Boxes: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier
Praise for Pascal Garnier:
‘The combination of sudden violence, surreal touches and bone-dry humour has led to Garnier’s work being compared with the films of Tarantino and the Coen brothers, but perhaps more apposite would be the thrillers of Claude Chabrol, a filmmaker who could make the ordinary seethe with menace. When the denouement suddenly begins in The Panda Theory, it is so unexpected that I read the page twice in shocked disbelief. This might be classed as a genre novel, but Garnier’s take on the frailty of life has a bracing originality.’ Sunday Times
‘A small but perfectly formed piece of darkest noir fiction told in spare, mordant prose … Recounted with disconcerting matter‑of-factness, this marvellously unpredictable story is surreal and horrific in equal measure.’ The Guardian
‘A dark, richly odd and disconcerting world … devastating and brilliant.’ Sunday Times
‘The final descent into violence is worthy of J. G. Ballard.’ The Independent
‘This often bleak, often funny and never predictable narrative is written in a precise style; Garnier chooses to decorate his text with philosophical musings rather than description. He does, however, combine a sense of the surreal with a ruthless wit, and this lightens the mood as he condemns his characters to the kind of miserable existence you might find in a Cormac McCarthy novel.’ The Observer
‘For those with a taste for Georges Simenon or Patricia Highsmith, Garnier’s recently translated oeuvre will strike a chord … While this is an undeniably steely work … occasional outbreaks of dark humour suddenly pierce the clouds of encroaching existential gloom.’The Independent
‘A brilliant exercise in grim and gripping irony.’Sunday Telegraph
‘A master of the surreal noir thriller – Luis Buñuel meets Georges Simenon.’ TLS
Boxes
Pascal Garnier
Translated from the French by Melanie Florence
Contents
1 Title Page
2 Dedication
3 Boxes
4 About the Author
5 Also by Pascal Garnier:
6 Copyright
FOR LAURENCE
Brice sat on a metal trunk he had struggled to close, with a silly little rhyme going round and round in his head: ‘An old man lived in a cardboard box / With a squirrel, a mouse and a little red fox.’ Cardboard boxes: he was completely surrounded by them, in piles stretching from floor to ceiling, so that in order to go from one room to another it was necessary to turn sideways on, like in an Egyptian wall painting. That said, there was no longer any reason to go into another room since, boxes aside, they were all as empty as the fridge and the household drawers. He was the sole survivor of the natural disaster that at one time or another strikes us all, known as moving house.
Following a terrible night’s sleep in a room which had already ceased to be his, he had stripped the bed of its sheets, quilt and pillows, and stuffed it all into a big checked plastic bag he had set aside the night before. He had a quick wash, taking care not to spray toothpaste on the mirror, and dutifully inspected the place in case he had forgotten something. But no, apart from a piece of string about a metre and a half long which he unthinkingly wound round his hand, there was nothing left but the holes made by nails and screws which had held up picture frames or shelves. For a brief moment he thought of hanging himself with the piece of string but gave up the idea. The situation was painful enough already.
There was still a good hour before Breton Removals would come to put an end to ten years of a life so perfect that it seemed it would last for ever.
That cold November morning he was furious with Emma for having left him helpless and alone, in the hands of the removal men, who in an hour’s time would descend like a swarm of locusts to ransack the apartment. Both strategically and psychologically, his position was untenable, so he decided to go out for a coffee while he waited for the world to end.
The neighbourhood seemed already to have forgotten him. He saw no one he knew, with the result that, instead of going to his usual bistro, he chose one he had never set foot in before. Above the bar, a host of notices informed the clientele that the telephone was reserved for customers, the use of mobiles was strongly discouraged, it would be wise to beware of the dog and, of course, no credit would be given. A guy with dyed red-blond hair came in, issuing a general ‘Hi!’ He was some sort of actor or comedian Brice had seen on TV. For a good few minutes he tried unsuccessfully to remember his name, then since this quest – as annoying as it was futile – led nowhere, he persuaded himself he had never known it. Behind him, wafts of disinfectant and urine came from the toilet doorway, mingling with the smell of coffee and dead ashtrays. A sort of black tide made his stomach heave at the first mouthful of espresso. He sent a few coins spinning on to the bar and made his escape, a bent figure with turned-up collar.
In the stairway he passed Monsieur Pérez, his upstairs neighbour.
‘Today’s the day, then?’
‘Yes, I’m just waiting for the removal men.’
‘It’ll seem strange for you, living in the countryside.’
‘A little, no doubt, to begin with.’
‘And particularly in your situation. Speaking of which, still no news of your lady?’
‘I’m hopeful.’
‘That’s good. I’m very partial to the countryside, but only for holidays, otherwise I don’t half get bored. Well, each to his own. Right then, good luck, and keep your chin up for the move. It’s just something you have to get through.’
‘Have a good day, Monsieur Pérez.’
For the past month Brice had felt like someone with a serious illness. Everyone talked to him as if he were about to have an operation, with the feigned empathy of hospital visitors. That moron Pérez was going off to work just as he had done every morning for years, and in the evening, after doing his shopping at the usual places, he would collapse, blissfully happy, on to his trusty old sofa in front of the TV, snuggling into his usual routine, sure of his immortality. At that moment, Brice would have loved to be that moron Pérez.
Breton Removals were barely five minutes late when they rolled up, but it seemed an eternity to him as he waited, leaning at the window and smoking one cigarette after another. It was a huge white lorry, a sort of refrigerated vehicle. Naturally, in spite of the official notices reserving the space between such and such times, a BMW had flouted the rules and parked right outside his apartment. The four Bretons (only one of whom actually was, Brice learned later) shifted the car in five minutes flat, as easily as if it had been a bicycle. Supremely indifferent to the chorus of car horns behind them, they took their time manoeuvring into position, displaying with their Herculean strength the utmost disdain for the rest of humanity.
This was a crack fighting unit, a perfectly oiled machine, a band of mercenaries to whom Brice had just entrusted his life. He was simultaneously reassured and terror-struck. He took the precaution of opening the door in case they took it off its hinges when they knocked.
As in all good criminal bands, the shortest one was the leader. Mind you, what Raymond lacked in height he made up for in width. He looked like an overheated Godin stove. Perhaps it was an occupational hazard, but they were each reminiscent of a piece of furniture: the one called Jean-Jean, a Louis-Philippe chest of drawers; Ludo, a Normandy wardrobe; and the tall,