Moon in a Dead Eye (5 page)

‘It’s up to you, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

It seemed to Marlène that Monsieur Flesh, with both hands on the car door, holding his face inches from hers, bore an uncanny resemblance to the dog they had had to part with. He smelt like a dog too.

‘Are there … are there many of them?’

‘Three or four caravans. But this is just the beginning, there’ll soon be others. It’s the same every year, always around this time. Honestly, you’d be better off getting your husband to go with you.’

‘He can’t get about. It’s his back …’

‘In that case … It’s up to you. Anyway, have a nice day.’

Gypsies … Marlène turned back, her forehead creased with worry. What a nuisance, the fridge was almost empty and Maxime had asked her to get him some magazines … It was only 10 a.m. People didn’t get their throats cut at 10 a.m. … But Monsieur Flesh seemed to be taking it seriously.

Sitting in his armchair, propped up with cushions, Maxime saw his wife pulling up outside the house.

‘Did you forget something?’

‘No. I’ve just seen Monsieur Flesh. They’ve set up a gypsy camp right by the junction with the main road, you know, that scruffy patch …’

‘So?’

‘So, he told me it’s not safe for a woman to go that way alone.’

‘Oh … so what are we going to do? We haven’t got any bread, or any … What about my magazines? … Go and ask Martial.’

‘Their car’s not there.’

‘What about Léa?’

‘She’s gone out too. I saw her leave first thing this morning.’

‘Damn it! … Go and get my revolver from under the bed.’

‘What for?’

‘Just get it!’

Over the past two days, Maxime had not spoken more than a dozen words, and those he had spoken were short and sometimes very coarse. Unable to move from his chair, he sat brooding and staring through the window in the hallway at the nothingness outside. You could almost see the thought bubble hanging above his head, filled with daggers, skulls and crossbones and lit bombs. These gypsies had turned up just at the right moment to become the focus of his hatred for the whole of humanity. They were the ones taking the bread out of his mouth, stopping him reading
Autosport
, lying in wait, with knives between their teeth, to jump out and rape his wife! And of course they would have to come on a day when everyone else just happened to be out. You could never rely on anyone but yourself. Marlène held out the Smith & Wesson he had used only once at a shooting club. Maxime’s score had been so pitiful he had never set foot in there again. He checked the barrel was loaded and slid the gun between two cushions.

‘You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?’

‘What do you think I’m going to do, stuck in this chair? Push me closer to the window so I can see them coming.’

‘See who coming?’

‘The gippos, obviously!’

‘They can’t get in here! We’ve got Monsieur Flesh …’

‘Him! Honestly, darling, what do you expect Monsieur Flesh to do against that lot? They’re crafty, believe you me, they’ve got it all worked out!’

‘How’s that?’

‘How? Well, they’ll have lookouts. They will have seen the Sudres’ and Léa’s cars going past and know we’re here on our own. Trust me, they’ll grab their chance!’

‘But what about Léa … she was on her own … You don’t think …’

‘How are we to know? … Go and make us a coffee, I think we’re going to need it.’

Monsieur Flesh must have been mowing the lawn on the other side of the village; they could hear the motor going back and forth like an insect buzzing persistently. Marlène had managed to throw together some emergency rations of crackers, tinned sardines and tomatoes.

‘Can’t fight on an empty stomach! Do you know what gypsies eat?’

‘No. What?’

‘Hedgehogs. That’s right, hedgehogs!’

‘Makes sense. There are so many squashed on the side of the road … Gypsies, roads, hedgehogs, it all fits.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You get hubcaps all along the road too and they don’t exactly eat those.’

‘No, they steal them. I’ve heard they can take a car apart in the time it takes to buy a loaf of bread.’

‘Don’t talk to me about bread! Thanks to those mongrels we’ve got nothing but crackers. How are you supposed to mop up your sauce with that? … Where the hell are the others? It’s almost two o’clock! I’ve got a bad feeling about this. And him, over there, he should stop driving us up the wall with that bloody lawn mower and keep guard!’

