The Panda Theory

by Pascal Garnier

  ‘You should have come up.’

  ‘I thought about it, but didn’t dare. I saw your silhouettes in the window. What should I do now?’

  ‘I … I don’t know.’

  ‘Please, help me.’

  Marco grabbed Gabriel’s wrist. It felt like an ice-cold handcuff. He looked desperately sad and unwell. Gabriel pulled his hand back.

  ‘I think Rita would be very pleased to see you.’

  ‘Yes. I need her. You understand, don’t you? She is what she is and I can only be me. We understand each other. Can you get her to meet me? At the station café, perhaps? At about five o’clock?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re a good guy. I’m going to sort myself out. I can’t turn up in this state. Okay then, the station café at five it is!’

  ‘Good luck.’

  Gabriel munched the rolled-up slice of ham as he walked down the road. It was wrapped, without bread, in a sheet of paper like a crêpe. He hadn’t been able to make up his mind in the shop between an egg in aspic, some roast pork and a meat pie. But when the butcher had asked him what he wanted, Gabriel had chosen a slice of ham. It seemed like the easiest thing, neither a good nor bad choice, something in the middle, as bland as blotting paper. They used to give away sheets of blotting paper decorated with Loire Valley châteaux in packets of biscuits. At school, they had learnt to write with a pen dipped in ink, practising upstrokes, downstrokes and blotting the excess. It was strange to think he had once been a child. Of course he remembered, but in the way that you remember an old film: particular sequences in no particular order, insignificant details, a sound, a smell, a quality of light. He remembered the name of a classmate, Brice Soulas. What had happened to Brice Soulas? And the others, the hundreds, the thousands of others, with whom he had shared a bit of his life. They couldn’t all be dead! It wasn’t that long ago that he had shaken their hands, hugged them, cried with them, laughed with them and then, suddenly, they’d gone missing in action. Where were they now? Unconsciously, Gabriel began to stare at the passers-by in the absurd hope of discovering a familiar face. After a while he felt as though he knew the people walking past, so much so that when he nodded hello to them they responded. Where were they going?

  ‘Not before the end of the month. Okay. You’re welcome.’

  Madeleine hung up the phone. She had bags under her eyes, but she was smiling. With her hair tied back and a black silk blouse embroidered with dragons fastened high round her neck, she looked like a madam in 1930s Indochina.

  ‘How are you, Gabriel?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. A bit tired. I’m going to lie down for a while.’

  ‘Let me know if you want anything. It’s quiet at the moment.’

  ‘I will, thank you. Oh, by the way, I found Marco. Or, rather, he found me.’

  ‘Marco? Rita’s guy?’

  ‘Yes. He wants to see her. He suggested meeting at the station café at five o’clock.’

  ‘He’s got some nerve, that one. After dumping her like he did! What does he want to do now? Leave her crying on the station platform? Have you told Rita?’

  ‘No, I thought we could call her. Is she still at yours?’

  ‘I don’t like this one bit. He’s a dirtbag.’

  ‘That’s a bit much. He needs her.’

  ‘Yes, to pimp her out or something! I like Rita a lot; she’s a nice girl. She’s got the right to a second chance, another life. Marco’s no good for her. He’s dodgy as hell.’

  ‘José said the same thing and he doesn’t even know him.’

  ‘Well, there you go, it’s blindingly obvious. He’s a bastard, a small-town pimp, a dealer who’d kill his own parents for a hit. AND … sorry, hang on. Good afternoon, Hôtel de la Gare … The ninth? Next month? Yes, we’ve got availability. What’s the name? Winter? Like the season? Ah, “tour”, okay. Goodbye, Mr Wintour.’

  Madeleine hung up and rubbed her temples.

  ‘Where were we? Oh yes. Do we have to tell her? He’ll only treat her like shit.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be right. Rita’s entitled to her say, don’t you think?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know. How about we go with her to the station? I finish at four o’clock today.’

  ‘I think we should ask her first.’

  ‘I’ll call her.’

