Moon in a Dead Eye

by Pascal Garnier

  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!’

  What on earth was up with them all today? Honestly, the looks on their faces! Not even Léa could bring herself to smile. Fair enough, it was hot and sticky,
there was a storm brewing, and it made your body prickle all over, but even so … It was bad timing because Nadine had read an article earlier in the week about ‘laughter therapy’, a new technique devised by doctors, psychologists, yoga teachers, sophrologists, masseurs and other therapists, and today was the day she was going to try it out on the group. She had mugged up on a few physical and mental exercises designed to promote happiness, positive thinking and self-esteem, and to help things along she had baked herself a little hash cake which was beginning to kick in. The Sudres, the Nodes and Léa had listened obediently as she introduced her theme, assuring them it was scientifically proven that we should all laugh for at least fifteen minutes per day to maintain good health, upping the dose in case of illness to re-establish a virtuous circle, stimulating the immune system and ending the vicious cycle of illness, depression and weakened defences …

  For Christ’s sake! There really wasn’t much to it; all they needed to do was join hands and laugh … Five pairs of eyes as cloudy as the sky stared blankly back at her. The air conditioning in the clubhouse had still not been fixed, so Nadine found herself standing in front of a row of streaming faces, like waxworks of forgotten celebrities being melted down before coming back as more contemporary figures. All in all, a disconcerting sight. Nadine’s mouth was dry and her eyelids drooped as though too big for her eyes. A dull itch tickled the palms of her hands. Clearly her audience was unconvinced. They looked at the floor, avoiding her gaze, all except Maxime, who glared right at her with a face like thunder.

  ‘Give me one thing to laugh about. Just one!’

  ‘Well … I don’t know, Maxime … Anything, it doesn’t matter! … You don’t have to have a reason to laugh.’

  ‘OK, here’s one for you. Here we all are, thinking we’re among friends, you know, people we can trust, and the minute your back’s turned, someone goes and tells all sorts of stories about you, stories that could land you in a whole heap of trouble, and then that person ever so quietly sneaks back in as though nothing ever happened. How’s that for a joke, huh?’

  Wedged into his chair, white-knuckled hands clutching the wheels, elbows sticking out and shoulders raised, Maxime looked like a disabled athlete poised to start a race. Marlène turned stiffly towards him, as though swivelling on a pivot.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, Maxime?’

  ‘I’m telling it like it is. There’s no way I’m going to sit here laughing with someone who goes blabbing behind my back, when they weren’t even there!’

  Nadine was beginning to wonder if that cake had been such a good idea. She was getting the most awful vibes off this man. Nothing for it but to take the snail approach and curl up within herself, praying for her guardian angel to come and rectify this casting error and take her safely home.

  Marlène pressed on.

  ‘What do you mean, Maxime? Who’s saying what about whom?’

  ‘No need to spell it out, she knows exactly who she is! If there’s anyone here who needs to explain themselves, it’s her.’

  With the exception of Nadine, who had just closed her eyes, the women looked questioningly at each other until Léa began shaking her head with a sigh.

  ‘Fine, I get it! If it’s me you’re talking about, Maxime, there’s really no need for all this fuss. I was on my way out the night before last when Monsieur Flesh stopped me to give me the same rubbish about the gypsies he had spouted to Marlène. I told him it was stupid of him to scare people with stories like that and, thanks to him, there had almost been a very serious accident. I didn’t say a word against you. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘And how did you know what happened that day, when you weren’t there?’

  ‘Because Odette told me!’

  ‘Oh, that’s just great, isn’t it? Just great. So now everybody’s in on it! Thanks, Odette, thanks a lot!’

  Odette looked as though she had been slapped round the face with a wet fish. For a few seconds, a heavy silence hung in the air, before everyone began talking over each other.

  ‘Well, excuse me!’

  ‘Odette, please …’

  ‘Maxime, say you’re sorry!’

  ‘Stop it! This is ridiculous. It’s all down to that idiot caretaker …’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you …’

  ‘Anyway, my son Régis is a lawyer, so …’

  ‘No one said anything about pressing charges!’

  ‘Mind your manners! Martial, say something!’

  ‘But even if you did, Régis …’

  ‘Marlène, will you stop banging on about Régis! He’s dead, for Christ’s sake! Dead! Can’t you get that into your head?’

  The conversation too was cut dead. It was like a henhouse after the fox has left, a few stray feathers left swirling in the air. Marlène had gone pale. Standing in the middle of the room with her hands clamped over her stomach, she seemed to be teetering on the edge of an abyss. Then she loosened up, took a deep breath and fluffed up her hair. She was smiling.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Régis isn’t dead. He’s absolutely fine. In fact, he sent me a tape yesterday of a piano piece he composed himself. He’s a brilliant musician … I’ll go and get it.’