‘It is getting quite irritating. Reminds me of that fly Odette keeps going on about. Have you ever seen it?’

‘Of course not. It’s all in her head. Might be the only thing in there …’

‘Why do you have to be so mean? I think she just needs her eyes testing.’

‘She always has to have everything her way. I’ve had enough of it!’

‘Why do you care? You never want to join in anyway.’

‘No, and it’s because of her!’

‘I don’t believe that for a minute. You’ve been funny with everyone for ages, even Léa. You can hardly bring yourself to give her the time of day.’

‘Oh, you are something else! May I remind you that five minutes ago you were jealous of me getting on too well with her!’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what?’

‘Anything. Do you want to watch TV?’

‘No, I do not!’

‘Fine. Suit yourself. I’m going to have a nap.’

How long had it been since the two of them had made love,
even badly? So long that Marlène wondered if she really missed it. Every so often an intense rush of desire might come over her, when even a piece of music, a waft of perfume or a certain quality of light were enough to bring her out in a hot flush … But it would soon pass, like a projector moving on to the next slide. She had never breathed a word of it to anyone and had ended up telling herself it was just a part of getting old. But deep down she was not so sure, now lying semi-naked in the blue light of the bedroom, the heat seeping in through the shutters, beads of sweat forming on her top lip … Inside her belly, her chest, there was someone fighting to get out of this useless body that had been washed up on the bed, a voice protesting at the imposture, the unfairness of it all. And yet she knew she could still turn a man’s head in the street. A real street, obviously, not here where it was a toss-up between Martial and Monsieur Flesh … She had been in such a good mood that morning, getting herself ready to go into town on her own. What did the gypsies have against her? What had she ever done to them?

In the living room, Maxime was nervously whistling the theme tune of
The Alamo,
the cult western that held the top spot in his cinema hall of fame.

The bullet had whistled so close to Martial’s head that ten minutes later it was still ringing in his ear. It was as though Odette’s fly had moved in there.

‘He’s mad! Mad, I tell you!’

On the way back from their walk, Martial had stopped off to give Maxime and Marlène a berry tart, the speciality of a village he and Odette had visited that afternoon. He was about to push open the garden gate when the shot rang out. For several seconds he stood frozen, the only movement his eardrum vibrating like a tambourine, endlessly replaying the sound of the gun going off. The tart, loosely wrapped in paper, slid out of his hands, landing on the white flagstone like a scarlet cowpat. He slowly took a step backwards, then another, until he reached the middle of the road, where he turned and broke into a sprint. It felt strange to be running, like having his whole body picked up and shaken. Other than hurrying to catch a bus or a train, he had not run anywhere in decades.

Martial had arrived home breathless, deathly pale and incapable of either stringing two words together or controlling the shaking
in his legs. Odette sat him down and tried to get him to drink a glass of water. He managed only two mouthfuls; his teeth were chattering too much against the glass. Once he had finally prised his tongue from his palate, he gave a jumbled account of his bizarre brush with death.

‘But why would he have shot at you?’

‘I don’t know! I told you, I was just about to open the gate, like I always do, when … A gun going off, the bullet, a scream … all at once.’

‘A scream?’

‘Yes … there was a scream from somewhere in the house, from the same place as the shot … But it was me being fired at, I can still hear the bullet …’

Odette let go of his hands. He was shaking so violently that she in turn found herself vibrating from head to toe.

‘He must have gone mad … unless it was someone else … not Marlène … Look, that’s her running over here now! … What on earth is going on?’

No sooner had Odette opened the door than Marlène flung herself at Martial’s feet, sobbing.

‘You’re not hurt, Martial?’

He stiffened, his jaw clamped shut, and shook his head. Marlène clutched her chest.

‘Thank God, oh thank God! It was an accident, Martial, he made a mistake. It wasn’t you Maxime meant to fire at.’

Odette stood between them, raising an eyebrow.

‘Who did he mean to fire at then?’

‘The gypsies.’

‘Gypsies? What gypsies?’

‘The ones camped out by the junction with the main road. Surely you must have seen them …’

‘A gypsy camp? Did you see any gypsy camp, Martial?’

