The Panda Theory: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

then, I’ll get started.’

      ‘Do you want me to show you …?’

      ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll manage.’

      It was as he had expected. Luckily, he’d thought of everything. It was a typical singleton’s kitchen. The fridge was practically bare and contained just a few fat-free yogurts, half an apple wrapped in cling film, some leftover rice, a half-frozen lettuce stuck to the back of the vegetable drawer and a jar of Nutella for those nights when she needed comfort. It was touching.

      The new potatoes were soon bobbing up and down in the boiling water, the shallots slowly caramelising in the pan to which he added the two good-sized pieces of calves’ liver drizzling them with balsamic vinegar and sprinkling a pinch of finely chopped parsley. The surrounding white ceramic tiles, unused to such aromas, blushed with pleasure. Madeleine’s face appeared in the doorway, her nostrils twitching.

      ‘Mmm, it smells nice.’

      ‘You can sit down if you like. It’s almost ready.’

      The liver was cooked to perfection, the onions melted in the mouth and the potatoes, glistening with butter, were as soft as a spring morning.

      ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve had calves’ liver. I never think to buy it. It’s delicious. And the shallots …!’

       I am cooking for you because I like you. I am going to feed you. We barely know each other and yet here we are, just inches apart, where together we’re going to drool over, chew and swallow the meat, vegetables and bread. Our bodies are going to share the same pleasures. The same blood will flow in our veins. Your tongue will be my tongue; your belly, my belly. It’s an ancient, universal, unchanging ritu al.

      ‘… and that’s why she was worried.’

      ‘Who was?’

      ‘My grandmother, of course.’

      ‘Ah, yes, sorry.’

      ‘It was just a bit of anaemia. It often happens to kids who grow too quickly. I hated that.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Minced horse meat cooked in stock. I just told you. Weren’t you listening?’

      ‘Yes, yes, of course. Minced horse meat cooked in stock. It’s true. It can’t have been that appetising for a little girl.’

      ‘You said it. But she thought she was doing the right thing. I was very fond of her. I’ll have a bit more wine, please. Thanks, that’s enough! I think I’m a little bit tipsy.’

      ‘Did she die?’

      ‘Yes, five years ago.’

      ‘And your cat as well?’

      ‘Yes. How did you know?’

      ‘I accidentally overheard you mention it on the phone this morning.’

      ‘It’s true. Last year. She was called Mitsouko, after my perfume. She lived to be fourteen.’

      ‘And you haven’t replaced her?’

      ‘No, but I often think about it.’

      ‘When you have your Nutella nights?’

      ‘Nutella nights? What do you mean?’

      ‘Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.’

      ‘Would you like coffee?’

      ‘Yes, please.’

      The flat had already changed. It was now filled with the smell of cooking, rather than the smell of nothing at all. Things had been moved around and the sofa cushions were creased. There was another person there. Madeleine must have been aware of it when she heard him moving around in the kitchen. Gabriel walked over to the window and raised the net curtain. It was a small, anonymous street, the sort of street you go down on the way to somewhere else. How many times had Madeleine stood by the window cuddling her cat, waiting for something to happen down below? And how many times had she drawn the curtains without witnessing anything but the slow flowering of her picture-postcard red geranium?

      ‘Sugar?’

      ‘No, thanks.’

      ‘The street isn’t exactly lively, is it?’

      ‘It’s a street.’

      ‘I sometimes think it’s more of a dead end. The rent is cheap, though, and it’s quiet.’

      ‘I once lived on a street like this. One day I saw a Chinese man fall from a sixth-floor window.’

      ‘That’s awful!’

      ‘It took me a moment to realise that it was the Chinese man from the sixth floor. He flashed past. It was a beautiful day; the window was open. I didn’t see what happened, but I felt it, like a large bird or a shadow passing over. And then I heard shouts. I leant out of the window to have a look and saw something lying in the middle of the road in the shape of a swastika. There was an elderly couple across the street. The woman was screaming. All the other windows opened at once. Someone yelled, “It’s the Chinese man from the sixth floor!”’

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘I think I closed the window. I didn’t know him that well. We’d met a few times on the stairs. A neighbour told me later that he was a bit unstable and part of a cult, something like that.’

      ‘It must have been a weird feeling.’

      ‘You feel a bit of a voyeur, even if it’s unintentional. All day it felt as though I had something in my eye I couldn’t get out, a kind of indelible subliminal image. It was quite annoying. I don’t know why I’m telling you this – it’s stupid.’

      Gabriel regretted telling the story. The room now teemed with falling Chinese men. Madeleine was hunched over, staring into her cup, her brow furrowed. Would she ever dare open her window again? Would she let her geranium die of thirst? What if she was indeed sporty and her hobby was parachuting? He was an idiot.