house-proud woman of strict morals – of pouring the last drops of detergents, bleach and the like into empty bottles to save space. Since at Anaïs’s house the only empties were Negrita bottles, and on top of that she could not see a thing, the whole operation was very likely to end in disaster. But she was so thirsty! All around her the little creatures held their breath.
‘Now let’s see if God exists!’
She grabbed the first bottle at random and took a long swig.
Simon pushed away the flabby thigh resting on top of his and freed himself from the tangle of sheets. He felt sick. The heady smell of Rose’s perfume was overpowering. Unless it was something else, a deeper disgust at an entire existence, which rose in his throat, mingled with the aftertaste of pastis. Walking on tiptoe, he gathered his belongings and left the bungalow. The cool night air did him good but not enough to stop him emptying his stomach, clutching the rough trunk of a pine tree with both hands. He got dressed, shivering from head to foot. He had not been able to do it. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she had whispered in his ear, ‘at our age …’ Apart from a window at reception and a few street lamps along the main path, there were no lights on. It was like a graveyard. The regular ebb and flow of the waves made the dreary walk seem to go on for ever. When he finally reached his caravan, the car that should have been parked next to it was gone.
‘The little bastard!’
Bernard’s bed had not been slept in. Simon ran backout to Fiona’s caravan. Deserted. He was seized with a strange panic, as though he had died and no one had thought to tell him. Even solitude, his only companion for as many years as he could remember, seemed to have let go of his hand. The darkness was becoming denser around him, invading his nose, mouth and ears like the soot of his childhood. He staggered back to his caravan, turned on all the lights and searched under his pillow. The gun was there, warmed by the cushions but utterly useless. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weapon dangling between his thighs like a flaccid penis, staring past the half-open door into a picture of crushing emptiness. He had been scared many times before, but never like this. This was a childlike, uncontrollable fear that was slowly shutting him down like an anaesthetic. ‘Be still my beating heart.’ He felt neither hate nor anger, he just could not understand.
‘Why have you done this to me, kid? Why?’
A chemical precipitation, caused by a complex mixture of conflicting emotions, made a warm, salty liquid spring from the corner of his eyes, a liquid he had not tasted for what seemed like centuries. The teardrop trickled through the network of lines on his cheek to the corner of his mouth, and from his lips to his chin. It felt as good and sweet as an endless ejaculation. For once, his heart was doing more than pumping blood around his body. He raised himself up painlessly, walked towards the beach, crossed the strip of grey sand and immersed himself up to the waist in the black waters. And there, swinging his arm like a farmer sowing seeds, he tossed the gun as far as he could throw it. The weapon went to join the pile of junkthat carpets the sea bed, just another thing among all the others, just as Simon was only one among many humans.
‘Don’t you think we might be doing something really, really stupid?’
‘What are you talking about? Surely you don’t actually think your Monsieur Marechall’s going to shop us to the police?’
‘No, not that …’
‘Well, what then? Where do you think you were going with him? Straight into a brick wall, that’s where, or else going inside. And as for that old hag, she’d have had Violette off me and stuffed her, no question.’
‘That’s total rubbish! What the hell are we going to do in Spain? I can’t speak a word of Spanish.’
‘It’s no harder than Italian. In Italian, you put an “i” on the end of
‘Now let’s see if God exists!’
She grabbed the first bottle at random and took a long swig.
Simon pushed away the flabby thigh resting on top of his and freed himself from the tangle of sheets. He felt sick. The heady smell of Rose’s perfume was overpowering. Unless it was something else, a deeper disgust at an entire existence, which rose in his throat, mingled with the aftertaste of pastis. Walking on tiptoe, he gathered his belongings and left the bungalow. The cool night air did him good but not enough to stop him emptying his stomach, clutching the rough trunk of a pine tree with both hands. He got dressed, shivering from head to foot. He had not been able to do it. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she had whispered in his ear, ‘at our age …’ Apart from a window at reception and a few street lamps along the main path, there were no lights on. It was like a graveyard. The regular ebb and flow of the waves made the dreary walk seem to go on for ever. When he finally reached his caravan, the car that should have been parked next to it was gone.
‘The little bastard!’
Bernard’s bed had not been slept in. Simon ran backout to Fiona’s caravan. Deserted. He was seized with a strange panic, as though he had died and no one had thought to tell him. Even solitude, his only companion for as many years as he could remember, seemed to have let go of his hand. The darkness was becoming denser around him, invading his nose, mouth and ears like the soot of his childhood. He staggered back to his caravan, turned on all the lights and searched under his pillow. The gun was there, warmed by the cushions but utterly useless. He sat on the edge of the bed, the weapon dangling between his thighs like a flaccid penis, staring past the half-open door into a picture of crushing emptiness. He had been scared many times before, but never like this. This was a childlike, uncontrollable fear that was slowly shutting him down like an anaesthetic. ‘Be still my beating heart.’ He felt neither hate nor anger, he just could not understand.
‘Why have you done this to me, kid? Why?’
A chemical precipitation, caused by a complex mixture of conflicting emotions, made a warm, salty liquid spring from the corner of his eyes, a liquid he had not tasted for what seemed like centuries. The teardrop trickled through the network of lines on his cheek to the corner of his mouth, and from his lips to his chin. It felt as good and sweet as an endless ejaculation. For once, his heart was doing more than pumping blood around his body. He raised himself up painlessly, walked towards the beach, crossed the strip of grey sand and immersed himself up to the waist in the black waters. And there, swinging his arm like a farmer sowing seeds, he tossed the gun as far as he could throw it. The weapon went to join the pile of junkthat carpets the sea bed, just another thing among all the others, just as Simon was only one among many humans.
‘Don’t you think we might be doing something really, really stupid?’
‘What are you talking about? Surely you don’t actually think your Monsieur Marechall’s going to shop us to the police?’
‘No, not that …’
‘Well, what then? Where do you think you were going with him? Straight into a brick wall, that’s where, or else going inside. And as for that old hag, she’d have had Violette off me and stuffed her, no question.’
‘That’s total rubbish! What the hell are we going to do in Spain? I can’t speak a word of Spanish.’
‘It’s no harder than Italian. In Italian, you put an “i” on the end of
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