The Islanders by Pascal Garnier Page A

rang again. It was as if it were directly wired to his nervous system.
    ‘Coming!’
    The clothes he had slept in clung to his skin. Madeleine glared at him with her little porcelain eyes, bundled up to her weaselly nose in her frayed black astrakhan coat, her scarf wrapped three times around her vulturous neck, a shapeless brown woolly haton her head and spindly legs planted in red fur-lined boots that looked like flower pots.
    ‘Is this a bad time?’
    ‘Um … no. What did you …?’
    She stepped back in disgust, catching a whiff of his foul breath.
    ‘Are you ill? You don’t look very well. Oh, don’t you worry, I know exactly how you feel, you poor thing. So anyway, I’ve come about the wreath.’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘The wreath, the flowers for your poor maman! Would you like me to take care of it? I’m going into town anyway and I thought to myself maybe you wouldn’t be up to …’
    ‘The wreath … Yes, of course, if you want to, Madeleine.’
    ‘Great, leave it to me. I’ve got very good taste, and I’m a dab hand at this sort of thing. If you only knew how many I’ve seen go before me! What do you want written on it?’
    ‘Written on what?’
    ‘On the wreath! “To my dear maman” … “To my mother”? You need to choose something. I’m going to put: “To my neighbour, sadly missed.” It’s simple, but it gets the message across. I’ll pick up a pot plant, even though nothing will survive in this weather. Well then?’
    It was freezing out on the landing. Olivier rubbed his bare feet together and wrapped his arms around himself, hands tucked under his armpits.
    ‘Whatever you think, Madeleine. You know better than I do about these things.’
    ‘OK, well then, I’ll put: “To my mother, from her loving son”. That’s got quite a nice ring to it, hasn’t it?’
    ‘Very nice, yes. I’m sure you’ll do a great job, Madeleine. Goodbye, thank you.’
    He was about to close the door, but the old woman edged closer.
    ‘It’s just … about paying for it …’
    ‘Oh, yes, sorry. I’ll sign a cheque and you can write in the amount.’
    ‘You can trust me. I’ll give you the receipt!’
    The sound of Madeleine’s voice was like a fork scraping against a dish. He went back inside the flat to look for his jacket. He eventually found it scrunched up in a corner, and took out the cheque book. The old woman had not moved an inch. She was like a statue, the doormat her plinth.
    ‘Do you have a pen?’
    ‘No, I don’t, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Right, OK, well, how about you pay for it and I’ll pay you back later. Sorry, I’m coming down with a rotten cold; I think I might be ill already.’
    ‘OK then. Is there a maximum you want to spend?’
    ‘I don’t know, Madeleine, whatever you think. See you later, thank you.’
     
    He slammed the door in her face and slumped back against it. He was dripping with sweat. It was streaming down his back, zigzagging across his forehead. His stomach was seized with a sudden need to vomit. He gulped back his saliva and took several deep breaths. ‘Calm down, no need to panic. You just overdid it a bit last night. You’ll get over it, everything’s fine.’ He incanted these magic words over and over and by the time he got back to sprawl on his bed, he felt much better.
    The distorted reflection of his face in the back of a teaspoon. That was the only image he remembered from the end of the dinner party. Rodolphe had kept topping him up as if trying to drown him, which he succeeded in doing. Jeanne had disappeared, leaving the three men to ramble on around the wreckage of the meal. Roland was giggling for no apparent reason whilewatching Rodolphe film the dregs on plates, in glasses and at the bottom of wine bottles. ‘The dregs of the dregs!’ as he called them. And then there was him, Olivier, leaning on the table gazing at his own reflection in the convex mirror of a teaspoon. Afterwards? Total blackout. He was now kicking himself. How could