The Panda Theory
Pascal Garnier
Translated from the French
by Gallic Books
Gallic Books
London
Contents
Title Page
The Panda Theory
Pascal Garnier In His Own Words
About the Author
Copyright
He was sitting alone at the end of a bench on a deserted railway platform. Above him, a tangle of metal girders merged into the gloom. It was the station of a small Breton town on a Sunday in October – a completely nondescript town, but certainly Brittany, the interior anyway. The sea was far away, its presence unimaginable. There was nothing picturesque here. A faint odour of manure hung in the air. The clock said 17.18. Head bowed, his elbows on his knees, he examined his palms. Hands always get dirty on trains, he thought. Not dirty exactly, but sticky, especially under the nails, with that grey grime that comes from others who have touched the handles, armrests and tables before you. He raised his head again, and, as if spurred by the surrounding stillness, stood up, grabbed his bag, walked a few metres back up the platform and took the underpass to the exit. No one crossed his path.
He used his teeth to tear open the plastic wrapper of the tiny tablet of soap then washed his hands thoroughly. The washbasin had two taps, which meant that he had to switch between the freezing water from the left and the scalding water from the right. He didn’t intend to look in the mirror but couldn’t help catching sight of himself as if he were an anonymous passer-by in the street. The waffle towel, staple of cheap hotels, was little bigger than a handkerchief. He looked around the room as he dried his hands. A table, a chair, a bed and a wardrobe containing a pillow, a moss-green tartan blanket and three clothes hangers. All made of the same imitation wood, MDF with a rosewood veneer. He flung the towel onto the brown patterned bedspread. The room was stifling. The radiator had just two settings, on and off. He had once disposed of a litter of kittens by shutting them in a shoebox lined with cotton wool soaked in ether. The miaowing and scratching had not lasted long. His bag sat at the foot of the bed like an exhausted dog, the handles flopping by its sides, the zip tongue hanging out. He yanked the curtain back and flung open the window. Still that manure smell. A streetlamp cast a pale glow over half a dozen lock-up garages with corrugated-iron doors of the same indefinable colour. Above it all, the sky, of course.
And, of course, the bed was soft. The frosted-glass lampshade overhead, clumsily suggesting some sort of flower in bloom, failed to brighten up the room. He switched it off.
‘Do you know anywhere round here to have dinner?’
‘On a Sunday evening? Try the Faro. It’s the second left as you go down the boulevard. I don’t know if they’re open though. Do you want the door code in case you come back after midnight?’
‘No need. I’ll be back before then.’
The receptionist was called Madeleine, or so the pendant round her neck informed him. She wasn’t beautiful, but not ugly either. Somewhere between the two. And very dark-haired; there was a hint of a moustache on her upper lip.
A few dark shops, like empty fish tanks, lined the street. A car passed in one direction, two in the other. There was no one on the street. The Faro was more of a bistro than a restaurant. Apart from the owner, sitting behind the counter with a pen in his mouth, engrossed in some calculation, it was empty.
‘Good evening. Are you open for dinner?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Ah, well, in that case I’ll have a Coke. Actually, no, a beer.’
Off his stool, the man barely measured five foot four. Stocky with bushy hair, he resembled a wild boar but with doe eyes and long curling lashes. The man pulled a beer, gave the counter an automatic wipe, and placed the drink on the bar.
‘I usually do food, but not tonight.’
‘Too bad.’
The owner stood awkwardly for a moment, his eyes lowered, busying himself with his cloth, and then returned abruptly to his stool behind the till.
Other than the four brass lamps illuminating the bar, the rest of the bistro was in total darkness. Probably because there weren’t any other customers. You could just make out the tables and chairs and, in the back room, children’s toys: a pedal tractor, building blocks, Lego, an open book, sheets of paper and scattered felt tip pens.
He didn’t touch his beer. Perhaps he didn’t really want it.
‘Were you after food?’
‘Yes.’
‘My wife does the cooking. But she’s in hospital.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
For a moment, the only sound in the bar was the fizzing of the beer’s froth.
‘Do you like salt cod stew?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘I was about to close. There’s some left, though, if you like.’
‘That sounds great.’
‘Well, take a seat. No, not here, come through.’
The back room erupted suddenly in a blaze of lemon-yellow fluorescent light. The two men picked their way over the pedal tractor, the building blocks, the Lego bricks and the brightly coloured children’s drawings.
‘You can sit there.’
He sat down at a table covered with a daisy-patterned apple-green oilcloth, facing a huge television.
‘I won’t be a sec,’ said the owner. Before leaving the room he pressed a button on the remote. The TV screen spewed a stream of incoherent images and gurgling sounds, like blood bubbling from a slit throat.
… BUT THE FINAL DEATH TOLL IS NOT YET KNOWN. IN NORTHERN IRELAND …
‘Bacalao!’
The owner placed two plates heaped with salt cod, potatoes, peppers and tomatoes on the table along with a bottle of vinho verde.
‘Bon appétit!’
‘Thank you.’
