The Panda Theory Read online

  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!’

  It was a cave, a modern-day gloomy concrete cave at the back of an underground car park. Many had lived there, some still did, leaving evidence of their squalid existence painted on the walls: smears of shit, obscene graffiti, markings daubed in wine, piss and vomit. Burst mattresses and soiled blankets were piled up like animal skins in a rotting heap, teeming with so many lice, crab lice and fleas that they appeared to be coming to life. The place stank, though it was worse outside, except that it was so cold there you didn’t notice it. Simon’s squatting silhouette stood out from the shadows like a figure in a Flemish painting. In front of him, meths fumes rose from an empty pea tin which was precariously balanced on a small gas stove. Wearing frayed mittens, he held the stove steady with one hand; with the other, he dangled a chicken over the flames by its neck.

  ‘Couldn’t the old bitch have given you a cooked one?’

  ‘She was on her way out of the supermarket. She’d got two for one. It was still kind of her.’

  ‘The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Do they think we’ve got all mod cons here? Pass me the wine.’

  Beneath the scarf wrapped round his head, Simon’s swollen eye was watering. He raised the bottle to his cracked lips and toothless mouth and took a long swig while keeping his eyes on the chicken that had started to char over the flames.

  ‘It’s burning.’

  ‘Only the skin. We’ll scrape it off. I’ll turn it over.’

  Simon grabbed the chicken by its feet and flipped it over, causing its comb to catch alight. He quickly blew it out.

  ‘“Et la tête, et la tête, alouette, alouette …” Light me a ciggy, will you? This is going to take for ever.’

  Gabriel lit a crooked Gitane and passed it over. He was starting to warm up, more because of the fire’s glow than its heat. He took off his leaking trainers and rubbed his feet. He had lost nearly all feeling in them from all the walking he was doing. When there is nowhere to go you spend a lot of time on your feet. He swigged the wine and from beneath his layers of worn clothes he pulled out the crumpled pages of a newspaper that had been wrapped around his chest.

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘They’re going to ban cigarette smoking in public places.’

  ‘Must have been a cigar smoker who dreamt that one up!’

  You could never tell if Simon was crying or laughing. Either way, a dry cough shook him like a half-empty bag.

  ‘Oh, it’s all for our own good, isn’t it? Talk about a bloody nanny state! No smoking, no drinking, no fat, no sugar, no sex. It’s as if they don’t want us to die. How nice of them! What else does it say?’

  ‘An inventor has just come up with an indestructible fabric. It’s cold- and heat-resistant and even bulletproof. The Vatican has ordered some for the Pope.’

  ‘Gone off the idea of heaven, has he? He’s only trying to save his own skin, like any old moron. Here, can you hold the chicken a second? My hands are full.’

  The bird was now black at either end. The skin was peeling off like flecks of paint from the lead pipes in the squat they had been thrown out of three days earlier.

  ‘Apparently lead isn’t too good for you either.’

  ‘I know! I once saw a guy riddled with it in Marseille. It took five men to carry him!’

  A fresh coughing fit made Simon double over. But this time he was laughing at his joke about the lead.

  ‘Life’s a killer. Especially for the poor. To live a long and healthy life you’ve got to live in a villa on the Riviera and be served by a white-gloved waiter. Yeah, but the sun gives you skin cancer! Turn it over or it won’t cook on that side. Shit, not like that! You’re going to fuck it up … Jesus, man, leave it, I’ll do it.’

  The stuffy air was thick with smoke, and the smell of alcohol, charred meat and stale cigarettes. Both of them were hunched over, like monkeys in a cage. Everything was blurred, shapeless. The men weren’t men and the chicken wasn’t a chicken. Nothing but rough sketches gone wrong, crumpled into a ball and thrown into this stinking hole. Simon held the bird by its head and feet as if holding the handlebars of a motorbike heading straight into the wall.

  ‘Joan of Arc.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She’s the only woman I’ve ever loved.’

  ‘What made you think of her? The chicken?’

  ‘Maybe. Or the Pope, I don’t know. I used to carry a picture of her around when I was a kid. I’d wank off over it in the toilets, looking at her in that tight, shiny armour with her tidy little page-boy haircut and her flag blowing in the wind. What I’d have given for a can-opener to get inside that …! Pass me the bottle and I’ll tell you.’

  Simon finished off the bottle and started to sway to and fro with a fixed stare, his hands wrapped round his chicken handlebars, full speed ahead.