  ‘Okay, I’m going up. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Blandine? Blandine? Yes, it’s me. I can hardly hear you, darling. Yes, I’m fine. How are you? And Juliette? Good, good. Listen, I’ve missed my plane and there isn’t another flight back until tomorrow. A stupid accident on the way to the airport with the taxi. No, nothing serious, but I missed my plane. No, I know, there’s nothing I can do. Is it hot out on the terrace? Yes, same here. I can’t wait to see you again. I miss you as well, and Juliette. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.’

  He took a room in the first hotel he saw, next to the airport. It was horrible and expensive, but he couldn’t be bothered going back into town. Staying near the airport made him feel closer to home. If it hadn’t been for that bloody lorry he would have been home already, on the terrace with a glass of chilled wine in his hand, with his wife, daughter and cats. The neighbour learning the piano would be murdering ‘Für Elise’, the baby on the other side wailing. Away in the distance he’d watch boats coming and going, their lights reflecting on the port’s murky water. The smell of barbecues would linger in the air. They drove like maniacs in this country.

  He went down to dinner very early, to get it over with. The restaurant was empty. A row of stressed businessmen hung around the bar, drowning their boredom. They boasted about their successes, winking pathetically at the waitress, who completely ignored them. They looked like a bunch of midgets standing on tiptoes to reach the bar.

  Gabriel chewed his mezze absent-mindedly while thinking about the market that he planned to go to with Blandine and Juliette the following Saturday. A haughty woman in her forties came to sit at a nearby table, looking disdainfully about her. She had barely ordered her food before she pulled out a pair of severe-looking glasses and immersed herself in a thick pile of papers. She sat making notes while nibbling at her food, taking small mouthfuls of her fish without looking at what she was eating. All of a sudden, she dropped her fork and pen and began to groan and whimper. She spat into her napkin and clutched her throat. Her cheeks immediately flushed beetroot red. She gulped down half a jug of water to no avail. The fishbone was stuck. She was choking. With no one around to help, Gabriel rushed to her side.

  ‘Eat some bread, not water, some bread.’

  The woman was turning a shade of purple, morphing into something unrecognisable. Her bulging eyes, filled with fear as if she were drowning, settled on Gabriel, who was moulding a piece of bread into a small ball. Gurgling noises emerged from her wide-open mouth. Gabriel put the ball of bread in her mouth and indicated to the poor woman that she should try to swallow it. Two more balls of bread were required before she succeeded. Gradually, the woman’s panic subsided.

  ‘Is that better?’

  ‘I’m OK, thank you,’ she said in English.

  Her voice was a bit hoarse, but she had regained her composure. The euphoria of her narrow escape was short-lived. At the sight of her immaculate white shirt now covered in tomato sauce and bits of food she leapt up and grabbed her pile of papers before storming over to the restaurant’s entrance where she began to berate the manager in a language he didn’t understand.

  In the lift back up to his room, Gabriel chuckled to himself, promising to tell the story to Blandine. She loved that kind of thing.

  Gabriel didn’t tell the story to anyone. He kept it to himself. Now and again he imagined telling Blandine and hearing her laugh.

  ‘I knew you’d find him. You’re a really nice guy.’

  ‘It was him who found me. Don’t thank me.’

  Despite the fact that she was on her third coffee, Rita could barely keep her eyes open. Gabriel and Madeleine had fou
nd her asleep on the living-room couch, her mouth open, nostrils quivering, clutching an empty bottle of wine.

  ‘All the same, you’re a good guy. Do I look awful?’

  Gabriel avoided the question with a vague wave of his hand. He didn’t want to tell her she looked as battered and creased as the pillow she had collapsed on. Madeleine paced up and down the room, her arms crossed, failing to contain her fury.

  ‘You look shocking, just like you did when that bastard left you on your own at the hotel!’

  ‘Have I got time to take a shower?’

  ‘Yes, you’ve got time, but, Rita, listen to me, that man will be the death of you! I’m sorry, but I can’t stand seeing you go running after him as soon as he reappears. You’re a woman; you’ve got your dignity.’

