Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 42
I saw Guillaume again after lunch. He didn’t stop except to say hello, saying he was on his way to the newsagent for his papers. Guillaume is addicted to film magazines, although he never goes to the cinema, and every week he receives an entire parcel of them; Video and Cine-Club, Telerama and Film Express. His is the only satellite dish in the village, and in his sparse little house there is a widescreen television and a Toshiba video recorder wall-mounted above an entire bookcase of video cassettes. I noticed that he was carrying Charly again, the dog looking dull-eyed and listless on his master’s arm. Every few moments Guillaume stroked the dog’s head with the familiar gesture of tenderness and finality.
“How is he?” I asked at last.
“Oh, he has his good days,” said Guillaume. “There’s plenty of life in him yet.”
And they went on their way, the small dapper man clutching his sad brown dog as if his life depended upon it.
Josephine Muscat went by but did not stop. I was a little disappointed that she did not come in, for I’d been hoping to talk to her again, but she simply shot me a wild-eyed look as she passed; hands jammed deeply into her pockets. I noticed her face looked puffy, the eyes slitted closed, though it might have been against the gritty rain, the mouth zipped shut. A thick no-colour scarf bound her head like a bandage. I called to her, but she did not answer, quickening her step as if at some impending danger.
I shrugged and let her go. These things take time. Sometimes for ever.
Still, later, when Anouk was playing in Les Marauds and I had closed shop for the day, I found myself strolling down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois in the direction of the Cafe de la Republique. It is a small, dingy place, soaped windows with an unchanging specialite du jour scrawled across, and a scruffy awning which reduces the available light still further. Inside, a couple of silent slot machines flank the round tables at which the few customers sit, moodily discussing matters of no importance over interminable demis and cafes-creme. There is the bland oily smell of microwaved food, and a pall of greasy cigarette smoke hangs over the room, even though no-one seems to be smoking. I noticed one of Caroline Clairmont’s hand-lettered yellow cards in a prominent position by the open door. A black crucifix hangs above it.
I looked in, hesitated, and entered. Muscat was at the bar. He eyed me as I walked in, his mouth stretching. Almost imperceptibly I saw his eyes flick to my legs, my breasts – whap-whap, lighting up like the dials on a slot-machine. He laid a hand on the pump, flexing one heavy forearm.
“What can I give you?”
“Cafe-cognac, please.”
The coffee came in a small brown cup with two wrapped sugar lumps. I took it to a table by the window. A couple of old men – one with the Legion d’honneur clipped to one frayed lapel – eyed me with suspicion.
“D’you want some company?” smirked Muscat from behind the bar. “It’s just that you look a little – lonely, sitting there on your own.”
“No, thank you,” I told him politely. “In fact, I thought I might see Josephine today. Is she here?”
Muscat looked at me sourly, his good humour gone. “Oh yes, your bosom friend.”
His voice was dry. “Well, you missed her. She just went upstairs to lie down. One of her sick headaches.” He began to polish a glass with peculiar ferocity. “Spends all afternoon shopping, then has to lie down in the bloody evening while I do the work.”