The Eskimo Solution

by Pascal Garnier

  Praise for Pascal Garnier:

  The final descent into violence is worthy of J. G. Ballard.

  The Independent

  This often bleak, often funny and never predictable narrative is written in a precise style; Garnier chooses to decorate his text with philosophical musings rather than description. He does, however, combine a sense of the surreal with a ruthless wit, and this lightens the mood as he condemns his characters to the kind of miserable existence you might find in a Cormac McCarthy novel.

  The Observer

  For those with a taste for Georges Simenon or Patricia Highsmith, Garnier’s recently translated oeuvre will strike a chord … While this is an undeniably steely work … occasional outbreaks of dark humour suddenly pierce the clouds of encroaching existential gloom.

  The Independent

  A brilliant exercise in grim and gripping irony.

  Sunday Telegraph

  A master of the surreal noir thriller – Luis Buñuel meets Georges Simenon.

  Times Literary Supplement

  The Eskimo Solution

  Pascal Garnier

  Translated from the French by Emily Boyce and Jane Aitken

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  About the Authors

  Also by Pascal Garnier

  Copyright

  1

  Louis had slept on the bottom bunk in the children’s room. He was surrounded by soft-toy monsters and a fire engine dug into his back. Somewhere outside a drill ripped into a pavement; it must be daytime. Louis turned over and curled up, knees under his chin, hands between his thighs, nose squashed under a downy pink dinosaur smelling of dribble and curdled milk.

  Why had they rowed the previous evening? … Oh, yes! It was because Alice wanted to be cremated whilst he wanted to be buried. For Alice, with her straightforward common sense, it was crystal clear. First of all, cremation was less expensive; secondly, it was cleaner; thirdly, it avoided uselessly occupying ground (think what could be built instead of the Thiais cemetery, for example!); and fourthly, her somewhat romantic conclusion was that she would like her ashes to be scattered off the coast of Kalymnos (where they had spent their last holiday) from the bow of a beautiful white boat.

  He had interrupted her a bit abruptly. First of all, when you’re dead you don’t give a flying fuck about the burial costs; secondly, we already tip enough muck into the sea; thirdly, cemeteries are much more pleasant to wander through than dormitory towns; and fourthly, given the progress of science, it’s entirely possible that one day we’ll be able to recreate life from skeletons, whereas a handful of ashes thrown in the sea, well … He’d accompanied the last point with an obscene gesture.

  And who was going to pay for his fucking burial? Was it not enough that he sponged off everyone while he was alive, did it have to continue after his death? Such egotism! Would he like chrysanthemums every Hallowe’en as well?

  Of course he wanted chrysanthemums! And trees filled with birds, and cats everywhere! Wasn’t she the one who went into raptures over the mossy old gravestones in the Père-Lachaise? That one where the stone had split under pressure from a growing laurel tree?

  OK, so why didn’t he put money aside to pay for his old moss-covered gravestone? Why was that then?

  Here we go, money, it’s always about money …

  After that all he remembered was a sordid slide into a petty domestic squabble and the harsh realities backed up with numbers that she threw in his face. He didn’t have the ammunition to argue with Alice about money, so he had risen from the table, saying, ‘If that’s the way you feel, I just won’t die. That’ll be cheaper, won’t it?’

  And that was really what he had in mind. It was a conviction rooted deep inside him: he would never die.

  But that certainty had been severely shaken this year; four of his friends had died. Obviously, as he was forty, he had encountered death before, but this was different. Before it had always either been old people – an uncle, an aunt – or acquaintances who weren’t expected to live long, or if they were young, accidents, mostly car accidents, and the deaths seemed normal. But the last four had been people like him, going to all the same kinds of places, enjoying the same books, music and films. Their deaths had not been sudden; they had had time to get used to the idea, living with it for months, discussing it calmly, as you might discuss money problems, work problems or problems in your relationship. And it was that attitude of rational acceptance that had thrown Louis. People like him (not exactly like him now they were dead) had accepted the unacceptable. Four in one year.

  As for the others …

  Every day at the same time I go up to my study, read over these pages and ask myself, ‘What’s the point of writing a story I already know off by heart?’ I’ve explained it to so many people that the tiresome formality of putting it down on paper is about as exciting to me as opening the TV guide to discover The Longest Day showing on every channel. In an ideal world I’d sell the story as it is, in its raw state, to someone who had some enthusiasm for writing it. Or who didn’t, but would write it for me all the same. Not that it’s a bad story, far from it. Madame Beck, my editor, is the only one to have expressed any reservations. I had a hell of a time winning her over.

  ‘It’s the story of a man in his forties called Louis, who’s a nice guy but skint, and kills his mother for the inheritance.’

  Madame Beck’s harsh-sounding name suits her down to the ground. After a long, sharp intake of breath, she replied.

  ‘Not exactly original.’

  ‘Wait a minute, let me go on. It’s a very modest inheritance – but that’s beside the point. Since everything goes to plan, no trouble with the law or anything, he starts killing the parents of friends in need. Of course, he doesn’t tell them what he’s doing – it’s his little secret, pure charity. He’s an anonymous benefactor, if you like.’

