The Panda Theory: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

      ‘Do you have a fridge?’

      ‘Er, yes.’

      ‘Could you put this in it until tonight?’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Meat.’

      ‘Of course, that will be fine.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      The hint of moustache on Madeleine’s lip was effaced by her warm smile as she took the five hundred grams of boned lamb shoulder. Anyone watching would have found the scene somewhat biblical. Today, Madeleine looked beautiful.

      The flimsy wire hanger was designed for summer outfits and it sagged pitifully under the weight of the wet reefer jacket. It had been raining since early morning, a light rain that was perfectly in keeping with the town and gave it a certain elegance, a veneer of respectability. Gabriel had delighted in it from the moment he had opened his eyes; it was like a kind of salutary grief, an unobtrusive companion, an intimate presence.

      There were people about, mothers taking their children to school and housewives weighed down by bulging shopping baskets. Mainly women. The men were digging holes in the road and replacing the rotten, rust-eaten pipes with new grey plastic ones. They seemed to revel in making a lot of noise and wheeling their big orange diggers in and out of the pus-yellow mud. It was a typical Monday. The shops showed off their best wares with the clumsy vanity of a girl getting ready for her first dance: bread, flowers, fish, funeral urns, medicines, sports equipment, houses for rent or sale, every kind of insurance, furniture, light fittings, shoes and so on.

      He had tried on a pair of shoes just because the shop assistant seemed bored all alone in her pristine shop. But he had not bought them. He had apologised, saying that he was going to think about it. Not a sale, but a glimmer of hope at least. It didn’t take much to make people happy.

      After that he had stopped at a café for a hot chocolate and found himself sitting next to two young men in ill-fitting suits who talked business with the seriousness of a pair of children playing at being grown-ups. From what he could gather, their problem was how to get rid of two hundred pallets of babies’ bottles and as many unfortunately incompatible teats.

      ‘Africa. It’s the only way …’

      On leaving the café he had found himself outside the butcher’s gazing longingly at a rolled shoulder of lamb garnished with a cute sprig of parsley. It made him think of baby Jesus.

      The radiator continued to pump out a suffocating heat. He felt overcome by a kind of tropical fever. The bed morphed into a hammock and a mangrove swamp of memories closed in on him, incoherent, tangled.

       There had been toys scattered about the empty house there as well.

       ‘You can see, can’t you, Gabriel, she had everything. EVERYTHING!’

       His friend Roland made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the vacant space. It still smelt of fresh paint.

       ‘You can’t tell me we wouldn’t have been happy here!’

       Gabriel had not been able to think of a response. He had merely shaken his head. It was sadder to see it like this, virtually unlived in, than it would have been if a bomb had hit it. Nadine, Roland’s wife, had left with the kids barely a week after moving in. Everything was achingly new. Most of the furniture was still wrapped in plastic.

       ‘“I don’t like chickens.” That was her only explanation! Christ! She could have said earlier! I could have kept pigs. Or something else. You’ve seen the sheds, haven’t you? They’re a long way from the house. You can’t smell them. Or hear them. A farm with two thousand chickens, the very best, state of the art! I’d have paid it all off in ten years! You’ve seen it, Gabriel; it’s impressive, isn’t it?’

      He had seen it. Roland had shown him around. It was awful. He couldn’t help but be reminded of a concentration camp. Two thousand albino chickens under ten metres of corrugated-iron roofing, fluorescent lights glaring day and night, the birds clucking and tapping their beaks like demented toys. And an appalling sickly smell, which the ambient heat only made worse. He had hurried out to stop himself from throwing up. For a long time after, his eyes burnt with the apocalyptic scene.

       Roland wept softly, fists clenched, his forehead pressed up against the window.

      ‘They delivered the frame for the swing this morning. If you only knew how many times I’ve dreamt of the kids playing on the swing. Their laughter … Why didn’t she tell me sooner that she didn’t like chickens?’

       The Loiret can be pretty in the spring. The tubular structure of the swing frame stood stiffly between two clumps of hydrangeas. Gabriel had cooked a comforting blanquette de veau for Roland. But his friend had barely touched it. He had downed glass after glass, mumbling, ‘Why? Why?’ over and over again.

       Two days later he heard that Roland had hanged himself from the swing frame.

       Yes, there had been toys scattered there as well …

      ‘Do you want your meat back?’

      ‘Yes, please.’

      ‘Hold on, I’ll go and get it.’

      Two large suitcases cluttered the lobby. Someone had either just arrived or was about to leave.

      ‘Here you are. What kind of meat is it?’

      ‘Shoulder of lamb.’

      ‘For a roast or stew?’

      ‘A