The Panda Theory (6 page)

‘What are you talking about, Gaël?’

‘Nothing. I just wanted to know. Do you want your chicken now?’

‘The doctor told me he was going to try something. I didn’t really understand what. Apparently, it sometimes works.’

José unthinkingly tapped the image of the Virgin Mary stuck to the dashboard, as others might touch wood. The windscreen wipers did their job, but without enthusiasm. Here it was always the rain that won.

‘Your kids are very nice.’

‘Yes, they’re very nice. And Françoise too. And you. And Marie. Jesus! Why!’

José smashed his fist against the steering wheel. The car swerved. A red lorry coming the other way veered out of their path in a cacophony of beeping. José pulled over and collapsed over the steering wheel, his back shaking with sobs. A tidal wave of tears. What could mop up so much sorrow? Gabriel put his hand on José’s shoulder. It was all he could do. He thought back to the red lorry that had been heading straight for them. He hadn’t been scared. He was ready. He had been ready for a long time.

‘I’m sorry, Gabriel. I almost ran us off the road back there.’

‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’

We’ve already spun off the road, floundering and sinking, endlessly bailing out water.

‘Would you like me to drive?’

‘Yes, please. I’m a wreck.’

The town unfolded before them through the rain like a Japanese paper flower. It shone, unfurling into the most unlikely shapes, spreading out like an ink stain on a sheet of blotting paper.

For the panda everything was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. It was as happy to see the two men return as it had been to see them leave. It’s only trick was to keep its arms open. It held nothing and retained nothing. Take it or leave it, it was all the same to him.

‘I don’t think I’m going to open.’

‘Best not. Anyway, it’s already late. Do you want me to make you something to eat?’

‘No.’

‘How about a little soup? Something small. You could have it in front of the TV.’

‘Okay then.’

Leek and potato soup was the best thing for any man who was close to the edge.

‘All you have to do is heat it up. I’ve put some butter in it.’

‘Thank you.’

On the television, two football teams, the reds and the blues, battled it out. José had sunk so low on the couch he had become part of it.

‘Who are you supporting?’

‘I don’t care. Whoever’s winning.’

‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘No. I’d rather be by myself. Don’t be offended.’

‘Of course not. I understand. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, tomorrow.’

Gabriel shook José’s hand. It weighed the same as a large steak.

‘I was afraid you’d left.’

‘I was about to.’

Madeleine looked exactly as she had done that morning, as though she had spent all day under glass, waiting for evening to come.

‘What are you doing tonight? Would you like to go for a bite to eat?’

‘Where? At mine?’

‘No, I haven’t had the time to … What about the Chinese? Or the Italian?’

‘Let’s try the Chinese.’

They unconsciously fell into step together, arm in arm, left, right, left, right. They looked like an old couple. The rain fell like musical notes onto Madeleine’s umbrella.

‘How was your day?’ she asked.

‘Very strange. Do you like children?’

‘Of course, well, you know, like everyone does. Why do you ask?’

‘I was playing with some children today, a little boy and girl. They reminded me of stowaways on a ship. They make the most of their size and stay out of sight, but I think they want to take us over. They’re clever, so very clever! When you play with them, you unwittingly collude in your own downfall. They want to take our place. I saw them the other day at the fair with their elephants, trampling everything in their way.’

‘Gabriel! You can’t say that! You were that age once as well.’

‘But not like them. I never picked up a saxophone and played it just like that when I was five.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Sorry. Ah, is this it?’

Chinese restaurants in provincial towns are always empty. The Golden Lotus was no different. There were funny rumours about what they put in their food. There were so many spelling mistakes on the menu that they used numbers to help identify what was what. Gabriel put his money on numbers 4, 22 and 16 while Madeleine went for 5, 27 and 12. The Chinese are gamblers by nature, and smile for a living.

‘Tea or rosé?’

‘Let’s have both.’

Behind Madeleine, an illuminated waterfall flowed freely between two fluorescent pagodas to striking effect. A voice, thick with a sweet and sour accent, belonging to someone in the back of the restaurant, made Gabriel want to wave a fly swatter about. It made him think of that well-worn line from adventure films: ‘It’s too quiet –
something’s up.’ Madeleine leant over the table, her chin cupped in her hand.