  Madame Beck lowered her head in despair.

  ‘Why don’t you carry on writing for children? Your kids’ books are doing well …’

  ‘This is a kids’ book! He’s a really nice guy! He loves his mother, loves his friends, his friends’ parents, he loves everyone, but these are tough times for all of us, aren’t they? He kills people’s parents the way Eskimos leave their elders on a patch of ice because … it’s natural, ecologically sound, a lot more humane and far more economical than endlessly prolonging their suffering in a dismal nursing home. Besides, he’ll hardly be doing them harm; he’ll do the job carefully, every crime professionally planned and tailored to the person like a Club Med holiday. Plus there’s nothing to stop us giving him his comeuppance at the end. I could have him murdered by the twenty-something son he hasn’t seen for years, who’s got in with a bad crowd. Or have him fall prey to a random act of violence, a mugging on the metro gone wrong, something like that … What do you think?’

  Two hours later, Madame Beck was reluctantly handing me a cheque, barely able to look at me.

  With that meagre advance, I’ve been able to rent a cottage by the sea from a painter friend of mine, where I’ve spent the past two months yawning so hard I’ve almost dislocated my jaw.

  ‘I wake up in the morning with my mouth wide open. My teeth are oily: I’d be better off brushing them before bed, but I can never bring myself to do it.’ These words of Emmanuel Bove’s, the o
pening line of his novel My Friends, sum up my state of mind exactly. I put aside my typewriter – already thick with dust – and tackle tasks more suited to my skills: washing up, a bit of housework, starting a shopping list, bread, ham, butter, eggs … I don’t mind chores; they stop me beating a permanent retreat to my bed. Plus, routines are a useful way of preparing for the hereafter. Then I head to the beach, whatever the weather.

  Today, it’s glorious, a picture-postcard sky, framed by the inevitable seagulls. The beach is very close to where I’m staying – a five-minute walk straight down Rue de la Mer. It’s always a surprise to see that mass of green jelly at the end of the road and the no-entry sign sticking up like a big fat lollipop on the horizon. You find yourself leaning forward as you walk, head down against the wind that stands guard along the front. There’s something minty about the cold. You can clearly see the chimneys of Le Havre and the tankers waiting their turn at Passage d’Entifer.

  When you are mute, or almost mute, certain words explode inside your head like fireworks: ENTIFER. Or even: TOOTHBRUSH. I never speak to anyone, only the woman in the tobacconist’s on Rue de la Mer.

  ‘Good morning, Madame … How are you today, Madame?’

  Like the sea, she’s up and down – she lives above her shop and is never seen anywhere else.

  There are two people on the beach. As they approach the waves, they stop and ponder whether to turn left or right. In the end they part ways, one sticking out her chest and grabbing an armful of sunshine, the other spinning on the spot, flapping the wings of her coat. She stumbles into the foam and re-emerges, knees held high. I can put up with happy people, from a distance.

  I never walk far along the beach.

  Yes, when I was first here, I went exploring, clambering over rocks and craggy outcrops, coming back exhausted, my pockets filled with pebbles, shells, bits of wood. Now I prefer to sit on the bench for old people. There are none of them here at this time of year – it’s too cold. For a brief moment, I enjoy the exhilarating feeling of being right where I should be, a feeling made all the sweeter by my knowing exactly where I’m headed: back to humanity with a thud.

  Here comes the ‘thug’! I know him by his lumbering gait; he walks as if pushing an invisible wheelbarrow. Shaved head, face like a suitcase that’s been dragged around the world, hands like feet and feet that make furrows in the ground, whether sand, concrete or tarmac. The man has a permanent black eye or a hand in plaster – they say he’s always getting into fights. And yet everyone accepts him, puts up with him. I, on the other hand, am terrified of him. If it was up to me, he’d have been locked up long ago, or simply eliminated. He forces me to get up and walk further. But further is too far for me. I decide to head back along the beach.

  I love trampling on shells; I imagine they’re my editor’s glasses. There’s no one left now that the two people have gone, and the thug with them. I suddenly feel so alone it’s as if I’m invisible. The sky shrinks back above my head like burnt skin. The silence bores into my ears. I’d give anything to be anywhere but here.

  As for the others (the ones who weren’t dead, not yet) they were like him, living flat on their stomachs in hastily built trenches, keeping watch for the snipers that were decimating their ranks. Reaching their forties was starting to feel like the path to the emergency exit.

  Louis would happily spend the day in the children’s room, crammed into the little bed like a vegetable in a crate. When he was little, he used to spend hours like that, in a state of boredom. No one should believe that good children sitting quietly are gentle dreamers, inhabiting marvellous worlds. No, they’re just bored. Although the boredom of childhood is of a different quality, a sort of opium. Later on, it’s hard to recall that feeling. Tedium has replaced boredom. The row with Alice yesterday evening, or rather its consequences, were part of the tedium.

  Suddenly the little room was suffocating; the pleasant gloom had become a black cocoon pressing in on him. Louis jumped out of bed, pulled back the curtains and opened the window. He was hit by the light and the hammering of the pneumatic drill. He closed his eyes, grimacing, and staggered back to the little bed. There was a note stuck under the bedside lamp. Alice’s writing.