… THE PARENTS HAVE ISSUED A MESSAGE TO THE KIDNAPPERS. INTERVIEWED EARLIER …
‘My wife, Marie, makes it, but I’m the one who taught her. I’m Portuguese, she’s Breton. All she could cook was pancakes. She still makes them. You’ve got to make crêpes in Brittany! Are you a Breton?’
‘No.’
‘I thought not.’
‘Why?’
‘A Breton downs his glass in one. But you haven’t.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘What? Not being a Breton?’
‘No, your wife.’
‘No, it’s a cyst. She’s tough. She’s never been ill before. I drove her to the hospital this morning. The kids are at their grandmother’s. It’s best for them.’
… NO ONE WAS KILLED IN THE ACCIDENT. FROM OUR CORRESPONDENT IN CAIRO, LAURENT PÉCHU …
‘How many do you have?’
‘Two, a boy and a girl, Gaël and Maria, seven and five.’
… IT COULD JUST BE HUMAN ERROR …
‘How about you? Do you have any children?’
‘No.’
‘Are you a sailor?’
‘No.’
‘I only ask because of your reefer jacket.’
‘It’s practical.’
… AT HALF-TIME, THE SCORE WAS 3–2 …
The salt cod hadn’t been soaked for long enough. He didn’t like the vinho verde. He would have preferred water, but there wasn’t any on the table. He only had to ask. The owner would have given him some, like the beer he had not drunk. Stupid.
‘Do you know Portugal?’
‘I’ve been to Lisbon.’
‘What a beautiful city! It’s huge! I’m from Faro myself. It’s also pretty, but smaller. I came to France in ’77, to Saint-Étienne, as a builder. And then …’
… TRIUMPH AT THE OLYMPIA. LET’S HEAR WHAT THE FANS ARE SAYING …
‘… I left the building
trade to open the restaurant with Marie. Would you like coffee?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Okay.’
… OVERCAST BUT WITH SUNNY SPELLS IN THE LATE AFTERNOON …
‘That was very tasty. How much do I owe you?’
‘Ten euros? I won’t charge for the beer.’
‘Thank you.’
… WONDERFUL EVENING AND STAY WITH US HERE ON CHANNEL ONE …
‘I thought I’d be eating alone tonight. I’m José by the way. And you are?’
‘Gabriel. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, tomorrow, but as long as Marie is in hospital I’m not opening the restaurant.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Do you have a fridge?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Could you put this in it until tonight?’
‘What is it?’
‘Meat.’
‘Of course, that will be fine.’
‘Thank you.’
The hint of moustache on Madeleine’s lip was effaced by her warm smile as she took the five hundred grams of boned lamb shoulder. Anyone watching would have found the scene somewhat biblical. Today, Madeleine looked beautiful.
The flimsy wire hanger was designed for summer outfits and it sagged pitifully under the weight of the wet reefer jacket. It had been raining since early morning, a light rain that was perfectly in keeping with the town and gave it a certain elegance, a veneer of respectability. Gabriel had delighted in it from the moment he had opened his eyes; it was like a kind of salutary grief, an unobtrusive companion, an intimate presence.
There were people about, mothers taking their children to school and housewives weighed down by bulging shopping baskets. Mainly women. The men were digging holes in the road and replacing the rotten, rust-eaten pipes with new grey plastic ones. They seemed to revel in making a lot of noise and wheeling their big orange diggers in and out of the pus-yellow mud. It was a typical Monday. The shops showed off their best wares with the clumsy vanity of a girl getting ready for her first dance: bread, flowers, fish, funeral urns, medicines, sports equipment, houses for rent or sale, every kind of insurance, furniture, light fittings, shoes and so on.
He had tried on a pair of shoes just because the shop assistant seemed bored all alone in her pristine shop. But he had not bought them. He had apologised, saying that he was going to think about it. Not a sale, but a glimmer of hope at least. It didn’t take much to make people happy.
After that he had stopped at a café for a hot chocolate and found himself sitting next to two young men in ill-fitting suits who talked business with the seriousness of a pair of children playing at being grown-ups. From what he could gather, their problem was how to get rid of two hundred pallets of babies’ bottles and as many unfortunately incompatible teats.
‘Africa. It’s the only way …’
On leaving the café he had found himself outside the butcher’s gazing longingly at a rolled shoulder of lamb garnished with a cute sprig of parsley. It made him think of baby Jesus.
The radiator continued to pump out a suffocating heat. He felt overcome by a kind of tropical fever. The bed morphed into a hammock and a mangrove swamp of memories closed in on him, incoherent, tangled.
There had been toys scattered about the empty house there as well.
‘You can see, can’t you, Gabriel, she had everything. EVERYTHING!’
His friend Roland made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the vacant space. It still smelt of fresh paint.
‘You can’t tell me we wouldn’t have been happy here!’
Gabriel had not been able to think of a response. He had merely shaken his head. It was sadder to see it like this, virtually unlived in, than it would have been if a bomb had hit it. Nadine, Roland’s wife, had left with the kids barely a week after moving in. Everything was achingly new. Most of the furniture was still wrapped in plastic.
