Monsieur Marechall was a stickler for punctuality. He waited. Water dripped off his cagoule onto his shoes. Eight o’clock on the dot. Very gently, he turned the handle of the door which opened without the slightest creak. Just as planned, Monsieur Marechall was standing on the chair, facing the window, hands behind his back like a naughty schoolboy made to stand in the corner. He hadn’t flinched, though he knew Bernard had come in. Took guts.
Apart from a ripple along the curtain folds, nothing moved. It was like looking at a photograph. Snatches of conversation from the road outside, a shrill laugh, a car door slamming, an engine starting up. The last sound jolted Bernard into action. Two steps forward. He closed his eyes and kicked the chair from under Monsieur Marechall’s feet. A cracking sound but no cry, just the crash of the chair on the floor and a whoosh of displaced air. Bernard remembered a wooden puppet he had had when he was little; you pulled a string and its arms and legs jigged about. He waited until all he could hear was a rhythmic creaking that grew softer and softer before he opened one eye. One of Simon’s shoes had fallen off, an expensive loafer deformed by a bunion. Bernard did not dare look up. He collected the cash, keys and car documents from the table, along with the envelope, as agreed. He was hungry and bit into the half-eaten apple. Tasteless. It was hard to find a decent apple these days. He sneezed again. They were saying it would rain all week. He left the room and shut the door behind him. No point saying goodbye to a dead man. At the end of the corridor, Bernard found the lift in use. He took the stairs.
They had met a few days earlier on a park bench beside the Volane, opposite the casino. It was a Saturday, some time around 11 a.m. A bravely struggling sun made the landscape look like a naïve painting. The trees were green, the flowers pink, yellow and red, the sky blue and the shadows grey. The pathways were teeming with people, as wedding parties gathered at the foot of the grand stone steps – the perfect spot to line up the families in front of the camera. It was a little bit like paradise, with everyone dressed up, perfumed and polished like the best china, all kissing each other or crying with happiness.
‘Could you all move in a bit please? And a bit more? The lady with the blue hat, could you take a step back? Thanks, that’s great! Now just the bride and groom please, among the roses.’
The photographer was a true professional; he had no qualms about destroying the flowerbeds or tyrannising his models to ensure that this would truly be the most beautiful day of their lives.
‘Get down on bended knee please, sir – that’s it, like Prince Charming. Smile, smile! Take his hand … Perfect!’
The fixed grimaces on the newlyweds’ faces suggested either they desperately needed to pee or their new shoes were rubbing. The groom’s suit looked stiff as a board, while his bride stood surrounded by masses of netting that could have been spun from a candyfloss machine. Clinging to the train like limpets, the bridesmaids twisted their ankles tottering in their first pair of heels. Mothers dabbed their eyes, fathers puffed out their chests with pride, kids played catch, sending up eddies of dust. Groups of spa visitors, recognisable from the cups in wicker holders dangling from straps slung over their shoulders, mingled with the families and took pictures, condescending to share in the simple rituals of the indigenous population.
‘Isn’t this lovely?’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, yes. Seeing all these people so happy, it’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘How do you know they’re happy?’
‘You can tell.’
‘You can’t trust appearances. It’s usually all for show. What about you, are you happy?’
‘Depends … yes, I think so.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘What happened to your hand?’
‘An accident at work. One of the machines. Lost two fingers.’
‘Nasty.’
‘It hurts a bit, but it’s only my little finger and fourth finger. I never used them. Plus it’s my left hand and I’m right-handed.’
‘Well, that’s all right then. You just lost a bit of weight.’
‘It was my fault. I’d had a bit to drink. I didn’t use the safety guard. But my boss is a good guy and he’s taking me back, in a different job … The pay’s not so good, but at least it’s work. I’ve been lucky!’
‘A real stroke of luck, I’m sure! Let me introduce myself. I’m Simon Marechall.’
‘Bernard Ferrand. Are you here for the spa?’
‘Are you joking? Do I look like one of those decrepit old crocks?’ Simon asked, horrified. ‘Just look at them with those ridiculous sunhats, the silly cups round their necks, their baggy shorts and knock-knees. Their bandy legs are like battered Louis XV chairs: it’s an antiques market! They should have dust covers put over them. No, no,’ he concluded, ‘I’m just passing through. What about you?’
‘Um, just passing through too, while my hand heals. My mother lives in Vals. We don’t see each other very often so I thought I’d make the most of my time off.’
‘So there are people who really live here. I thought they must be film extras. You know the area then?’
‘Not very well. I live in Bron, near Lyon. I’m not from here; I just come now and then to see my mother.’
‘Is there much to do?’
‘There’s the casino. You can go for walks, visit the Château de Cros, see the volcanic rocks. Then there’s Jean Ferrat, of course.’
‘Jean Ferrat, the singer?’
‘Yes, he’s from Antraigues. Sometimes you see him at the market on Sunday mornings.’
‘That’s terrific!’
‘You like Jean Ferrat then?’
‘Very much. Do you?’
‘Not specially.’
‘Bit before your time, I expect.’
‘It’s more that I’ve heard my mother singing his songs so often, it’s almost like he’s a friend of the family.’
Laughing, Simon took a tissue out of his pocket to wipe his sunglasses. He had grey eyes, the colour of steel: cold and hard.
‘I like you very much, young man. How old are you?’
‘I’ll be twenty-two next month.’
‘How would you like to have lunch with me?’
‘I can’t, I have to go back to my mother’s. I’m already late and I need to pick up some bread.’
‘What a shame. How about this evening?’
‘Um, OK.’
‘Do you know of any good restaurants?’
‘Chez Mireille is supposed to be good. I think it’s a bit pricey but …’
‘Don’t worry about that, it’ll be my treat. Tonight at seven thirty then. Come and meet me at the Grand Hôtel de Lyon. Simon Marechall, room 406.’
‘OK then, thanks.’
Simon’s hand was cold, dry and tense. With his black shades back on, Simon seemed to Bernard like the night glaring down, though in fact the older man was slightly shorter than him. One set off towards the hotel district, the other in the direction of the old town.
Even though the street was bathed in sunlight, Madame Ferrand’s little shop remained hopelessly gloomy. It was years since she had pulled back the faded cretonne curtain across the shop window, and its dust-coated folds made it impossible for passers-by to see in. But it didn’t matter, since nothing was for sale here any more. It had become Madame Ferrand’s apartment. The back room was used as