleasantries with regulars and strangers alike, but conversations were generally held in hushed tones. It would not have been Gorski’s venue of choice to discuss his marital difficulties, but he had been in no position to demur.
Marie suggested an aperitif.
Gorski had already drunk three beers in Le Pot and he was about to order another, but he thought better of it. Céline did not approve of beer at the dinner table. There was no point unnecessarily provoking her. He asked for a glass of wine.
Marie proposed a bottle. ‘We have a lovely Riesling,’ she said.
Gorski acquiesced. Marie returned with the wine and displayed the label to Gorski before opening it. She poured a drop into the green-stemmed glass on the table and waited for Gorski’s approval.
‘I’m sure it will be to Madame Gorski’s liking,’ she said.
It was curious to hear his wife referred to in this way. Céline generally used her maiden name. It was, she had frequently explained, nothing personal. It was simply that ‘Gorski’ did not strike the right note for someone in the fashion business. Nonetheless, it never failed to irk Gorski to hear his wife refer to herself as Mme Keller.
The wine was dreadfully sweet. Céline would pull a face when she tried it.
‘Perfect,’ he said with a tight smile. Marie filled his glass.
She appeared eager to continue the conversation, but as Gorski said nothing more she retreated to the counter. Lemerre placed his cards face down on the table and made his way across the room towards the WC. He paused at Gorski’s table and offered him a limp handshake.
‘Are we expecting Cleopatra herself?’ he said, gesturing towards the table.
Gorski forced a little laugh.
‘Ah, a clandestine rendezvous. Don’t worry, Inspector,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose, ‘your secret’s safe with me.’
Gorski was about to respond to the effect that if he were planning a tryst, he would hardly conduct it in the Restaurant de la Cloche, but he checked himself. It was never wise to allow oneself to be drawn into conversation with Lemerre.
‘And keep an eye on these shysters over there, will you?’ he went on, jabbing his thumb towards his cronies. ‘You should join us for a game sometime.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gorski, ‘but I’m not much of a player.’
‘Doesn’t stop these jokers,’ the hairdresser responded, before waddling off, his left hand clamped to his belt as if holding in a hernia.
Gorski sipped his wine. He glanced at his watch beneath the table. It was only ten past eight. It did not greatly concern Gorski that Céline was late. She had never been greatly concerned by punctuality, and if she chose to make him wait for a few minutes she would be quite justified. Nevertheless, he began to feel self-conscious. The salesman by the WC ordered coffee. The other remaining diners were already eating dessert. The card players by the door glanced over regularly and leant across their table to exchange whispered comments. Were it not for the fact that it would hurt Marie’s feelings, he would suggest going somewhere else as soon as Céline arrived. He poured himself a second glass of wine.
In any case, perhaps his wife’s tardiness was no bad thing. Gorski had barely even thought about what he wanted to say. Despite the fact that it had been Céline who had walked out, he was the one expected to make a show of contrition. The problem was that he did not feel contrite. He simply did not know what he had done wrong. Of course, he was not successful or ambitious enough for Céline. But that was hardly a failing on his part. He was who he was. He was not overly concerned with what car he drove or where his suits were made. He was more comfortable scoffing a hotdog at a Formica table in Le Pot than he was in the fashionable eateries of Strasbourg. The fact was, he and Céline had little in common, yet it was his role to implore her to come back and undertake to change his ways. But he did not want to change his ways. Nor did he want to Céline to change hers. For all her snobbishness and silly pretensions, he liked her. He missed her when she was not there. Then there was Clémence to consider, although she gave no indication of being anything other than indifferent to her parents’ squabbles. In any case, she would be off to college in a couple of years and would barely give them a passing thought.
Gorski poured himself a third glass. From behind the counter, Marie glanced up at the clock and gave him a concerned look. Gorski found himself thinking about Lucette Barthelme. If he had declined her invitation to lunch, it was not on account of any investigative protocol. It was because he still thought of himself as married. He was still married, and the attraction he felt for the widow discomfited him, as if it already constituted a betrayal. Prior to his marriage, Gorski had not had a great deal of experience with women. He was not well versed in the dumb-show of flirtation. Nevertheless, there was something in the way Lucette looked at him—in her girlish giggling and the nervous way she smoked—which suggested the attraction was mutual. He swilled down more wine; what did it matter if Céline thought he was drunk? It was her fault for being late. Perhaps he would have lunch with Lucette Barthelme. He recalled the way in which her nightdress had been disarrayed around her breasts.
His thoughts were interrupted by Marie. She was too tactful to imply that Mme Gorski might not be coming, but she did remind him that the kitchen would soon be closing. It was only then that Gorski understood Céline’s ruse. Why else would she have suggested meeting at the Restaurant de la Cloche? It was the most public place in which to humiliate him. He almost admired her guile. He admitted defeat and ordered steak-frites.