‘It was nice of you to take me out.’

‘Making you happy makes me happy. How was your day?’

‘One more. Or one less. Depending on your viewpoint.’

‘After I left yesterday, I wondered why you don’t look for work in Guadeloupe. I’m sure there’s no lack of hotels over there. And what with your experience …’

‘I’ve thought about it. I know I could find something. It’s just that I was there on holiday. And I always want to be on holiday.’

‘You’d only get bored.’

‘I don’t think so. Some people always need to be doing something. Not me. I just want to be.’

‘Like pandas.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said pandas, but I might as well have said lizards, or anything.’

‘Exactly. I know I’m not that intelligent. You’ve seen, the few books I own are just there to fill the space. It doesn’t bother me. I could spend whole days lying on a beach in the sun and not thinking of anything, not even dreaming or making the effort to live. I’m a big lazy so and so.’

When she laughed, you wanted to climb inside her mouth and never get out.

‘How is your Peking duck?’

‘A bit dry, but it’s okay.’

The usual cup of rice wine, on the house, with a pair
of buttocks painted on the bottom, rounded the dinner off. No other customers had come in. It was like being at home, just the two of them. They could have grabbed each other, there and then, on the dirty tablecloth covered in soy and chilli sauce stains and gone at it. The staff wouldn’t have minded. Madeleine would certainly have been keen. There, on the table. Without thinking. Without dreaming. Without making the effort to live …

‘Would you like me to walk you home?’

The rain had stopped, exhausted. The sky was completely drained. A few streetlights stood sleeping like blind sentries.

‘Here we are then. See you tomorrow, Madeleine.’

‘You’re a tease!’ she said as her mouth crushed Gabriel’s.

Building C, stairwell 3, the rubbish storeroom. It was there, in the creeping darkness, that big Babeth introduced generations of kids to their first French kiss. Her tongue plunged into Gabriel’s mouth with demonic force. It wrapped around his tongue like the boa constrictor that had captured Tarzan in the comic he had read the day before. It wasn’t a tongue but an enormous muscle, a tensed, turning bicep which filled his mouth, burrowing ever deeper and suffocating him. The only way out was to bite down on the piece of wriggling meat. Babeth howled out in pain, throwing punches and pulling his hair. He let go and ran off through the dark labyrinthine cellars, the taste of blood in his mouth, the beast screaming insults and spitting curses from deep within her lair. Two of his friends were waiting their turn at the top of the stairs.

‘Well, how was … Fuck! You’re covered in blood!’

The three of them ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. Gabriel was twelve.

‘I’m sorry, Madeleine. I’d rather not.’

‘Am I so disgusting?’

In the glow of a streetlight Madeleine’s face began to dissolve in a whirlpool of doubt. Gabriel hugged her and patted her gently on the shoulder. He had done the same for José after the experience with the red lorry.

‘Not at all, Madeleine. I promise you. You’re very desirable. It’s just that I’d rather not.’

Like José, she was sobbing. Then, suddenly pulling away from him, she spat out the word ‘Arsehole’ before slamming the door in his face.

Gabriel thought that when the world ended it wouldn’t make a sound. A little moan, at most.

‘“You’re not leaving the table until you finish your food!” I didn’t like soup so what did he expect? I didn’t care – I had all the time in the world. I would’ve waited there until my plate was full of maggots. An hour later, he chucked me out. I was left out on the doorstep with my plate on my knees, all because he needed the table for his stupid jigsaw puzzles. The local cats all knew the routine. In five minutes my plate was empty and I was allowed back in. In, out, in, out … That’s what I’ve done all my life, always between two doors. But now he’s gone for good I don’t know what side I’m on. You know, Gabriel, it’s a strange feeling. It’s as if I’ve nowhere to go, as if I have to get out myself. Rita! You’re making a pig of yourself. This isn’t some dump, you know.’