  She calmly crossed the room without catching anyone’s eye, opened the door and disappeared into the blinding daylight outside.

  Léa turned back to Maxime. ‘I can’t make out if you’re a total bastard or just thick as shit.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you filthy dyke! Stop sticking your damned oar in!’

  Suddenly he sprang out of his wheelchair and ran after his wife.

  Odette was gobsmacked. ‘He can walk?’

  Nadine was the only one still sitting down. Of course, the story had gone right over her head, but blimey, they had acted it out brilliantly, with such conviction. She was almost tempted to break into applause.

  Odette closed her clubhouse folder with a look of sadness.

  ‘I think I’ll put, “Meeting cancelled due to adverse weather”. What do you say, Nadine?’

  ‘Good idea, yes … What’s all this about the gypsies?’

  ‘Didn’t you see them, by the main road?’

  ‘Yes, but they’re all over the place at this time of year. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Come with me, I’ll tell you all about it. I need to get some air, even if there isn’t any.’

  The three women walked out, whispering. Martial sat himself down in Maxime’s wheelchair. It really was comfortable, apart from the gun sticking into his back. He stayed there for a while, looking up at the ceiling where all the names that had been flung around continued to reverberate. It made his head spin …

  It’s going to blow up … Everything does, sooner or later, even the star-studded sky that’s nothing more than a great moth-holed curtain, drawn across to hide the mess, with that Cyclops ogling us from the other side. Lieutenant Bardu was right: ‘Life is like this fucking minefield. No one gets out alive. Onward!’ All that had been left of him was his shoes. So what? Can’t keep it up for ever, can we? Everything’s temporary, the Pyramids as well as Les Conviviales, built on shifting sand, based on guesswork. Long live death! It’s what keeps us alive. Nothing to it, that’s just the way it is, all goes to rust and dust. They were at each other’s throats, those seniors and senioritas! Christ alive, they were ripping each other to shreds! The lame ducks weren’t bobbing around on their pond today, no siree, they were tearing each other’s feathers out, pecking and scratching … The names they were calling each other! … Mouthing off about anything and everything: just you wait, I’ll press on your boils, your buboes, I’ll show you my stump … Doesn’t bear repeating. They don’t know what’s in store for them. It’s all wrapped up. Right about now, Dacapo and company are emptying the coffers, getting ready to take the money and run, far, far away from here, to some distant tax haven. It’s bye-bye Les Conviviales! Total flop, gone bust! Open up the hatches, the rats are fleeing this sinking ship. Five years, tops, and it’ll be nothin
g but jungle here. The monkeys will be climbing on the ruins. You only have to look at the quality of the materials: shoddy plaster slapped onto balsa-wood frames bought with rubber cheques! Why bother making it sturdy? It’s only for doddery old people, on their last legs and with more money than they know what to do with. So they take it off them – it only has to look shiny and stay standing long enough for them to fill their pockets and then it’s so long, suckers! … Afterwards, there’ll be no one left to tell the tale. Nature will take back what’s rightfully hers. Nature was what I took care of; as for the houses, I couldn’t give a stuff. I like plant life, it’s reliable, doesn’t want to chat and wave its hands about, takes its time, grows out of sight underground and once it’s taken root in the depths of hell, it breaks out and smothers everything, like an anaconda, a python, one huge muscle wrapping itself around the planet and then … crack! Enough said. Of course it was bound to go to shit, putting all these old folk in one place, but it would have been just the same if they were young. People can’t help devouring one another – whether they’re hungry for hate or love, it all boils down to the same thing. Doesn’t bother me – I’m out of here tomorrow, heading back to Saint-Dié. I’ve got a lifeboat waiting for me. Let’s just say I’ve done well out of Dacapo, so silence is golden – hand over the money and thank you, sir! I could smell trouble brewing, way back. My bags are packed. Sorry, what’s that? The camera’s stopped working? … Never mind, nothing to see here, carry on … I can just imagine the looks on their faces, the Sudres, the Nodes, the pretty one, Léa, and that other airhead, Nadine … I was starting to enjoy watching them squirm … You end up getting attached, even to fuckwits like them … They keep you company, at least … When I get to Saint-Dié, I’m going to open my own kennels; I’ve already bought the land. There’s a lot of money in dogs, you know. All you get from old people is gossip. No teeth left, so all they can do is dribble and lick. Good for nothing but sticking stamps on letters they’ll never post. More or less useless once they’re just skin and bone, down to their last drops of blood, sweat and tears. When all the liquid’s gone … What if, before I go, I, Gérard Flesh tell them they’ve been screwed over right from the start? … But why should I? … They don’t like me … and there’d be no point anyway … We’d all just end up saying we didn’t like each other, and there’d be no point in that either … Oh, would you look at that stupid prick Martial! The man can’t drive to save his life – he’s reversed right into my privet hedge …