‘Will you order for madame?’
‘She must have been delayed,’ he said weakly.
Gorski did not begrudge Céline her little act of vengeance, but he was sorry that Marie had been disappointed. She would have enjoyed dropping into conversation that the mayor’s daughter was now patronising her establishment.
She returned a few minutes later and placed his food in front of him. The steak was smothered in a thick pepper sauce. Gorski thanked her. He had almost finished the bottle of Riesling. He told Marie to bring him a glass of beer. The card players were watching the unfolding drama with amusement.
‘Is a guy supposed to go hungry?’ Gorski said with a theatrical shrug.
‘More trouble than they’re worth,’ replied Lemerre, before adding a crude generalisation about the female sex. Marie fixed him with a stern look.
Gorski turned his attention to his steak. It was good. He finished it in a few minutes an
d mopped up the sauce with his frites. Afterwards he would go to Le Pot for a couple more beers to settle his stomach. To hell with Céline. He was better off without her. Had he not lived his whole life doing what other people expected him to do? Maybe now it was time he did what he wanted. If he wanted to drink himself senseless, he would. And if he wanted to jump into bed with the widow, who was to stop him? Perhaps he would call on her that very night.
Gorski was wiping the remains of the pepper sauce from the corners of his mouth when Céline made her appearance. It was nine o’clock. She was wearing an ankle-length fur coat that her father had recently bought her. She pushed through the velvet drapes that protected the restaurant from draughts in the winter months and surveyed the room. She did not see Gorski—or pretended not to—obliging him to raise his hand to attract her attention. She strode across to his table, the heels of her shoes clacking on the floor. This exotic sound caused those who had not witnessed her entrance to look up from their drinks. Lemerre tipped his head to the side to better observe her progress, then pursing his lips, slowly nodded his approval.
She looked at the bottle on the table and then at Gorski’s empty plate.
‘How good of you to wait for me,’ she said.
Gorski got up, knocking the table with his thigh. The wine bottle teetered for a moment, before Céline reached out and settled it. She allowed him to kiss her on both cheeks. In her heels, she was half a head taller than him.
He mumbled an apology. ‘I assumed you weren’t coming. The kitchen was closing.’
Céline looked at him. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
Gorski shook his head, but he could not deny the evidence of the bottle in front of them. Marie arrived at the table. She greeted Céline effusively and took her coat. She was wearing a grey knitted dress, which clung to her austere figure. Gorski felt a twinge of desire.
‘How nice to see you, madame,’ said Marie. ‘I hope everything will be to your satisfaction.’ Marie beamed at her, then turned to Gorski with an approving look. It was a look he had seen countless times over the years, a look that plainly stated: You’ve done well for yourself, haven’t you?
‘I’m sure it will be,’ said Céline graciously. ‘I’m only sorry I’m too late to sample your cooking.’
Marie looked aghast. ‘Not at all, madame,’ she said. ‘My husband will be happy to prepare whatever you want.’
Céline said sweetly that she did not want to be any trouble.
‘It will be no trouble at all,’ said Marie.
Gorski resumed his seat. Céline ordered a vodka tonic and sat down opposite him. Marie took Céline’s coat to the stand by the door, pausing for a moment to admire it, before returning to the table. Céline asked Gorski what he had had and said she would have the same. Marie conveyed her order to Pasteur, who glanced up at the large clock on the wall. A whispered conversation ensued, which ended with the proprietor throwing his cards on the table and disappearing into the kitchen.
Céline watched the little scene with amusement, before turning back to Gorski.
‘So this is the famous Restaurant de la Cloche,’ she said. ‘I must say I find it rather charming.’
She went on to pass comment on the various fixtures and fittings in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. Her hair was disarrayed, as if she had left the house in a hurry. Perhaps her lateness had merely been an oversight. She seemed in high spirits. Gorski wondered if she had forgiven him for standing her up. Maybe there was not really so much wrong with their relationship. Had there ever been a couple who did not aggravate each other after twenty years of marriage? Perhaps, after all, the faults were on his side. As time had gone on, he had made less and less effort to accommodate Céline’s wishes. His reluctance to attend social events meant that she had long since ceased asking him. When they were first married, they had often gone to the cinema and sometimes even to the theatre in Strasbourg. Gorski had never enjoyed the theatre—he could not get over the essential absurdity of watching people pretend to be someone they were not—but that was not the point. The point was that they had done things together. Gorski recalled an occasion ten or more years ago. He had been reading a newspaper at the kitchen table after their evening meal.
‘There’s a new production of The Misanthrope at the Théâtre National,’ Céline had said. ‘I thought we might go.’
Gorski recalled that he had not even looked up from his paper. ‘Do we have to?’ he had replied wearily.
‘Of course we don’t have to,’ Céline had said angrily.