‘I don’t think so … Oh, actually there were a couple of caravans … So, what about them?’

Marlène picked up the abandoned glass of water from the table and finished it in one gulp, before patting her chest.

‘I’m sorry. Well, I was heading out to the shops this morning. We had nothing to eat in the house. I saw Monsieur Flesh at the gate and he warned me about this gypsy camp. He seemed to know a lot about it; he said they come back every year and it’s not safe for a woman to go near them on her own. The thing is you’ve no choice but to stop there to give way to the main road. He seemed like he really meant it. So I turned back and told Maxime what had happened. You weren’t home, neither was Léa; we felt … vulnerable on our own. Maxime thought they might take advantage of the situation to try something, so he got out his revolver. If only I could tell you how sorry he is now! Even more so since the kick from the gun put his back out again. Please come back with me and tell him you won’t hold it against him … He so wants to say sorry …’

Maxime had had to buck himself up before facing the music. He had made serious inroads in the bottle of Scotch sitting beside him. His voice thick, he set the scene of the drama once again.

‘You see, I’d been sitting here waiting for them since this morning and I must have nodded off for a minute. I heard footsteps coming and started opening my eyes, but you had the sun behind you, Martial – I couldn’t tell it was you! I shot into the air, just to scare them off – obviously at such close range, if I’d wanted to hit them … And then, crack! The most excruciating
pain went through my shoulder and down my back, as though I was being snapped in half. You see, a gun like that has a hell of a kick to it! … Anyway, everyone’s fine now. That’s all that matters.’

Maxime downed the rest of his drink and clicked his tongue. The silence crackled, like champagne quietly fizzing in a flute. Marlène stood up and looked out of the window. It was dark outside.

‘Everyone except Léa. Her light’s not on.’

Martial could not tear his eyes away from the gun lying on the table, which now looked as banal as a piece of cutlery. Odette cracked her knuckles and got to her feet.

‘Now look, I think we should all try to keep our heads. It’s only nine o’clock, this isn’t a boarding school. Léa can come and go as she pleases, whatever time of the day or night. As for these gypsies … We went straight past them and nothing happened to us. I didn’t even notice them.’

‘That’s the point! You obviously don’t know much about gypsies. They’re masters of disguise. You don’t see them, you think everything’s peachy and then, bam! You end up with a knife in your back.’

‘That’s a bit over the top, Maxime.’

‘Not at all, Odette! I served in the war; I know a thing or two about ambush …’

‘You fought against the gypsies, did you?’

‘No, of course not! But they’re all the same …’

‘Who’s all the same?’

‘Other people! The ones who are out to get us and take our things! Oh for Christ’s sake, forget it. If you’d rather shut your eyes to it and let them cut your throat while you sleep, that’s your problem.’

Marlène grabbed the bottle and moved it out of reach.

‘That’s enough, Maxime, pull yourself together! I’m sorry, Odette, it’s his nerves.’

‘It’s fine, I understand. Look, we’re in the safest place imaginable: we’ve got CCTV cameras, an electric fence … and Monsieur Flesh! You saw what he does to cats, so I think we can all sleep soundly. As for Léa, I’ll say it again, she’s a free agent. If she’s still not back in … a while, then perhaps we should think about raising the alarm. Don’t you think, Martial?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Marlène?’

‘I … I don’t know. Maybe. Either way, I really must do my shopping tomorrow.’

‘We can go together, don’t worry. Maxime, I think you should put that gun away.’

‘You do what you think best, Odette, but I’m keeping my eyes open, and if I were you, Martial, I’d do the same, whatever your wife might have to say about it.’

Odette shrugged, waving her hand in front of her nose. Did this fly never sleep?

Martial watched the war coverage late into the night. There was nothing else on. Odette had been asleep for ages. He turned off when they announced the cease-fire. Nothing much was happening by then.

‘… the rumble of shelling died away and silence fell … The only sound was a bird singing, the wind in the trees … It’s … overwhelming. Back to the studio.’

