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

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘A shoulder of lamb.’

      ‘Why are you bringing me a shoulder of lamb?’

      ‘I was thinking of cooking it for the two of us, here, tonight.’

      José’s eyes widened as he looked from the bloodstained parcel of meat to the unblinking expression of his customer standing at the bar.

      ‘That’s a strange idea.’

      ‘Is it? It’s just … As I passed the butcher’s this morning the meat looked good. But perhaps your wife’s back from hospital?’

      ‘No, a few more days yet.’

      José seemed on edge. At the other end of the bar, two regulars had interrupted their dice game to watch them curiously.

      ‘Do you want something to drink?’

      ‘The usual please, a beer.’

      José poured the beer then excused himself and went over to the two men by the till. They exchanged a few words in hushed voices. The men nodded their heads knowingly and resumed their game while José headed back to Gabriel, the tea towel slung over his shoulder.

      ‘All right then.’

      ‘Can you show me where the kitchen is?’

      ‘Follow me.’

      It was small but well equipped and very clean.

      ‘The pots and pans are in this cupboard, the cutlery in this drawer.’

      ‘I’ll manage.’

      ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

      ‘No problem. It’ll be ready in about half an hour. Would you prefer potatoes or beans?’

      ‘It’s up to you. Tell me, why are you doing this?’

      ‘I don’t know. It just seemed natural. You’re on your own, and so am I. You don’t mind, do you?’

      ‘Not at all. It’s just a bit unusual.’

      The lamb had fulfilled its promise: juicy, cooked medium so it was still pink in the middle, with a crispy skin. All that was left on their plates at the end were the bits of string. The deliciously tender potato gratin had also been polished off. As he had carried the steaming, sizzling dish through from the kitchen, Gabriel had seen José sitting awkwardly at the table like an uncomfortable house guest, staring at his own puzzled reflection in the black screen of the television which he had not dared to turn on.

       ‘Relax, make yourself at home,’ Gabriel had wanted to say.

      They had wolfed down their food, their grunts of satisfaction punctuated by timid smiles.

      When he was full, José had leant back in his chair, his cheeks flushed.

      ‘Now that was quite something. Bravo! You’ll have to give me the recipe for Marie.’

      ‘It’s not difficult; the key thing is the quality of the ingredients.’

      ‘Even so … Are you a chef?’

      ‘No, but I like cooking from time to time. I enjoy it.’

      ‘You’ve got a talent for it. Do you like port, by the way? I’ve got some vintage, the real thing. My brother-in-law sent it to me from back home. You can’t buy anything like it here. They make all kinds of rubbish out of cider or chouchen. Tell me what you think of this.’

      The toys had gone. He had not noticed before. He felt lost all of a sudden, somehow disappointed that the scattered toys were no longer there and the television silent. He felt as though he had narrowly missed something. A train perhaps? His heart was hammering in his chest as though he had been running.

      ‘Here you go, try this!’

      José poured the syrupy ruby liquid into two small glasses. It looked like blood. From the first mouthful, Gabriel felt his insides become coated in crimson velvet.

      ‘What do you say to a bit of fado? Have you heard any Amália Rodrigues?’

      ‘I’m not sure.’

       ‘She’s divine! Hold on …’

      José leapt up and waddled bow-leggedly into the living room. A cassette player clicked into action and the heartrending sound of a voice dripping with tears rose through the gloom.

      ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I think it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Do you ever get homesick?’

      ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

      ‘Where are you actually from?’

      ‘I move around.’

      ‘But you must have been born somewhere.’

      ‘Naturally.’

      Not getting anywhere, José poured himself another drink.

      ‘It’s none of my business really. I’m only asking because those are the kind of questions you ask when you’re getting to know somebody.’

      ‘True enough. What’s she singing about?’

      ‘The usual stuff: broken hearts, one person leaving, the other left behind. You know, life.’

      ‘Do you miss your wife?’

      ‘Yes. It’s the first time we’ve been apart since we were married. I find it hard to sleep on my own. I couldn’t last night. I cleaned the house from top to bottom, as if I was looking for her underneath the furniture. Stupid, isn’t it?’

      ‘No, not at all.’

      ‘I went to see her this morning at the hospital, but she was asleep. The doctors told me the operation went well.’

      ‘That’s good.’

      ‘Yes, only another two or three days to go. It was raining this morning. It always rains here, for days and weeks at a time.’

      Amália Rodrigues fell silent and, as if to confirm what José was saying, they heard raindrops pattering on the zinc roof over the courtyard at the back.

      ‘Have you ever thought about moving back to Portugal?’

      ‘Yes, but Marie’s a Breton. To her, Portugal is a place you go on holiday. Nothing more.’

      ‘And what about you, here in Brittany? Is it a holiday?’

      ‘No, it’s for life. The kids were born here. You know how it is.’

      A car passed by in the street, like a wave sweeping through the silence.

      ‘You’re not drinking?’

      ‘No, thank you, I’m fine. Anyway, I’d better be off.’

      ‘It’s not that late …’

      ‘I get up early.’

      ‘Ah, well. It’s been good fun. Are you coming back tomorrow?’

      ‘I think so.’

      ‘I told my friends earlier, the ones playing dice, that you were one of Marie’s cousins. It would have been complicated to explain.’

      ‘Good idea.’

      ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow. And I’ll cook!’