‘“I don’t like chickens.” That was her only explanation! Christ! She could have said earlier! I could have kept pigs. Or something else. You’ve seen the sheds, haven’t you? They’re a long way from the house. You can’t smell them. Or hear them. A farm with two thousand chickens, the very best, state of the art! I’d have paid it all off in ten years! You’ve seen it, Gabriel; it’s impressive, isn’t it?’
He had seen it. Roland had shown him around. It was awful. He couldn’t help but be reminded of a concentration camp. Two thousand albino chickens under ten metres of corrugated-iron roofing, fluorescent lights glaring day and night, the birds clucking and tapping their beaks like demented toys. And an appalling sickly smell, which the ambient heat only made worse. He had hurried out to stop himself from throwing up. For a long time after, his eyes burnt with the apocalyptic scene.
Roland wept softly, fists clenched, his forehead pressed up against the window.
‘They delivered the frame for the swing this morning. If you only knew how many times I’ve dreamt of the kids playing on the swing. Their laughter … Why didn’t she tell me sooner that she didn’t like chickens?’
The Loiret can be pretty in the spring. The tubular structure of the swing frame stood stiffly between two clumps of hydrangeas. Gabriel had cooked a comforting blanquette de veau for Roland. But his friend had barely touched it. He had downed glass after glass, mumbling, ‘Why? Why?’ over and over again.
Two days later he heard that Roland had hanged himself from the swing frame.
Yes, there had been toys scattered there as well …
‘Do you want your meat back?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Hold on, I’ll go and get it.’
Two large suitcases cluttered the lobby. Someone had either just arrived or was about to leave.
‘Here you are. What kind of meat is it?’
‘Shoulder of lamb.’
‘For a roast or stew?’
‘A roast – just with onions, garlic and thyme.’
‘That’s the way I like it as well. Are you doing the cooking?’
‘Yes, it’s something I enjoy. It’s for some friends.’
‘You’ll have to cook for me one day!’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘Okay then. Have a nice evening and make sure you take the door code this time. Dinners always go on till late.’
‘If you say so. Goodnight, Madeleine.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A shoulder of lamb.’
‘Why are you bringing me a shoulder of lamb?’
‘I was thinking of cooking it for the two of us, here, tonight.’
José’s eyes widened as he looked from the bloodstained parcel of meat to the unblinking expression of his customer standing at the bar.
‘That’s a strange idea.’
‘Is it? It’s just … As I passed the butcher’s this morning the meat looked good. But perhaps your wife’s back from hospital?’
‘No, a few more days yet.’
José seemed on edge. At the other end of the bar, two regulars had interrupted their dice game to watch them curiously.
‘Do you want something to drink?’
‘The usual please, a beer.’
José poured the beer then excused himself and went over to the two men by the till. They exchanged a few words in hushed voices. The men nodded their heads knowingly and resumed their game while José headed back to Gabriel, the tea towel slung over his shoulder.
‘All right then.’
‘Can you show me where the kitchen is?’
‘Follow me.’
It was small but well equipped and very clean.
‘The pots and pans are in this cupboard, the cutlery in this drawer.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘No problem. It’ll be ready in about half an hour. Would you prefer potatoes or beans?’
‘It’s up to you. Tell me, why are you doing this?’
‘I don’t know. It just seemed natural. You’re on your own, and so am I.
You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Not at all. It’s just a bit unusual.’
The lamb had fulfilled its promise: juicy, cooked medium so it was still pink in the middle, with a crispy skin. All that was left on their plates at the end were the bits of string. The deliciously tender potato gratin had also been polished off. As he had carried the steaming, sizzling dish through from the kitchen, Gabriel had seen José sitting awkwardly at the table like an uncomfortable house guest, staring at his own puzzled reflection in the black screen of the television which he had not dared to turn on.
‘Relax, make yourself at home,’ Gabriel had wanted to say.
They had wolfed down their food, their grunts of satisfaction punctuated by timid smiles.
When he was full, José had leant back in his chair, his cheeks flushed.
‘Now that was quite something. Bravo! You’ll have to give me the recipe for Marie.’
‘It’s not difficult; the key thing is the quality of the ingredients.’
‘Even so … Are you a chef?’
‘No, but I like cooking from time to time. I enjoy it.’
‘You’ve got a talent for it. Do you like port, by the way? I’ve got some vintage, the real thing. My brother-in-law sent it to me from back home. You can’t buy anything like it here. They make all kinds of rubbish out of cider or chouchen. Tell me what you think of this.’
The toys had gone. He had not noticed before. He felt lost all of a sudden, somehow disappointed that the scattered toys were no longer there and the television silent. He felt as though he had narrowly missed something. A train perhaps? His heart was hammering in his chest as though he had been running.
‘Here you go, try this!’
José poured the syrupy ruby liquid into two small glasses. It looked like blood. From the first mouthful, Gabriel felt his insides become coated in crimson velvet.
‘What do you say to a bit of fado? Have you heard any Amália Rodrigues?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘She’s divine! Hold on …’
The Panda Theory Page 1