He had sat watching the same old pictures of war-torn buildings standing white as bone under a blue sky, windows blown out, riddled with black holes; diggers sifting the debris; people covered in dust wandering, crying, bleeding and beating their chests, their faces streaming with tears and sweat. Others were chanting unfamiliar words, war talk, and making ‘V’ for victory signs. Both sides did the same, as though everyone had won. They wore filthy jeans and ripped T-shirts, scarves around their heads, and bearded faces all blending into one.

This new breed of war always seemed to take place in perpetual sunshine. Following the example of OAPs, war had decided to retire to warm countries. Never Norway or Finland. He had seen
a man lifting up the body of a newborn baby. A day-old child … twenty-four hours … What must he have made of his short time on Earth? … Twenty-four hours, with bombs raining down … He wasn’t bleeding; he was like the porcelain figurines hidden inside
galettes des rois.
War was not scary when you watched it on TV. You could tell yourself the world was under construction. They were building bridges. All the time building bridges, linking up roads to nowhere, roads that dwindled into the desert. You were never quite sure where all this was happening. Somewhere far away. Martial preferred the night footage, when fluorescent green fireworks exploded across the screen.

But for now, they had stopped fighting. Worn out, they had called it a day: to be continued. Shame, he didn’t feel like going to bed. He poured himself a glass of ice-cold milk with orgeat syrup and took it outside to drink under the stars. It would be hot again tomorrow, even hotter than today. They were calling it a heat wave on the news and warning the elderly to drink plenty of water and keep to cool rooms. The sky had rarely seemed so vast to him, nor so full of stars. There was hardly any black left. One great big moth-eaten curtain, a lacework of lies. If only you could press your eye against the cloth and see what lay beyond. There might be nothing there but light – who could tell? The 24-hour baby probably, but given the circumstances, he had decided not to stick around to let us know. Why did it have to be such a big mystery? We’d all spend a lot less time agonising over it if we only knew for sure. There’s nothing beyond. Why couldn’t they just tell us that, rather than filling our heads with their terrifying tales …

A satellite was trying to forge a path through the sizzling stars. It looked so pathetic, a struggling starlet … He almost wanted to wave his handkerchief at it …

Martial had never gone to war, though he had served his time at the Naval Ministry in Paris. The position was not without risks; he might easily have died of boredom. But he had never fired a gun, never killed anybody. He was proud of the fact, but at the same time would have liked to know what it felt like. He had never raped anybody either … There seemed to be a lot of fornication in times of war. Everyone was so afraid, they clung to what they had, with fear in their bellies. And of course it was dark, everyone was hiding in cellars and they had to find something to do to kill time … By having sex, they could push death away, resist it, and make 24-hour children ….

It was almost a full moon. Maxime could have played golf on it, there were just as many holes and bunkers … Maxime must have killed people, raped them too no doubt … He would have to ask him how that felt … The bullet that had whistled past his ear had left behind the echo of a secret, the whisper of a revelation. What if it wasn’t as bad as all that? … If it was OK to …

‘Martial? You’re still up?’

‘Yes. Too hot.’

Odette, crumpled with tiredness, Odette with lined cheeks, Odette just the way he loved her, laid bare, his constant other self. It was a good thing she had woken up because this concave sky, graffitied with untranslatable hieroglyphics, was starting to scare him.

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Milk and orgeat.’

‘That sounds nice. Fancy another?’

‘Please.’

The satellite had disappeared to the other side of the world, while the stars carried on calmly grazing on nothingness. The other lounger creaked as Odette lay down on it.

‘It’s twenty-eight degrees in the kitchen. Who knows what it’ll get to tomorrow … Martial, what are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing. Lots of things, it’s hard to say … I’m happy we’re together, here, you and me, and not dead yet.’

‘Is this because of the bullet?’

‘Could be … Have you seen the sky? It’s amazing, isn’t it? It’s like the big top at a circus …’

They held hands. They weren’t scared of anything any more, felt like crying a little, or laughing.

‘What happened to the fly?’

‘Shut up, it’s asleep … Oh look, there’s Léa coming back … She’s absolutely fine …’