can buy some?’
She considers this new difficulty. ‘There’s a tabac at the garage, but it’s too far to—’
The front door opens and Gretchen comes out. She’s carrying Michel on one hip, and her lips tighten when she sees us. Ignoring me, she gives her sister a sullen stare.
‘Papa wants to see him.’ She lifts her chin with malicious satisfaction. ‘Alone.’
It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I asked for water. The kitchen is low-ceilinged and dark, with thick walls and small windows built to stay cool in the summer heat. There’s a smell of beeswax, cooked meat and coffee. An old range dominates one wall, and the heavy wooden furniture looks as though it’s stood here for generations. The scratched white boxes of the refrigerator and freezer look gratingly modern in this setting.
Arnaud is cleaning his rifle at a scarred wooden table. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose give him an incongruously bookish air, difficult to reconcile with the man who kicked me down the steps. He doesn’t look up, continuing to work on the rifle as though I’m not there. I catch a whiff of gun oil and what I guess is cordite as he threads a long wire brush, like a miniature chimney sweep’s, into the rifle barrel. It makes a fluted whisper as he pulls it through.
I shift my weight on the crutch. ‘You wanted to see me?’
He unhurriedly squints down the barrel’s length before lowering it. Folding his glasses, he puts them in his breast pocket then sits back in his chair. Only now does he look at me.
‘Mathilde says you’re looking for a job.’
That’s not how I remember it, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘If there’s one going.’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ Arnaud’s jaw works as if he’s trying to crack a nut. Below it, the flesh of his throat has loosened with age, like an ageing weightlifter’s. ‘My daughter can tell you what she likes, but I’m the one who’ll decide who works here. Ever worked on a farm?’
‘No.’
‘Any building experience?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then why should I take a chance on you?’
I can’t actually think of a reason. So I remain silent, trying not to look at the rifle. Arnaud sniffs.
‘Why are you here?’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s because of his traps, but that would only provoke him. Even if I’m no longer quite so worried that he’ll shoot me, I’m uncomfortably aware that any job offer depends on his good graces.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I
mean
what are you doing wandering around a foreign country like a tramp? You’re too old to be a student. What do you do for a living?’
I can tell from his manner that Gretchen’s been talking. ‘This and that. I’ve had a few jobs.’
‘This and that,’ he mocks. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? Got something to hide?’
There’s a moment when I feel weightless. I’m aware of my colouring betraying me as blood rushes to my cheeks, but I make myself stare back.
‘No. Why should I?’
Arnaud’s mouth works, either ruminating or chewing some titbit he’s found between his teeth. ‘I expect people to respect my privacy,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll have to stay down at the barn. You can eat your meals down there. I don’t want to see you any more than necessary. I’ll pay you fifty euros a week, if I think you’ve earned it. Take it or leave it.’
‘OK.’
It’s a pittance but I don’t care about the money. Still, the glint in Arnaud’s eyes makes me regret rolling over so easily. Showing him any weakness is a mistake.
He looks me up and down, weighing me up. ‘This is Mathilde’s idea, not mine. I don’t like it, but there’s work needs doing and since she seems to think we should hire some English deadbeat I’ll let her. I’ll be watching you, though. Cross me so much as once and you’ll regret it. Is that clear?’
It is. He stares at me for a few moments more, letting his words sink in, then reaches for the
She considers this new difficulty. ‘There’s a tabac at the garage, but it’s too far to—’
The front door opens and Gretchen comes out. She’s carrying Michel on one hip, and her lips tighten when she sees us. Ignoring me, she gives her sister a sullen stare.
‘Papa wants to see him.’ She lifts her chin with malicious satisfaction. ‘Alone.’
It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I asked for water. The kitchen is low-ceilinged and dark, with thick walls and small windows built to stay cool in the summer heat. There’s a smell of beeswax, cooked meat and coffee. An old range dominates one wall, and the heavy wooden furniture looks as though it’s stood here for generations. The scratched white boxes of the refrigerator and freezer look gratingly modern in this setting.
Arnaud is cleaning his rifle at a scarred wooden table. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose give him an incongruously bookish air, difficult to reconcile with the man who kicked me down the steps. He doesn’t look up, continuing to work on the rifle as though I’m not there. I catch a whiff of gun oil and what I guess is cordite as he threads a long wire brush, like a miniature chimney sweep’s, into the rifle barrel. It makes a fluted whisper as he pulls it through.
I shift my weight on the crutch. ‘You wanted to see me?’
He unhurriedly squints down the barrel’s length before lowering it. Folding his glasses, he puts them in his breast pocket then sits back in his chair. Only now does he look at me.
‘Mathilde says you’re looking for a job.’
That’s not how I remember it, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘If there’s one going.’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ Arnaud’s jaw works as if he’s trying to crack a nut. Below it, the flesh of his throat has loosened with age, like an ageing weightlifter’s. ‘My daughter can tell you what she likes, but I’m the one who’ll decide who works here. Ever worked on a farm?’
‘No.’
‘Any building experience?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then why should I take a chance on you?’
I can’t actually think of a reason. So I remain silent, trying not to look at the rifle. Arnaud sniffs.
‘Why are you here?’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s because of his traps, but that would only provoke him. Even if I’m no longer quite so worried that he’ll shoot me, I’m uncomfortably aware that any job offer depends on his good graces.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I
mean
what are you doing wandering around a foreign country like a tramp? You’re too old to be a student. What do you do for a living?’
I can tell from his manner that Gretchen’s been talking. ‘This and that. I’ve had a few jobs.’
‘This and that,’ he mocks. ‘You don’t give much away, do you? Got something to hide?’
There’s a moment when I feel weightless. I’m aware of my colouring betraying me as blood rushes to my cheeks, but I make myself stare back.
‘No. Why should I?’
Arnaud’s mouth works, either ruminating or chewing some titbit he’s found between his teeth. ‘I expect people to respect my privacy,’ he says at last. ‘You’ll have to stay down at the barn. You can eat your meals down there. I don’t want to see you any more than necessary. I’ll pay you fifty euros a week, if I think you’ve earned it. Take it or leave it.’
‘OK.’
It’s a pittance but I don’t care about the money. Still, the glint in Arnaud’s eyes makes me regret rolling over so easily. Showing him any weakness is a mistake.
He looks me up and down, weighing me up. ‘This is Mathilde’s idea, not mine. I don’t like it, but there’s work needs doing and since she seems to think we should hire some English deadbeat I’ll let her. I’ll be watching you, though. Cross me so much as once and you’ll regret it. Is that clear?’
It is. He stares at me for a few moments more, letting his words sink in, then reaches for the
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