it you’re after?’
The young man sprang to one side, flicking open a knife.
‘Your wallet, you old fool, or I’ll stab you!’
‘Oh, is that all? Here you are.’
Bernard smiled and reached for his coat pocket. The young man, thrown by Bernard’s attitude, moved back.
‘Wait! You’re weird. What are you so happy about? What’ve you got in your pocket, a gun?’
‘Of course not, I swear.’
‘Don’t move!’
‘I must have two or three hundred francs, take it.’
‘Don’t move I said!’
Bernard took a step forward and put his hand in his coat pocket. The youth shrank back in panic, his foot met with empty air, and he toppled backwards. Bernard didn’t have time to catch him. He disappeared over the edge of a platform, making a strange sound like someone drawing breath before lapsing into apnoea. Bernard rushedforwards. There he was, a kid twisting and turning on the rusty rails, dry grass growing between them, with his own knife sticking into his chest.
‘Don’t hurt me, M’sieur! Call an ambulance!’
‘Of course I won’t. It’s an accident, don’t be scared …’
The kid’s hand clutched at his sleeve. His gaze turned blue, like a newborn baby’s. A bubble of blood burst at the corners of his mouth.
‘Don’t do that to me, kiddo!’
One last spasm and the young man was no more than a piece of rubbish, a disused shell like the shed open to the elements on all sides. On his knees beside the corpse, Bernard lifted his eyes to the rusty iron sky. He no longer dared lay a finger on anything, for fear of seeing humans, things or animals crumble to dust at his touch. He had become the instrument of death, death itself. He felt no guilt, death being a psychosomatic illness, but he was astonished by its lightning speed.
Fifteen minutes earlier, the kid hadn’t existed, any more than he had existed for him. Then wham! – the young man would have lived for just a matter of minutes, the lifespan of a clay pipe at a shooting gallery. As for him, in some strange way his imminent and inescapable death seemed to make him immortal. Rising in his chest was not a sob but a burst of laughter, straight from the heart, of the kind that seizes you when words fail. Bernard wondered how he was going to drag the body – by the feet? Under the arms? They say there is nothing heavier than an empty heart; the same is true of a lifeless body. It is life that holds us upright, which gives us that lightness of being. Withoutlife the bones, the flesh weigh tons. But why go to all that trouble? He had nothing to do with it this time. What was the point of wearing himself out to plant this seed of death beneath the A26? Force of habit. He could, he supposed, go to the police station and explain what had happened. The idea made him smile. But he was too tired to play that game. The young man would do very well where he was, lying with his cheek against these rails which led nowhere. It was the most fitting end for someone who had gone down the wrong track. Bernard turned his coat collar up. It was cold. In the sky the dark was spreading like a pool of ink. A sprinkling of stars appeared. Bernard aimed his finger and rubbed out a few. Every second, some of them died, people said. What did that matter when four times as many were born in the same time? The sky was an enormous rubbish tip.
Bernard walked off, sniffing. He could feel he was getting a cold. Once in the car, before starting the engine, he looked for a tissue in the glove compartment. There was one left, a used one. While he was wiping his nose, the beam of headlights came sweeping over the countryside and slowed as it drew level with him. Bernard turned his back. That was what was so annoying about nature – whenever you thought you were on your own some country bumpkin popped up from behind a hedge. But the car picked up speed again and disappeared, leaving behind it a glowing scarlet snail trail.
Yolande’s soup consisted of some leftover
The young man sprang to one side, flicking open a knife.
‘Your wallet, you old fool, or I’ll stab you!’
‘Oh, is that all? Here you are.’
Bernard smiled and reached for his coat pocket. The young man, thrown by Bernard’s attitude, moved back.
‘Wait! You’re weird. What are you so happy about? What’ve you got in your pocket, a gun?’
‘Of course not, I swear.’
‘Don’t move!’
‘I must have two or three hundred francs, take it.’
‘Don’t move I said!’
Bernard took a step forward and put his hand in his coat pocket. The youth shrank back in panic, his foot met with empty air, and he toppled backwards. Bernard didn’t have time to catch him. He disappeared over the edge of a platform, making a strange sound like someone drawing breath before lapsing into apnoea. Bernard rushedforwards. There he was, a kid twisting and turning on the rusty rails, dry grass growing between them, with his own knife sticking into his chest.
‘Don’t hurt me, M’sieur! Call an ambulance!’
‘Of course I won’t. It’s an accident, don’t be scared …’
The kid’s hand clutched at his sleeve. His gaze turned blue, like a newborn baby’s. A bubble of blood burst at the corners of his mouth.
‘Don’t do that to me, kiddo!’
One last spasm and the young man was no more than a piece of rubbish, a disused shell like the shed open to the elements on all sides. On his knees beside the corpse, Bernard lifted his eyes to the rusty iron sky. He no longer dared lay a finger on anything, for fear of seeing humans, things or animals crumble to dust at his touch. He had become the instrument of death, death itself. He felt no guilt, death being a psychosomatic illness, but he was astonished by its lightning speed.
Fifteen minutes earlier, the kid hadn’t existed, any more than he had existed for him. Then wham! – the young man would have lived for just a matter of minutes, the lifespan of a clay pipe at a shooting gallery. As for him, in some strange way his imminent and inescapable death seemed to make him immortal. Rising in his chest was not a sob but a burst of laughter, straight from the heart, of the kind that seizes you when words fail. Bernard wondered how he was going to drag the body – by the feet? Under the arms? They say there is nothing heavier than an empty heart; the same is true of a lifeless body. It is life that holds us upright, which gives us that lightness of being. Withoutlife the bones, the flesh weigh tons. But why go to all that trouble? He had nothing to do with it this time. What was the point of wearing himself out to plant this seed of death beneath the A26? Force of habit. He could, he supposed, go to the police station and explain what had happened. The idea made him smile. But he was too tired to play that game. The young man would do very well where he was, lying with his cheek against these rails which led nowhere. It was the most fitting end for someone who had gone down the wrong track. Bernard turned his coat collar up. It was cold. In the sky the dark was spreading like a pool of ink. A sprinkling of stars appeared. Bernard aimed his finger and rubbed out a few. Every second, some of them died, people said. What did that matter when four times as many were born in the same time? The sky was an enormous rubbish tip.
Bernard walked off, sniffing. He could feel he was getting a cold. Once in the car, before starting the engine, he looked for a tissue in the glove compartment. There was one left, a used one. While he was wiping his nose, the beam of headlights came sweeping over the countryside and slowed as it drew level with him. Bernard turned his back. That was what was so annoying about nature – whenever you thought you were on your own some country bumpkin popped up from behind a hedge. But the car picked up speed again and disappeared, leaving behind it a glowing scarlet snail trail.
Yolande’s soup consisted of some leftover
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