there’s nothing else to do but go to war. The only thing that grows is white crosses. Even Bernard’s not been able to keep out of it. But what the hell, let them go on tearing each other to bits. It makes sod all difference to me!’
Yolande went back to the needlework which had been interrupted by the incident with the rat. She was sewingscraps together, pieces of silk and ends of lace, on to what was left of a red dress, and humming
‘Couchés dans le foin
’. She stood up and got into position before the wardrobe mirror, holding the extraordinary costume up in front of her, stepped back a little, primped and posed, tried out a few dance steps and burst out laughing.
‘I don’t give a damn about the Resistance! You’re all made like rats! You’ve all lost!’
Whenever Bernard went out prowling around aimlessly, sooner or later he would find himself beside the railway. Sometimes he stood on the bridge above the tunnel and waited for the trains to go by. He knew them all, the 16.18, the 17.15 … He would see them coming in the distance then plunging, almost as if inside him, with a din of metal on metal that shook the handrail he was leaning on. Shutting his eyes, he would count how many seconds they took to pass right through. He had already seen himself toppling and trains running over him. He’d imagined the scene a dozen times, the engine hurtling on at top speed and cutting him in two like an earthworm. Always at the end of this dream, however, his two halves were wriggling on either side of the track and ended up sticking themselves together again. Bernard would find himself in one piece, walking along the rails with no idea where he was going. Rails leading to more rails … Today he was hanging around the warehouses of the disused goods station. Beneath the tall metal structure there was a raised platform where the wagons used to be loaded, with straw, or livestock, up to fifteen times a day sometimes. Dozens of men had worked here. Where were they now? The police kept an eye onthe place. People said youngsters came here to get up to mischief, smash the few remaining windows, take drugs. So they said. The concrete paving slabs had burst under the pressure of irrepressible vegetation. Tons of steel and cement would never be a match for the puniest blade of grass. All that work for nothing. What if Bernard were the only survivor of some cosmic disaster? And if there were no one left in the world but him, rattling around all on his own in this deserted shed? And even, if death laid eggs in his stomach, if he was the first man on earth and everything was going to begin all over again with him? On the walls was obscene graffiti, of erect penises, and legs spread wide, which reminded him of points on the tracks. They’d been boldly drawn in chalk, or scratched using a sharpened stone. This was Lascaux, this was the dawn of humanity, hunting scenes. Men had lived here. Even after countless centuries they still had nothing to express but the need to procreate, to have sex, over and over again. What price evolution?
‘Hey, Pops, what’re you doing here?’
A young guy with eyes like a cat was staring at him, sniggering, sitting on a beam with his legs dangling in mid-air, two metres up.
‘Nothing, just taking a walk. I used to work here a long time ago.’
‘Long ago, so you’re a dinosaur then?’
‘I was just thinking that myself.’
‘Have you got a fag?’
‘No, I don’t smoke.’
It was like a circus act. The young man threw himselfbackwards, bounced off the wall, catapulted off a heap of old planks and landed at Bernard’s feet.
‘You could have been killed!’
‘Don’t worry on my account, old man. Don’t you know there’s bad company around here?’
‘So they say.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘What would I be afraid of?’
‘Me.’
‘Sorry, but to be honest, no, I’m not frightened of you.’
‘But you don’t look very tough.’
‘I don’t understand – what is
Yolande went back to the needlework which had been interrupted by the incident with the rat. She was sewingscraps together, pieces of silk and ends of lace, on to what was left of a red dress, and humming
‘Couchés dans le foin
’. She stood up and got into position before the wardrobe mirror, holding the extraordinary costume up in front of her, stepped back a little, primped and posed, tried out a few dance steps and burst out laughing.
‘I don’t give a damn about the Resistance! You’re all made like rats! You’ve all lost!’
Whenever Bernard went out prowling around aimlessly, sooner or later he would find himself beside the railway. Sometimes he stood on the bridge above the tunnel and waited for the trains to go by. He knew them all, the 16.18, the 17.15 … He would see them coming in the distance then plunging, almost as if inside him, with a din of metal on metal that shook the handrail he was leaning on. Shutting his eyes, he would count how many seconds they took to pass right through. He had already seen himself toppling and trains running over him. He’d imagined the scene a dozen times, the engine hurtling on at top speed and cutting him in two like an earthworm. Always at the end of this dream, however, his two halves were wriggling on either side of the track and ended up sticking themselves together again. Bernard would find himself in one piece, walking along the rails with no idea where he was going. Rails leading to more rails … Today he was hanging around the warehouses of the disused goods station. Beneath the tall metal structure there was a raised platform where the wagons used to be loaded, with straw, or livestock, up to fifteen times a day sometimes. Dozens of men had worked here. Where were they now? The police kept an eye onthe place. People said youngsters came here to get up to mischief, smash the few remaining windows, take drugs. So they said. The concrete paving slabs had burst under the pressure of irrepressible vegetation. Tons of steel and cement would never be a match for the puniest blade of grass. All that work for nothing. What if Bernard were the only survivor of some cosmic disaster? And if there were no one left in the world but him, rattling around all on his own in this deserted shed? And even, if death laid eggs in his stomach, if he was the first man on earth and everything was going to begin all over again with him? On the walls was obscene graffiti, of erect penises, and legs spread wide, which reminded him of points on the tracks. They’d been boldly drawn in chalk, or scratched using a sharpened stone. This was Lascaux, this was the dawn of humanity, hunting scenes. Men had lived here. Even after countless centuries they still had nothing to express but the need to procreate, to have sex, over and over again. What price evolution?
‘Hey, Pops, what’re you doing here?’
A young guy with eyes like a cat was staring at him, sniggering, sitting on a beam with his legs dangling in mid-air, two metres up.
‘Nothing, just taking a walk. I used to work here a long time ago.’
‘Long ago, so you’re a dinosaur then?’
‘I was just thinking that myself.’
‘Have you got a fag?’
‘No, I don’t smoke.’
It was like a circus act. The young man threw himselfbackwards, bounced off the wall, catapulted off a heap of old planks and landed at Bernard’s feet.
‘You could have been killed!’
‘Don’t worry on my account, old man. Don’t you know there’s bad company around here?’
‘So they say.’
‘Aren’t you afraid?’
‘What would I be afraid of?’
‘Me.’
‘Sorry, but to be honest, no, I’m not frightened of you.’
‘But you don’t look very tough.’
‘I don’t understand – what is
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