It was the most expensive restaurant in town. Two stars and on the cusp of a third. Opulent. Someone had knocked on Gabriel’s door that morning. It was the saxophone guy,
Marc, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

‘That’s it! He’s dead, stone-cold dead! We’ve won the lottery! Rita and I want to take you out for a meal, to pay you back for the peanuts.’

His father had passed away during the night. He had fallen out of bed – a bit surprising according to the nurse, who said the old man hadn’t been able to move in ages. But considering the amount of medicine they shovelled into old people these days, anything was possible. The solicitor had called Marc at 8 a.m.

‘And that’s not all! With the house and garden in the middle of town alone I’ve got enough to last me two, maybe three, lifetimes. But the old bastard had investments all over the place too! I’m seeing the solicitor about everything later. Rita, don’t you think two plates of snails as a starter are enough?’

Gabriel had only eaten one portion. The food was excellent, especially the chopped morels. His breath heavy with alcohol, Marc whispered in Gabriel’s ear, ‘I’m doing a runner tonight. I can’t have her cramping my new lifestyle.’

Rita smiled at him as she wiped her plate clean with a large hunk of bread. She certainly hadn’t heard Marc, but she was no fool and she didn’t care. They loved each other, or, rather, the complicity that had united them had over time come to resemble love. They could kill each other and not hold it against each other. That’s life though, isn’t it? As a result of travelling in the same carriage stinking of feet, you manage to find your little corner of intimacy; you understand each other. You get used to each other’s
smells and tricky ways; you take on the habits of the other. Familiarity is everything, no need to think or choose; you feel as at ease with the other person as you do with yourself. The tatty old slippers, the bed hair, the hair left in the comb, scenes from life which surprise us each morning. Yes, it isn’t always a pretty sight looking in the mirror. It’s true that there are days when you just want to smash it, but you don’t because, if you did, you’d be left staring at the wall, and the wall is even uglier than you are.

‘How are your sweetbreads?’ asked Marc.

‘Delicious!’

‘I can’t stand offal. It smells too much of insides and the thing with insides—’

‘Insides?’

‘You don’t know what’s in them. So when are you leaving?’

‘I don’t know. It depends which way the wind’s blowing.’

Marc frowned, taken aback, trying to fathom the hidden meaning in Gabriel’s ambiguous response. Unable to find it, he shrugged his shoulders, emptied his glass and held the bottle up to the maître d’.

‘Another,’ he shouted.

Rita was playing with her napkin, having polished off her stuffed quail.

‘I used to be able to fold all sort of things, like fans or cones. It’s weird – I can’t do it any more. I think it’s the wrong kind of material.’

‘Come off it!’ Marc laughed. ‘The material? Why don’t you go and wash your hands and mouth. It looks like a dog’s arse.’

Rita didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she looked at Marc with her cowlike eyes. She picked up the napkin, folding it into a small triangle, and held it under her nose, humming ‘How Much is that Doggie in the Window’. She stood up, knocking over her chair, which a waiter rushed to pick up.

‘You’re right, Marco. I need to go and powder my nose.’

Rita zigzagged unsteadily between the tables towards the door that led to the toilets. Marc pulled two huge cigars out of his pocket and offered one to Gabriel, who declined. He bit the end off one and spat it onto his plate. He didn’t know how to blow smoke rings, only shapeless clouds.

‘What are you going to do now that you’re rich?’ asked Gabriel.

‘Lounge about like a rich person! I’ve lived enough as a poor person. It won’t make much of a difference, except that I’ll be able to eat when I’m hungry and be warm when it’s cold. You have to make use of what you’ve got, don’t you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘The only thing I’ll miss, to start with, will be Rita.’

‘So why leave her?’

‘That’s the way it is. The poor with the poor, the rich with the rich. Otherwise, what would happen? Everyone has to stick to their own kind as my dad used to say. It’s not my fault if I’m now rich! This cigar is disgusting. It must be as old as Methuselah; it’s as ancient and dry as his heart. You know what he used to do?’

‘No, what?’

‘He used to get a hard-on when they bathed him. A
hard-on! The old bastard! Standing to attention! No joke. Crazy, eh …!’

Rita was coming towards them, her face plastered with make-up. She looked like something out of a Greek tragedy. She was trembling from head to toe.