blankets were piled up like animal skins in a rotting heap, teeming with so many lice, crab lice and fleas that they appeared to be coming to life. The place stank, though it was worse outside, except that it was so cold there you didn’t notice it. Simon’s squatting silhouette stood out from the shadows like a figure in a Flemish painting. In front of him, meths fumes rose from an empty pea tin which was precariously balanced on a small gas stove. Wearing frayed mittens, he held the stove steady with one hand; with the other, he dangled a chicken over the flames by its neck.
‘Couldn’t the old bitch have given you a cooked one?’
‘She was on her way out of the supermarket. She’d got two for one. It was still kind of her.’
‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Do they think we’ve got all mod cons here? Pass me the wine.’
Beneath the scarf wrapped round his head, Simon’s swollen eye was watering. He raised the bottle to his cracked lips and toothless mouth and took a long swig while keeping his eyes on the chicken that had started to char over the flames.
‘It’s burning.’
‘Only the skin. We’ll scrape it off. I’ll turn it over.’
Simon grabbed the chicken by its feet and flipped it over, causing its comb to catch alight. He quickly blew it out.
‘“Et la tête, et la tête, alouette, alouette …” Light me a ciggy, will you? This is going to take for ever.’
Gabriel lit a crooked Gitane and passed it over. He was starting to warm up, more because of the fire’s glow than its heat. He took off his leaking trainers and rubbed his feet. He had lost nearly all feeling in them from all the walking he was doing. When there is nowhere to go you spend a lot of time on your feet. He swigged the wine and from beneath his layers of worn clothes he pulled out the crumpled pages of a newspaper that had been wrapped around his chest.
‘What’s the news?’
‘They’re going to ban cigarette smoking in public places.’
‘Must have been a cigar smoker who dreamt that one up!’
You could never tell if Simon was crying or laughing. Either way, a dry cough shook him like a half-empty bag.
‘Oh, it’s all for our own good, isn’t it? Talk about a bloody nanny state! No smoking, no drinking, no fat, no sugar, no sex. It’s as if they don’t want us to die. How nice of them! What else does it say?’
‘An inventor has just come up with an indestructible fabric. It’s cold- and heat-resistant and even bulletproof. The Vatican has ordered some for the Pope.’
‘Gone off the idea of heaven, has he? He’s only trying to save his own skin, like any old moron. Here, can you hold the chicken a second? My hands are full.’
The bird was now black at either end. The skin was peeling off like flecks of paint from the lead pipes in the squat they had been thrown out of three days earlier.
‘Apparently lead isn’t too good for you either.’
‘I know! I once saw a guy riddled with it in Marseille. It took five men to carry him!’
A fresh coughing fit made Simon double over. But this time he was laughing at his joke about the lead.
‘Life’s a killer. Especially for the poor. To live a long and healthy life you’ve got to live in a villa on the Riviera and be served by a white-gloved waiter. Yeah, but the sun gives you skin cancer! Turn it over or it won’t cook on that side. Shit, not like that! You’re going to fuck it up … Jesus, man, leave it, I’ll do it.’
The stuffy air was thick with smoke, and the smell of alcohol, charred meat and stale cigarettes. Both of them were hunched over, like monkeys in a cage. Everything was blurred, shapeless. The men weren’t men and the chicken wasn’t a chicken. Nothing but rough sketches gone wrong, crumpled into a ball and thrown into this stinking hole. Simon held the bird by its head and feet as if holding the handlebars of a motorbike heading straight into the wall.
‘Joan of Arc.’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.’
‘What made you think of her? The chicken?’
‘Maybe. Or the Pope, I don’t know. I used to carry a picture of her around when I was a kid. I’d wank off over it in the toilets, looking at her in that tight, shiny armour with her tidy little page-boy haircut and her flag blowing in the wind. What I’d have given for a can-opener to get inside that …! Pass me the bottle and I’ll tell you.’
Simon finished off the bottle and started to sway to and fro with a fixed stare, his hands wrapped round his chicken handlebars, full speed ahead.
‘I once went to Rouen. Not Mecca or Lourdes like some people, but Rouen. I went and begged in the square where they burnt her at the stake. It was the most dough I’d ever made in my life – people were throwing their money at me! I got absolutely trashed that night – it was insane! Later on I was having a piss up against a wall when I saw her in front of me, stark naked, smiling at me with her arms and legs wide open. She said: “It’s about time, Simon!” and I screwed her. I screwed her like I’ve never screwed before. Up against the fucking wall. And you can believe it or not, but the wall started swelling as if I’d knocked it up, and just when I was about to shoot my load the wall fell in on me. But it didn’t hurt, not one bit. And behind the wall, behind the wall, there was—’
Gesticulating wildly as he relived the scene, Simon’s elbow smashed into the gas stove. The alcohol spilt over him and he was engulfed in flames like a living torch, while the chicken took the first flight of its short life and landed on Gabriel’s knees. Simon stood howling and banging his arms against his sides as if in the throes of a laughing fit. The fire took hold of him in a dazzling display of power, like a volcanic eruption. Gabriel froze, numbed by the wine, awestruck. Simon threw himself onto the pile of mattresses and covers and rolled about until he disappeared under a thick plume of smoke. Gabriel grabbed his bag, trainers and the chicken and ran as fast as he could. When he stopped to catch his breath by the banks of the Seine, he tore away at the half-cooked chicken and wondered what could have been behind that fucking wall.
Gabriel ripped shreds off the candyfloss and let them melt slowly in his mouth.
We should eat nothing but clouds, he thought.
In front of him a merry-go-round whirled round: as it sped up an elephant, a fire engine, a white swan and a motorbike all dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colour and bright lights, punctuated by the piercing shrieks of the children above the heady music of the barrel organ. He had never seen Simon again. Had he melted away as well? He had almost forgotten what had happened in that underground car park it was so long ago. He remembered the chicken, the taste of charcoal and raw meat. His fingers felt sticky. He didn’t have a handkerchief so he wiped them on the underside of the bench. The smell of chip fat and hot sugar hung in the air. Even the rain was sweet. Nobody seemed to realise. People came and went as if the sun were out, as if they were happy. As if. It was a tiny funfair with just a merry-go-round, a tombola, a shooting gallery and a sweet stall. He had stumbled upon it after crossing the bridge that straddled the river. This was the furthest he had been in the town and he felt as though he had crossed into another town entirely. When on foot you always travel further than you expect. You only realise how far you have gone when it’s time to go back. Because you always have to go back.
‘Romain,