  ‘I once went to Rouen. Not Mecca or Lourdes like some people, but Rouen. I went and begged in the square where they burnt her at the stake. It was the most dough I’d ever made in my life – people were throwing their money at me! I got absolutely trashed that night – it was insane! Later on I was having a piss up against a wall when I saw her in front of me, stark naked, smiling at me with her arms and legs wide open. She said: “It’s about time, Simon!” and I screwed her. I screwed her like I’ve never screwed before. Up against the fucking wall. And you can believe it or not, but the wall started swelling as if
I’d knocked it up, and just when I was about to shoot my load the wall fell in on me. But it didn’t hurt, not one bit. And behind the wall, behind the wall, there was—’

  Gesticulating wildly as he relived the scene, Simon’s elbow smashed into the gas stove. The alcohol spilt over him and he was engulfed in flames like a living torch, while the chicken took the first flight of its short life and landed on Gabriel’s knees. Simon stood howling and banging his arms against his sides as if in the throes of a laughing fit. The fire took hold of him in a dazzling display of power, like a volcanic eruption. Gabriel froze, numbed by the wine, awestruck. Simon threw himself onto the pile of mattresses and covers and rolled about until he disappeared under a thick plume of smoke. Gabriel grabbed his bag, trainers and the chicken and ran as fast as he could. When he stopped to catch his breath by the banks of the Seine, he tore away at the half-cooked chicken and wondered what could have been behind that fucking wall.

  Gabriel ripped shreds off the candyfloss and let them melt slowly in his mouth.

  We should eat nothing but clouds, he thought.

  In front of him a merry-go-round whirled round: as it sped up an elephant, a fire engine, a white swan and a motorbike all dissolved into a kaleidoscope of colour and bright lights, punctuated by the piercing shrieks of the children above the heady music of the barrel organ. He had never seen Simon again. Had he melted away as well? He had almost forgotten what had happened in that underground car park it was so long ago. He remembered the chicken, the taste of charcoal and raw meat. His fingers felt sticky. He didn’t have a handkerchief so he wiped them on the underside of the bench. The smell of chip fat and hot sugar hung in the air. Even the rain was sweet. Nobody seemed to realise. People came and went as if the sun were out, as if they were happy. As if. It was a tiny funfair with just a merry-go-round, a tombola, a shooting gallery and a sweet stall. He had stumbled upon it after crossing the bridge that straddled the river. This was the furthest he had been in the town and he felt as though he had crossed into another town entirely. When on foot you always travel further than you expect. You only realise how far you have gone when it’s time to go back. Because you always have to go back.

  ‘Romain, sit up straight! And hold on!’

  The small boy wasn’t listening to his mother. Not any more. He was laughing, on the brink of hysteria, and bouncing up and down on his elephant, which was charging furiously forward, driven by its own massive weight. It trampled everything in its path: the fire engine, the white swan, the screeching mother with her hands cupped around her mouth, the town hall, the post office, the station, the whole town. Its dreary revolving existence had driven the elephant mad. The child and the elephant were one, a single ball of pure energy, out of control, hurtling through space, destroying everything in their path without remorse. They knew that this moment of freedom would be brief and so they made the most of it. Nothing could stop them while they were in orbit. It was at moments like this that you could kill somebody. You could kill somebody over nothing at all, because nothing was stopping you and you were too high to think about humanity.

  The merry-go-round slowed to a stop. It was over quickly. Gabriel stood up as he had got up from the bench at the station a few days earlier, with sticky hands.

  ‘Five shots, five balloons, the prize is yours.’

  The butt of the rifle was as cool and soft as Joan of Arc’s skin. It was easy; all you had to do was empty your mind. Kept aloft by an electric fan, the five dancing coloured balloons exploded one by one. Load, aim, fire … load, aim, fire. It was all over in less than three minutes.

  ‘Well done. You’re a fine shot, sir!’

  The stall holder resembled a badly restored china doll with her cracked make-up, bottle-blonde hair with dark roots, and thick red lipstick that had smeared onto her false teeth. Her glazed eyes, which had seen too much, were as lifeless as those of the hideous toy panda which she placed on the counter.

  ‘Your prize!’

  At the sight of the black and white animal with its outstretched arms and beaming smile, Gabriel took a step back.

  ‘No, no thank you. It’s fine.’

  ‘Go on! You’ve won it, you have to take it.’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘When you win something, it’s yours. Give it to your children.’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get busy! Take it, go on. What am I supposed to do with it? I’m no thief. C’mon now, stop making a fuss.’

  ‘Well, okay then. Thank you.’

