Moon in a Dead Eye: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier
a white one. I just saw it go past.’
‘A white piano … Who do you think plays it, him or her?’
‘I thought you weren’t interested!’
‘I know, but a piano changes everything, a white one especially.’
They spent the rest of the day coming up with many and varied contradictory theories about the instrument, which had taken on the status of a third person in their eyes. There was one point on which they were agreed: there was no way you could play classical music on a white piano.
‘We should probably introduce ourselves before it gets dark, shouldn’t we?’
‘Yes, you’re right. I’ll get changed and we can go over.’
‘We’re not going to a cocktail party. You’re fine as you are.’
‘You must be joking! I don’t want them taking me for a slattern. I’ll be down in five minutes.’
Twenty minutes later they were walking arm in arm up the road towards the heart-warming sight of a house with its lights on. There was something a bit strange about all these houses that looked the same, though; it felt like ringing their own doorbell. The man answered. As the door opened to reveal a stack of boxes in the hallway, the neighbour’s lips parted to reveal two rows of unnaturally white, straight teeth.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh, good evening, um … we’re your neighbours, the house over there with the lights on. I’m Martial Sudre and this is my wife, Odette.’
The man’s smile, which seemed already to be stretched to its limit, went off the scale.
‘What a pleasure to meet you. Maxime Node and … Marlène! … Marlène, come and meet our neighbours!’
Madame Node’s girlish figure appeared at the end of the hallway, but as she walked the few steps to the door with her hand outstretched before her, she gained the full weight of her years. She was still slim and trim, but the spots on her skin (which seemed to have undergone a facelift or two) made her look like a withered reinette apple.
‘Oh, how kind of you to come! Marlène. How do you do?’
It was extraordinary how Maxime Node could talk whilst still displaying his dazzling array of teeth.
‘So, you were the first ones here?’
‘That’s right, somebody had to be.’
‘And … do you like it?’
‘Oh yes! It’s so quiet! The weather hasn’t been great but that’s down to the time of year.’
‘Of course. Anyway, it’s been rotten weather everywhere this year.’
They engaged in the customary small talk for a quarter of an hour, all the while studying each other closely out of the corners of their eyes, like naturalists examining a newly discovered species.
‘… and there are so many interesting places to visit around here – churches, the beach … Anyway, we can tell you all about it another time, we don’t want to keep you – we know what it’s like moving house! Well, have a good evening, and if you need anything at all, just ask. We’re the house with the lights on, over there.’
‘Great, see you soon!’
Martial and Odette walked back holding hands, like two children coming home from their first day at school. Odette seemed relieved.
‘You were right, we had to see them up close. That woman’s at least seventy.’
‘He’s no spring chicken either. That raven-black hair doesn’t fool me for one minute, or his teeth for that matter!’
‘They seem like nice people though. Smiley.’
‘Him especially! My word, he’s a walking advert for his dentist!’
‘Martial!’
They fell through the door in fits of giggles and, for the first time, the house felt warm and cosy, lived in. They opened a half-bottle of champagne and a tin of foie gras.
The sky was undeniably blue, not a wisp of cloud on the horizon. Though there was still a chill in the air, making an extra layer essential, Martial and Odette had decided to have breakfast on the deck. It was 16 April and the first time they had eaten outdoors. Martial was doing battle with his tartine. The homemade apple jelly was too runny, spilling out of the holes in the bread as he spread it.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘It’s nice, very nice. Maybe a little bit runny …’
‘That’s because of the apples. I could only get Golden Delicious. We’re happy here, though, aren’t we?’
‘Right.’
‘They said on the radio this morning it’s raining in Paris. Do you realise how lucky we are?’
‘Yes … Damn it! I’ve got it all over my bloody trousers.’
‘Are they your new ones?’
‘No.’
‘Here, wipe them with this. So, what did you make of it?’
‘Of what?’
‘The drinks at the Nodes’, obviously!’
‘Oh, it was all a bit fancy for my liking. All those little sweet and savoury nibble things, they’re too fussy. I like simpler stuff.’
‘I don’t mind it every now and then. They certainly didn’t hold back on the champagne – we must have drunk at least two bottles!’
‘Three! Maxime opened another just before we left. I think Marlène had a few too many …’
‘I was a bit tipsy too. I didn’t make a fool of myself, did I?’
‘I don’t think so. I was falling asleep by the end.’
‘It was well before then! I had to give you a nudge, you were snoring on the sofa … That sofa! It’s …’
‘Pachydermic!’
‘Exactly! All real leather – must have cost an arm and a leg. But it’s far too big for that sitting room. With the piano behind it, you can barely move. I’m not saying they haven’t got nice things, but it’s all a bit showy. They’re the same themselves, very nice people but they always have to go one better, with their holidays, and their friends in high places, and their son the lawyer …’
‘We still don’t know which of them plays the piano.’
‘We don’t, do we?’
Inspecting the scrawny shrub, whose branches reached upwards as though imploring the sky, Martial came across a single bud the size of a boil.
Since the Nodes had moved in, Martial and Odette had given up playing ‘the neighbours game’. There was no point now that they could get it all from the horse’s mouth, without even having to ask. The neighbours crossed paths almost every day, running errands for each other and sharing restaurant and shopping tips. Martial and Odette’s superior knowledge of the area made them seem pleasingly like trailblazers, the old hands of Les Conviviales. Piecing together what they had gleaned from all these conversations, they now knew that Maxime had spent his career selling greenhouses all over Europe; that Marlène had danced at the Paris Opéra in her youth; that before coming here they had lived in Orléans and that their son, Régis, was an exceptionally gifted lawyer destined for high office in the near future.
‘He’s always been able to pick things up just like that!’
Whatever the topic of conversation, Marlène always found a way to turn it to her genius progeny, so that her audience ended up despising the man without ever having met him.