  ‘Dignity? Madeleine, you’ve got to understand that Marco needs me. He’s the only person who has always needed me. It’s important to feel useful, you know, even if it is to somebody like Marco. I’m not stupid, I know what he’s like.’

  ‘Go and take your shower. We’re coming with you though. Are you still okay with that?’

  ‘Of course. I’d like you to be there. You can both be my witnesses. It’s crazy – I’m as excited as a bride on her wedding day!’

  Madeleine shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes as Rita scurried off to the bathroom humming La Vie en Rose. It was like being on the set of a farce: doors opened, doors closed. Gabriel made the most of the interval to have a look out at the street. It must lead somewhere, mustn’t it? On to another street, leading on to another street, leading on …

  ‘Witnesses! To a duel, in fact! What do you think, Gabriel?’

  ‘Witnesses are important. They’re not just bit-parts. You need them.’

  ‘I’m not talking about that! I’m thinking of Rita. He’s going to take advantage of her! And we’re just going to stand there. You’re not just going to let her go off with that—’

  ‘I think I am. They love each other.’

  ‘You call that love? I call it “failure to render assistance to a person in danger”. It’ll end in disaster.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean “and”? You can’t just let people kill themselves without trying to do something!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you just can’t; it’s wrong.’

  ‘You’re jealous of her, aren’t you?’

  ‘Me? Absolutely not! I feel sorry for her.’

  ‘You shouldn’t do. She’s worth much more than that. Tell me, the road outside your house, which street does it lead on to?’

  ‘Rue Chaptal. Why?’

  ‘I’ve not been down there yet. I should take a look.’

  Rita charged ahead like a Russian tank, fuelled by vodka and driven by an irrepressible urge to conquer the void. She had the bodywork as well: leather and jeans festooned with zips, carefully spiked hair, pointy breasts, and crêpe-soled shoes like tyre treads.

  ‘Of course I won’t, Madeleine. I won’t throw myself at him. I want an apology first. After that, we’ll see.’

  ‘Gabriel and I aren’t going to let you out of our sight. Let us know if you want us to step in.’

  ‘It’ll be fine. How do I look? Do I look rough?’

  Gabriel brought up the rear. The two women in front of him were an invincible team, like breakers sweeping forward. Soon they were at the station with its disappointing view. The small panes of its windows strained to reflect the dull light of a cracked sky at the end of a gloomy day. The square was now no more than an enormous hole surrounded by wire fences, at the bottom of which diggers churned up the earth while little men in yellow hard hats attempted to create, out of the chaos, the world’s greatest car park. It looked like a dig in Egypt. The café modestly offered its humble purgatory to all passing waifs and strays … Rita peered in through the window.

  ‘There he is. He looks depressed.’

  ‘You go in first. Gabriel and I will sit near the entrance. Don’t let him walk all over you.’

  From where they were sitting, Madeleine and Gabriel had a pretty good view of them, Rita from the back and Marco from the side. Even shaved and wearing clean clothes, Marco looked in the same sad state as he had done that morning. Rita shunned Marco’s outstretched hand with a simple shake of her head. Crushed, Marco stared at his spurned hand. He looked as if he wanted to wrench his arm off and throw it over his shoulder. Gabriel and Madeleine couldn’t hear what they were saying, but Marco’s body language, his head shrunk back in his jacket collar, showed that he was ready to take the blame, to accept his fate. He would just have to wait for it to pass. And it did pass. Now it was Rita who took his hands and held them in hers. He smiled and Rita leant towards him.

  ‘Here we go! I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s ugly as sin. Personally, I—’

  A gust of air hit them as two strapping men entered and made straight for the row of tables where Marco and Rita were sitting. Marco turned ashen, his eyes widened and his mouth dropped open at the sight of the pair of heavies who wore official red armbands. They appeared to be going for Marco, but, instead, laid their paws on the shoulders of another man sitting at the table behind. The whole episode was over in just a few seconds. The two policemen hauled the man off his seat and dragged him out of the café, while the stunned customers looked on. Marco’s hand went to his chest and he collapsed forward onto the table. Rita leapt up and started screaming.