  It wasn’t that it was heavy – it was just difficult to carry. He didn’t know how to hold it. By the ear? By the paw? Or by wrapping his arms round the whole thing? As he walked past, people turned to stare, some smiling and others laughing outright. The cuddly toy didn’t care. It continued to gaze wide-eyed at its surroundings with the same fixed happy smile, regardless of which way up it was carried. And so Gabriel arrived at the Faro encumbered by his unwanted progeny. The metal shutter was pulled down, but he could see a light on inside. He knocked several times, the panda perched on his shoulders. Finally José appeared, unsteady on his feet and looking anxious.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. I forgot, I’m sorry. In you come.’

  The shutter rolled up slowly with the grating sound of rusty metal. It ground to a halt halfway up, exhausted, and Gabriel had to squeeze underneath. José looked as worn-out as Gabriel.

  ‘Is everything okay, José?’

  ‘Not really. What’s that?’

  ‘A panda. I won it at a shooting gallery. I thought the kids might like it.’

  ‘That’s kind of you. Come on in.’

  On the table in the back room the bottle of port stood next to an empty glass. Gabriel tossed the grinning panda onto a chair as José slumped on another. Though one was in a state of bliss and the other in despair, Gabriel couldn’t help but notice a resemblance between the two of them. He sat down and waited silently while José covered his face with his hands, rubbing his eyes and stubbly cheeks.

  ‘Do you want a drink? Shit, it’s empty. I’ll get another.’

  José didn’t move though. It was as if he was stuck to his chair, which was in turn welded to the floor. The room was silent except for José’s laboured nasal breathing, drawn up from the depths of his chest. Beside him, the panda, like a happy guest, sat waiting for dinner. The only thing it lacked was a napkin round its neck and a knife and fork in either paw. It was exactly the same size as José.

  ‘How’s Marie?’

  ‘Well, you know … It’s not a cyst. They don’t know what it is. She was sleeping. I mean … she’s in a coma. She looks so different, all yellow, her nose all pinched, and purple around her eyes. She’s got no mouth, just a small slit with a tube coming out. And all the machines in her room make noises like televisions that haven’t been tuned properly. They either don’t know what’s wrong with her or they just won’t tell me. I didn’t recognise her at first. I thought I’d got the wrong room.’

  His eyes filled with tears and his nose began to run. He was drowning from the inside. Gabriel lowered his head and traced the outline of a daisy on the tablecloth with his finger. She loves me, she loves me not …

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I completely forgot about you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You need to eat something though.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘I could rustle something up. I know where everything is. Let me help.’

  ‘If you want. Thank you for coming. I don’t really know what I’m doing at the moment. There are some bottles under the sink. Let’s have a drink.’

  ‘I’ll go and get you one.’

  Pasta, tomatoes, tuna, onions and olives. Gabriel worked like a surgeon, his actions neat and precise. It was like being back at the shooting gallery. No need to think, just act. In the space of fifteen minutes the pasta bake was in the oven, he had laid the table and filled the glasses with wine. José had
already emptied his twice and was staring mournfully at the panda.

  ‘What kind of animal is it? A bear?’

  ‘A panda.’

  ‘It’s big.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The children love anything that’s big. It reassures them. I didn’t have the heart to go and see them after the hospital. I phoned them and said that everything was okay and that the four of us would be together again soon.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘They didn’t believe me. “Papa, your voice is all funny,” they said. You can’t hide anything from kids. They’re cleverer than us. When I was a kid, I knew everything, well, most things. But now I don’t understand a thing. What’s the point of growing up? It’s stupid.’

  ‘I’ll get the pasta.’

  With his elbows on the table, José hoovered up his meal. The tomato sauce ran from the corners of his mouth, to his chin and down his neck. Like an ogre. Once finished, he pushed the empty plate away and burped, then wiped his mouth on his cuff.

  ‘Jesus, that was good! You’re hired. I’m not kidding. You’re hired, seeing as Marie …’

  José thumped the table. The bottle and glasses went flying. The panda slumped on its shoulder. José grabbed the stuffed animal and threw his head back. All you could see was his uvula going up and down like a yo-yo.

  ‘For God’s sake, why!?’

  He pounded the tablecloth with his fists. The panda rolled onto the floor. José collapsed forward, his forehead on the table, his arms dangling by his sides. His back began to shudder. Gabriel picked up the bottle and glasses.

  ‘We had everything we needed to be happy. Everything.’

  ‘I know.’

  José looked up and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He was frowning, his mouth twisted in an ugly grimace.

  ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Pain.’

  José screwed one eye shut and focused the other on Gabriel. He was dribbling. He was ugly. He was hurting.

  ‘Who are you? I don’t give a shit about your pain. Why aren’t you telling me she’s going to be okay, that everything is going to be fine, like it was before? Why are you looking at me with those doe eyes and not saying anything?’