mock dignity. Nevertheless, his conscience twanged as he spoke the words. There had been one or two occasions, usually when he had drunk too much on a Saturday night after rugby, when he had found himself swirling like a drowning vole in the vortex of Mado’s powerful attractions. “Besides, Paul’s one of my best friends, practically family.”
“That’s why they call it a
ménage à trois,”
Mara said.
•
“She’s French Canadian,” Mado said to Paul when they were alone. “Did you hear her accent?”
“What accent?” Paul sat on one side of the bar, studying rugby scores in the local daily, while Madodried glasses on the other. In a region where people spoke a lazy patois and where all words were drawled out to end in “ng,” an accent was hardly a thing to be remarked on.
“Joual.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Joual.
She speaks
joual.”
“What
joual?”
“It’s the Montreal argot. That’s how they say ‘horse.’ They eat their words, so
cheval
winds up sounding like
joual.
I think she’s got her eye on Julian.”
“About time somebody did.” Paul buried himself more deeply in his paper.
Mado watched him. “Are you going to show that photo around?” she asked a moment later.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, like Gaston said, it could have been anyone around here. You’ll want to go carefully. Don’t forget, the man was never caught.”
“How do you know for sure it was a man?”
“Use sense. It had to be.”
“Well, who?”
“Anyone. Lucien Peyrat, for example. It’s usually the repressed type.”
Paul looked up. “For Christ’s sake, he’s a bread man, not a murderer.”
“Or old Benoît. Being a butcher, killing would have been easy for him. Even you.”
“Are you joking?” Paul gaped, incredulous.
“All I’m saying is, you could stir up something. Especially if she’s really offering a reward. A thousand euros is a lot of money.”
“Hou!”
Paul went back to his sports page. “I’ll wave the photo under people’s noses. No one’s going to identify this
bougre
of a
pigeonnier.
Besides, the boyfriend probably did it, even though they couldn’t hang anything on him. Or else the sister drowned in the river or fell down a hole.”
Mado shrugged. After a pause, she resumed, “She’s not his type, you know.”
“Who?”
“This Mara. She’s all wrong for Julian.”
Paul threw his paper down at last to squint ferociously at his wife.
“What’s right? The problem with Julian is, he’s got no staying power. He takes up with a woman for a while, and just when things start to look serious,
fsst.
It fizzles out. Sometimes I think he doesn’t really like women. He wants them, but he doesn’t like them.”
“He likes me,” pouted Mado.
“You’re different,” her husband pointed out. “You’re safe.”
“Safe?” The redhead bristled.
“Unavailable. Married. He can fantasize without running any risks. In any case, he has no idea what makes a woman tick.”
“You do?” Mado challenged, rubbing the glassware hard.
“At least I’m not scared of them.” Paul retreated from possibly thin ice. “Anyway, if this Mara’s putting moves on him, she’s as good as any. Julian needs a woman, any woman. He’s going to seed. You should have seen him watching that dog of hers hump Edith. Pure envy.”
Mado gave a throaty laugh, put away her towel, leaned across the bar, and nuzzled her husband’s ear.
“Poor Julian,” she whispered throatily. “Poor, poor Julian.”
FOUR
He had been christened Armand some fifty years ago, but round about they simply called him Vrac. The name meant “in bulk” or “loose goods.” He grew up large and brutish, with an oversized head, slack mouth, and pale hair that stood up in tufts. He lived with his mother in a grim farmhouse, eking out an existence from a few hectares of soggy land in a valley below the village of Malpech.
The mother, Marie-Claire Rocher, otherwise known as la Binette,
“That’s why they call it a
ménage à trois,”
Mara said.
•
“She’s French Canadian,” Mado said to Paul when they were alone. “Did you hear her accent?”
“What accent?” Paul sat on one side of the bar, studying rugby scores in the local daily, while Madodried glasses on the other. In a region where people spoke a lazy patois and where all words were drawled out to end in “ng,” an accent was hardly a thing to be remarked on.
“Joual.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Joual.
She speaks
joual.”
“What
joual?”
“It’s the Montreal argot. That’s how they say ‘horse.’ They eat their words, so
cheval
winds up sounding like
joual.
I think she’s got her eye on Julian.”
“About time somebody did.” Paul buried himself more deeply in his paper.
Mado watched him. “Are you going to show that photo around?” she asked a moment later.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, like Gaston said, it could have been anyone around here. You’ll want to go carefully. Don’t forget, the man was never caught.”
“How do you know for sure it was a man?”
“Use sense. It had to be.”
“Well, who?”
“Anyone. Lucien Peyrat, for example. It’s usually the repressed type.”
Paul looked up. “For Christ’s sake, he’s a bread man, not a murderer.”
“Or old Benoît. Being a butcher, killing would have been easy for him. Even you.”
“Are you joking?” Paul gaped, incredulous.
“All I’m saying is, you could stir up something. Especially if she’s really offering a reward. A thousand euros is a lot of money.”
“Hou!”
Paul went back to his sports page. “I’ll wave the photo under people’s noses. No one’s going to identify this
bougre
of a
pigeonnier.
Besides, the boyfriend probably did it, even though they couldn’t hang anything on him. Or else the sister drowned in the river or fell down a hole.”
Mado shrugged. After a pause, she resumed, “She’s not his type, you know.”
“Who?”
“This Mara. She’s all wrong for Julian.”
Paul threw his paper down at last to squint ferociously at his wife.
“What’s right? The problem with Julian is, he’s got no staying power. He takes up with a woman for a while, and just when things start to look serious,
fsst.
It fizzles out. Sometimes I think he doesn’t really like women. He wants them, but he doesn’t like them.”
“He likes me,” pouted Mado.
“You’re different,” her husband pointed out. “You’re safe.”
“Safe?” The redhead bristled.
“Unavailable. Married. He can fantasize without running any risks. In any case, he has no idea what makes a woman tick.”
“You do?” Mado challenged, rubbing the glassware hard.
“At least I’m not scared of them.” Paul retreated from possibly thin ice. “Anyway, if this Mara’s putting moves on him, she’s as good as any. Julian needs a woman, any woman. He’s going to seed. You should have seen him watching that dog of hers hump Edith. Pure envy.”
Mado gave a throaty laugh, put away her towel, leaned across the bar, and nuzzled her husband’s ear.
“Poor Julian,” she whispered throatily. “Poor, poor Julian.”
FOUR
He had been christened Armand some fifty years ago, but round about they simply called him Vrac. The name meant “in bulk” or “loose goods.” He grew up large and brutish, with an oversized head, slack mouth, and pale hair that stood up in tufts. He lived with his mother in a grim farmhouse, eking out an existence from a few hectares of soggy land in a valley below the village of Malpech.
The mother, Marie-Claire Rocher, otherwise known as la Binette,
Similar Books