  ‘If you could be gone by the time I get back, that would be good.’

  Of course, he had been expecting this for a long time, but why now? That stupid argument must have been the last straw. As if he cared what happened to him after his death! Now he was going to have to move out.

  The impact of the sparrow against the glass of the half-open window made no more noise than a rubber ball bouncing on a carpet. Yet this little collision radiated like an electric charge through Louis from his chest to his groin. All his childhood fears were contained in that little ball of grey feathers, tiny bones, and quivering flesh now trapped inside the room by the curtain. Outside, the insistent thrumming of the drill was the counterpoint to the noise of the bird’s panicked beak against the window.

  ‘Go away!’

  The bird froze in front of the window framed by the white sky like a bad painting. Louis closed his eyes, hoping the sparrow would escape by itself, but the tapping of the beak started up again, shattering the silence. All he needed to do was lift the curtain and open the window wide but Louis could not bear the idea of even the briefest physical contact with the idiot bird. He would need a long stick, a fishing rod, for example. What if the bird, in freeing itself, flew into his face? Birds always got in your face, like cats and spider webs.

  A breath of air briefly lifted the white net curtain. Enough to allow the sparrow to propel itself through the beckoning gap. But it was a very young bird, to whom no one had ever explained the difference between inside and outside. And so instead of flying off it began to twirl about like a demented wind-up toy between the four walls of the little bedroom. Exhausted and terrorised, it came to rest wide-eyed on the corner of the wardrobe. The smell of fear turned the atmosphere of the room into a toxic, unbreathable acid. Then another draught arrived to waft the curtain. The bird spotted the white rectangle and recognised its territory, the great outdoors with no corners and no obstacles that stretched from never to nowhere. Ecstatic, it flung itself at the opening. It was halfway out when the window banged shut, cleaving it in two.

  Open-mouthed, Louis watched as grey feathers floated to the carpet. Just then the phone rang.

  ‘Hello? Yes, it’s me. Good morning, Richard. No, I haven’t forgotten I owe you money. Yes, I know, but … everything’s a bit tight at the moment … Listen, Richard, I can’t talk to you now, a bird has just been decapitated in front of me … No, it’s not another of my excuses! I swear, it’s shaken me up. Why don’t we get together later, shall we say 12.30? … Where? Brasserie Printemps, under the dome … And why not? … Yes, yes, I insist, it’s a beautiful place. Excellent, see you soon.’

  Why did I call him Louis? After the old French coin, because of his money worries? I must have been pissed when I came up with that. I get silly when I’ve had a drink, start playing around with words. Louis doesn’t suit him. He needs a younger, more contemporary name. Like the guy at the other end of the bar, for example – what’s his name? … I can hear it from the mouth of the landlord serving him: Jean-Yves. I can’t imagine calling my hero Jean-Yves for 200 pages.

  Though I can’t claim to have done much to serve the greater good today, I’m still feeling quite pleased with my efforts. My word count is hardly spectacular, but it’s not a bad show for two hours’ work. The bird incident was what got me back in the swing of it. When I opened my eyes this morning, I noticed that one of the panes in my bedroom window was broken and a fluffy white feather was caught in the Z-shaped crack. I don’t remember hearing anything, but I’m sleeping deeply at the moment. Whatever it was, it could only be a sign, an invitation to pick up my quill. I could have written more but Hélène rang. Wants to take me on a three-day trip to England. I’ll be glad to see Hélène, but why England? What’s wrong with meeting up here?


  After the phone call, I went back to the beach to watch the sun go down. The footprints in the sand are an odd reminder of all the people who’ve pounded up and down the beach, whom you’ll never see. The sun was taking for ever to disappear, so I left before the show was over. On the way home, I stopped at a café for a half. I wasn’t thirsty; I just needed some human company, to nestle among the other beasts in the stable. Plenty of people go out in their slippers here. The guy next to me’s wearing a pair. He’s a giant with tiny feet. Size 38 or 39, no bigger. I can’t take my eyes off them. I’ve seen him around town several times but never noticed how small his feet were. I’d never caught the name of the café either, so I ask. They tell me it doesn’t have one. Once upon a time the owner was called ‘Bouin’. But it’s changed hands several times since then. These days, you just go ‘to the café’ or ‘to the tobacconist’s’, depending on what you need.

  Staring into space as I wait for my pasta water to boil, I remember Hélène’s phone call. Why on earth did I agree to this ridiculous trip?

  ‘So, what d’you think? Good idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why don’t we just chill out here for a couple of days instead?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve seen enough of that place; it’s a miserable hole.’

  ‘But I’ve got work to do. I’m already pushed …’

  ‘Exactly. What difference is a day or two going to make? If you’re that worried, you could take the typewriter with you and work at the hotel. It’s three days, not a voyage to the ends of the earth!’

  ‘Three days in England isn’t the same as three days here.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘I know what travelling’s like! You cram so much into every day that it feels like two days in one.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, you’re such a homebody!’