now; shit, there’s nothing …’ He pictured the three of them, Gilles, Léo and himself, waiting for Big Tits to lower her metal shutter, the shadow of the plane trees on the boulevard, the noises of the city …
‘It’s all right, I’m here.’
Fabien looked up at her, his face streaming with tears and snot and drool that he would have liked to rip off like a mask.
‘I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so much.’
‘Don’t think about it. It’s over. We’re going to leave, you and me. We can’t let each other go ever again; we’ll always be together. Always.’
In the hall there wasn’t a single trace of blood; the stag with glass eyes remembered nothing. It was best to act like the stag: look straight ahead without seeing. Installed in the front passenger seat, Fabien watched the gates open like two great white hands. Never had the night appeared so vast to him.
‘Is your leg all right?’
‘What leg?’
Fields and forests flowed past on either side of the road like watercolour paintings. Rabbits petrified in the glare of the headlights froze between two furrows. At the edge of the woods the eyes of larger animals that couldn’t be seen danced like fireflies. It felt good to be admitted to the intimacy of this nocturnal scene. Like sharing a secret. The sleeping villages they passed through were peopled only by dreams. Behind the closed shutters, you could almost hear the creaking of bedsprings, themore or less laboured breathing interspersed with groans. There was not the slightest difference any more between the worst bastard and the most saintly saint. The world was finally at peace.
They saw the day dawning as they arrived in Vézelay. The sky above Église de la Madeleine was the colour of a milky oyster. Martine stopped at the entrance to the still-deserted little town.
‘I’d like some coffee.’
‘So would I.’
They were the first words they had exchanged since their departure and were entirely suitable for the situation, banal, concrete, the same words they would have spoken upon waking up in bed. Now they were at home wherever they went.
‘That hotel is open. Do you think you can manage?’
‘I think so, yes.’
The waitress in the white apron still had pillow marks on her cheek. They ordered coffee and croissants. A German or an English couple of about sixty were speaking in low voices as they buttered their toast. The man had shaving foam behind his ear.
‘I feel grubby. I’d really like to change out of these clothes. I want to buy new ones.’
‘We can stop in a big town.’
‘The next one we come to.’
He was also hungry and in a hurry for his leg to heal. He wished he were German or English, about sixty, fresh from a hot bath.
‘We don’t have to go to Amsterdam.’
‘No.’
‘We just have to go somewhere.’
‘That’s right.’
They breakfasted looking out of the bay window at the shadow the hills cast over the valley. The tourist couple smiled at them as they rose from their table.
Martine had adopted a leisurely pace and was sticking to B-roads. Sometimes Fabien made her stop so that he could talk to a cow. He would lower the window and whistle between his teeth until one of the herd lumbered over from the pasture.
‘You see! I told you, they understand me; I have a rapport with these beasts.’
In a department store in Troyes they bought a sweater, jeans, a jacket and shoes. Fabien came out exhausted but delighted. About ten kilometres on from Troyes they found a little hotel buried in the country and decided to stop there for the night. It was a modest establishment, but clean, a far cry from the inns with fake timbering that featured on the tourist circuit. Situated curiously far from any other habitation it seemed to exist just for them. The Hôtel du Lys. At reception a lady of a certain age, with hair almost as blue as her eyes, offered them room 7 which overlooked the garden. Noticing that Fabien had difficulty walking, she
‘It’s all right, I’m here.’
Fabien looked up at her, his face streaming with tears and snot and drool that he would have liked to rip off like a mask.
‘I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so much.’
‘Don’t think about it. It’s over. We’re going to leave, you and me. We can’t let each other go ever again; we’ll always be together. Always.’
In the hall there wasn’t a single trace of blood; the stag with glass eyes remembered nothing. It was best to act like the stag: look straight ahead without seeing. Installed in the front passenger seat, Fabien watched the gates open like two great white hands. Never had the night appeared so vast to him.
‘Is your leg all right?’
‘What leg?’
Fields and forests flowed past on either side of the road like watercolour paintings. Rabbits petrified in the glare of the headlights froze between two furrows. At the edge of the woods the eyes of larger animals that couldn’t be seen danced like fireflies. It felt good to be admitted to the intimacy of this nocturnal scene. Like sharing a secret. The sleeping villages they passed through were peopled only by dreams. Behind the closed shutters, you could almost hear the creaking of bedsprings, themore or less laboured breathing interspersed with groans. There was not the slightest difference any more between the worst bastard and the most saintly saint. The world was finally at peace.
They saw the day dawning as they arrived in Vézelay. The sky above Église de la Madeleine was the colour of a milky oyster. Martine stopped at the entrance to the still-deserted little town.
‘I’d like some coffee.’
‘So would I.’
They were the first words they had exchanged since their departure and were entirely suitable for the situation, banal, concrete, the same words they would have spoken upon waking up in bed. Now they were at home wherever they went.
‘That hotel is open. Do you think you can manage?’
‘I think so, yes.’
The waitress in the white apron still had pillow marks on her cheek. They ordered coffee and croissants. A German or an English couple of about sixty were speaking in low voices as they buttered their toast. The man had shaving foam behind his ear.
‘I feel grubby. I’d really like to change out of these clothes. I want to buy new ones.’
‘We can stop in a big town.’
‘The next one we come to.’
He was also hungry and in a hurry for his leg to heal. He wished he were German or English, about sixty, fresh from a hot bath.
‘We don’t have to go to Amsterdam.’
‘No.’
‘We just have to go somewhere.’
‘That’s right.’
They breakfasted looking out of the bay window at the shadow the hills cast over the valley. The tourist couple smiled at them as they rose from their table.
Martine had adopted a leisurely pace and was sticking to B-roads. Sometimes Fabien made her stop so that he could talk to a cow. He would lower the window and whistle between his teeth until one of the herd lumbered over from the pasture.
‘You see! I told you, they understand me; I have a rapport with these beasts.’
In a department store in Troyes they bought a sweater, jeans, a jacket and shoes. Fabien came out exhausted but delighted. About ten kilometres on from Troyes they found a little hotel buried in the country and decided to stop there for the night. It was a modest establishment, but clean, a far cry from the inns with fake timbering that featured on the tourist circuit. Situated curiously far from any other habitation it seemed to exist just for them. The Hôtel du Lys. At reception a lady of a certain age, with hair almost as blue as her eyes, offered them room 7 which overlooked the garden. Noticing that Fabien had difficulty walking, she
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