Moon in a Dead Eye (9 page)

‘We should warn Martial and Odette …’

‘I’ve just left Martial by the pool. He’s going for a swim! He’s completely lost it, but what am I supposed to do about it? Just get the hell out; in half an hour the whole place is going to go up in flames. Excuse me, must be off.’

Maxime left Nadine and Léa, whom he had just run into on the street, and hurried home.

‘Marlène, get up! Pack your bags, we’re leaving, there’s a fire.’

‘A fire? … What have you done to your hair?’

‘To hell with my hair! Get a bloody move on. Bring the bare minimum, there’s not a minute to lose!’

While Maxime was emptying paperwork out of the drawers and cramming it into a briefcase, Marlène stood staring into her cupboard, unable to pick out a single thing. What was important? What was not? None of this made sense. How could you fit an entire life in a suitcase? And what about Régis’s piano, the white piano?

‘Why are you standing there like a bloody lemon? Get a wiggle on! Your jewellery, you mustn’t forget your jewellery!’

‘What about the others, the Sudres, Léa?’

‘I’ve warned them, now it’s up to them. Every man for himself. Right, are you ready?’

It was Nadine who took care of everything, as Léa had gone into her own world again. Maxime was right, the sky had become a
blazing inferno. Charred fragments swirled in the air, which was becoming difficult to breathe. She had not even tried asking Léa to choose what to take, so was now stuffing a bag with whatever came to hand. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, Léa was frowning as though trying to remember something, while nervously playing with her fingers.

‘Léa, where’s your handbag? Léa, please, where’s your bag? I need the car keys. Léa? … Ah, there it is! Come on, Léa, come with me. Let’s go.’

She obediently let herself be taken by the hand and led out to the car. Thick plumes of black smoke rose in the sky, where birds flew disoriented in every direction. It was no longer a murmur they could hear but a roar, a fusion of crackling and sizzling. Nadine stalled three times before starting the engine. Léa turned to her, her face a vision of calm.

‘Are we going home then?’

‘That’s right, Léa, let’s go.’

Maxime’s car hurtled past them. Marlène was wearing a fur coat.

Martial was contemplating Archimedes’ principle as he lay on his back, arms and legs spread wide, looking up at a sky the same flaming orange as the
Gone with the Wind
poster. With his ears underwater, he heard none of the fire’s racket. It was a spectacular sight. Odette would have liked it … Despite her sleeping pills she had been up crying all night, the kind of sobbing that breaks your heart. ‘It’s over, it’s over …’ she said again and again … In the small hours of the morning, she finally fell asleep. Martial had pressed the pillow over her face. She had hardly put up a fight … She too must be floating somewhere now …

‘Damned piece of junk!’

Maxime chucked the useless remote control into the glove compartment and stormed out of the car. Nadine and Léa were waiting in the car behind. The gate stubbornly remained closed. Nadine got out to join Maxime, who was trying to yank it open. She had a go with Léa’s remote control, to no avail.

‘Fucking hell, we’re trapped in here like damned rats! The electrics must have blown … There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to climb over this bloody gate …’

‘And then what? Look around, Maxime, it’s coming from every side; there’s no way we’ll make it on foot.’

‘Well, what else are we going to do? In quarter of an hour, it’s all going to blow up.’

‘We’ll have to go back to the pool and wait for help to arrive. That’s all we can do.’

Wearing any old clothes, their faces speckled with soot, dragging their sorry suitcases behind them, they looked like a group of refugees, survivors of a nameless war. They huddled together beside the pool in which Martial floated indifferently, like flotsam. Raging uncontrollably, the flames were now licking above the level of the rooftops. The fire could be no more than a hundred metres from the perimeter wall. They had all lost the ability to speak, even to think. This was hell, the way it’s painted on church walls … The heat became so unbearable they all dived like frogs into the little turquoise rectangle set with a cluster of rubies. This was how the pilot of the water bomber flying overhead saw it.

Maxime held out his arm.

‘A helicopter! The firemen can’t be far behind … Everybody wave! Hey, over here! Over here!’

They all began shouting and waving their arms about – all except Martial, who was floating face down, offering his saggy white posterior to the fury of the heavens. Not that anybody took any notice. An explosion had just come from near the entrance to Les Conviviales. Gas? White-hot shards of metal, glass and wood were thrown up into the air, landing dangerously close to them. In her drenched fur coat, Marlène looked like an otter gnawing on her necklace. Having tugged it this way and that it eventually snapped, leaving one hundred and forty pink pearls strewn over the bottom of the pool.

‘Oh God! Oh God! We’re going to boil alive in here, Maxime!’

‘Calm down, Marlène. I’m here, the firemen—’

Another explosion, closer this time and followed by a spray of sparks, made them all wince.

‘It’s the Sudres’ house! … Odette? … Martial, it’s your house! Martial …’

Maxime pulled his neighbour’s body towards him and lifted his head above water.

‘He’s only gone and bloody drowned! … He’s drowned …’

A torrent of unidentifiable debris rained down on them, some of it plunging straight to the bottom, other bits left hissing on the surface … Then came the sound of an engine and the sight of the first fireman scuttling towards them like a giant beetle. The mask over his face meant they couldn’t understand a word of what he said, peering over them from the poolside. They just looked up at him wide-eyed, as though he were some kind of Martian whose language they could not speak. After lifting his visor, he managed to explain that a helicopter was on its way to airlift them to safety, since the roads were impassable.

‘It’ll be here in a couple of minutes. Don’t worry, it’s going to be all right. You’re all here, there’s no one left inside the houses?’

They all thought of Odette, but no one said anything.

The fireman carried on, pointing his big glove towards Martial, ‘What about the gentleman over there …?’

Léa was holding Martial’s head above the water but his pinched nostrils, open mouth and dull stare left little doubt as to his condition.

Léa calmly replied, ‘He’s drowned. His name was Martial … Yes, that’s right, Martial … Martial and Odette.’

The helicopter blades began to whip up the smoke above their heads and form concentric waves on the surface of the water. A harness attached to a rope came spinning down. The fireman helped Marlène and Léa to get in. Maxime and Nadine watched them rising slowly above them. It was like a bad special effect. Then it was their turn. Once they were all squashed together inside the glass bubble, with the engine roaring, they looked down at the fireman hauling Martial’s body ashore before giving the pilot the signal to leave. Down below, everything became ridiculously small.

Pascal Garnier

Pascal Garnier was born in Paris in 1949. The prize-winning author of over sixty books, he remains a leading figure in contemporary French literature, in the tradition of Georges Simenon. He died in 2010.

Emily Boyce

Emily Boyce is in-house translator for Gallic Books. She lives in London.

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