And that had been that. They had not been to the theatre since. And so it had been with all their social activities. Maybe all that was required was a little effort on his part.
Marie arrived with Céline’s steak. Gorski wished her bon appétit and she tucked in with gusto. Despite her slim figure, Céline had never been picky about food.
What can I say? she liked to declare. I have a high metabolism. And if there were any men within earshot, she would add saucily: For everything!
Gorski watched her eat. She had a wide mouth and prominent high cheekbones. She flashed her eyes towards him.
‘I’m starved,’ she said through a mouthful of steak. Good table manners—along with punctuality—were, she maintained, the preserve of the lower classes.
‘How is it?’ Gorski asked.
She nodded, a little surprised perhaps. ‘Not bad.’
Gorski felt encouraged by this amicable little exchange. ‘Perhaps we should do this more often.’ He was aware that he was slurring.
Céline stopped eating for a moment. She looked at him. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little late for that, my dear?’ she said.
He took a swallow of beer.
Aside from Lemerre and his cronies and the salesman, the restaurant was now empty. Céline speared a number of frites on her fork and stuffed them into her mouth.
Gorski was too drunk to care that everyone was now listening to their conversation.
‘Perhaps we just need to make a little more effort,’ he said. Céline glanced up from her food. ‘What I mean is that I need to make a little more effort. I’ve been neglectful, I know,’ he said.
‘Oh, Georges,’ she said in a tone that suggested she was addressing a silly schoolboy.
He leaned across the table. ‘I’m serious,’ he said.
Céline looked at him. She appeared to be weighing up what he had said. Marie cleared her plate. It had not taken Céline more than five minutes to polish it off. She ordered a slice of Black Forest gâteau.
‘And for you?’ Marie asked.
Gorski shook his head. He had never had a sweet tooth, but he immediately regretted his decision. Of course he should have dessert. They should eat dessert together like a functioning married couple. Nevertheless, he had the feeling that everything was going to be all right, and that from now on it would become their custom to visit the Restaurant de la Cloche every Thursday evening. They would eat steak-frites and Black Forest gâteau and reminisce about the time they had almost separated.
Céline lit a cigarette and leaned back in her rickety chair. Gorski castigated himself for not offering her the banquette; what a buffoon he was! Marie brought a large slice of gâteau topped with whipped cream and a preserved cherry.
‘How delightful!’ Céline proclaimed.
Marie suggested a glass of kirsch to accompany it. ‘An excellent idea,’ said Céline merrily. Gorski was beginning to suspect that she too was drunk. He had a strong urge to fuck her.
Pasteur had emerged from the kitchen and re-joined the men at the table by the door. They did not take up their cards, however, preferring instead to watch the spectacle in the corner of the restaurant. Céline put out her cigarette and started on the gâteau. For the sake of something to say, Gorski enquired after her parents.
Céline rolled her eyes. She swallowed a mouthful of cake.
‘Maman’s driving me up the wall. Papa, too,’ she said. ‘In fact, it’s partly that I wanted to t
alk to you about.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Gorski felt a twinge of hope.
Céline took another spoonful of cake then turned to Marie, who was loitering by the dresser sorting cutlery. ‘It’s delicious, madame,’ she said. Marie bowed her head in acknowledgement.
She turned back to Gorski, then said in an offhand manner: ‘I’ve decided to move back to the house.’
Gorski could not help glancing round the restaurant to make sure everyone had heard. He stood up and, leaning across the table, put his arms around her shoulders. His tie dangled into her gâteau. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’m very pleased.’
Céline put a hand on his chest and pushed him firmly back across the table. Gorski felt embarrassed by his drunken display of affection. Céline indicated that he had cream on his tie. He wiped it with his hand. Céline shook her head despairingly. When he had finished attending to his tie, he asked when she planned to return.
‘As soon as practicable, I suppose,’ she replied.
Gorski nodded vigorously. He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers.
She took another mouthful of dessert. ‘Of course, I’ll expect you to have made alternative arrangements by then.’
‘Alternative arrangements?’
Céline gave a little shrug. ‘To find somewhere else to live.’
Gorski cast his eyes towards the table. He withdrew his hand. He felt nauseous.
‘Of course,’ he said.
Céline nodded, satisfied that agreement had been reached. She pushed away the remains of her dessert and stood up. Gorski looked at her helplessly.
‘I do hope we can be amicable about this,’ she said.
He nodded sadly. ‘What about Clémence?’ he said.
Céline looked him at quizzically, as though it was the first time she had considered the issue. ‘You can see her whenever you want, of course. Assuming she wants to see you.’
Behind her, the card players had taken up their hands and were playing with studied concentration, affecting to have witnessed nothing of what had occurred. Gorski swallowed hard to prevent himself from vomiting.
The Accident on the A35 Page 22