  ‘Marco! Marco!’

  A large moustachioed man, for some reason dressed in lederhosen, rushed over.

  ‘I’m a doctor.’

  There was mayhem. People were getting out of their seats, rushing to the toilets or taking advantage of the confusion to slip off without paying. Others crowded around Rita and Marco. The doctor loosened Marco’s tie and took his pulse, while Rita watched, distraught.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, but he’s had a heart attack. We need to call an ambulance.’

  The waiters waved white flags. The war was over.

  ‘Jesus, really? Where is he?’

  ‘In intensive care. They think he’ll pull through.’

  ‘Well, at least it proves he’s got a heart.’

  José stared at the counter he had just finished wiping. A barely visible mark had caught his attention. He scrubbed it with the corner of the cloth.

  ‘Damned thing won’t budge!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Glue, I think.’

  ‘You can’t really see it.’

  ‘I can. Anyway, I’m going to go and pick up the kids tomorrow. Françoise is going to live with us for a bit, so she can help out.’

  ‘And Marie?’

  ‘When everything is ready, at the end of the week, then maybe. I can’t be by myself any more. I’m sick of my own company. What on earth is this?’

  José couldn’t stand it any longer. He took a penknife from his pocket and started scratching at the tiny translucent mark.

  ‘There we go. It looks like a contact lens.’

  José balanced the shiny item on the end of his finger like a hat and held it out to Gabriel.

  ‘Yes, definitely a contact lens.’

  ‘Weird thing to find on a bar. I’ll put it to one side in case the owner comes back for it.’

  Under the benevolent eye of the panda, watching over the world with constant cheer, José rummaged through a drawer in search of a matchbox in which to store the lens. Gabriel noted that whenever José passed close to the toy he made sure to touch its paw, tummy or nose. St Panda?

  ‘What are you doing tonight, José?’

  ‘Nothing, obviously.’

  ‘I’m cooking at Madeleine’s. Rita needs cheering up. Would you like to come along?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not really in the mood.’

  ‘You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, once in a while.’

  ‘I know, but … Is Rita really unhappy then?’

  ‘Pretty unhappy, yes.’

  ‘A
h.’

  José rubbed his stubbled cheeks, staring at the panda. Unhappy people had to stick together.

  ‘Okay then. Where does she live?’

  ‘Just round the corner, 104 Rue Montéléger, third floor on the left. By the way, do you know if there’s an Italian deli round here?’

  ‘There’s the Stromboli. It’s a restaurant, but you can buy things to take away. It’s on Rue Chaptal.’

  Rue Chaptal was a dead end in more ways than one. The scars of long-gone shops ran along its length: hardware shops, a horse-meat butcher’s, a haberdashery now reduced to rusty signs with letters missing. Apart from the string of multicoloured light bulbs around the Stromboli’s window, the street was in darkness.

  ‘We’re not open for dinner yet.’

  ‘I was just after a few bits and pieces, fresh pasta, that kind of thing.’

  With a show of regret the woman, who had a strong German accent, put a bookmark in her copy of Also Sprach Zarathustra, and rose to her full six feet. Her bobbed platinum hair was like a helmet, the fringe finishing just above her steel-blue eyes.

  ‘What kind of pasta?’

  ‘Tagliatelle.’

  ‘For how many people?’

  ‘Four.’

  The woman put on a pair of latex gloves and filled a small bag with the pasta. Between her powerful fingers, the ribbons looked peculiarly like sauerkraut.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Some Parma ham, please. Twenty or so slices, very thin.’

  The leg of ham was almost whole, but looked weightless in the woman’s hands. The meat slicer buzzed unnervingly as the twenty slivers piled up on one another.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A tub of pesto, a packet of breadsticks and I could do with some antipasti, some artichokes in oil, roasted peppers. I’m sorry, but I go a bit mad when I’m in an Italian deli. I just want to take everything.’

  ‘I know. I was like that ten years ago.’

  The woman got Gabriel to try everything before packing it into tubs. She told him her story.