The Panda Theory Read online

  ‘Because I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  Furious, José leapt up, his eyes bloodshot, and knocked the table over. The veins in his neck bulged, his muscles tensed. He stood there, shoulders hunched and fists clenched, ready to pounce. Gabriel didn’t flinch.

  ‘You don’t know anything. You don’t know anything at all! All you know is how to cook. Get lost. Fuck off. You and your fucking bear. Beat it. I never want to see you here again. Never, ever!’

  The pavement gleamed as if covered with shiny sealskin. The night skies of cities are always yellow, rain or no rain. Gabriel picked up the panda and laid it on the lid of a dustbin. It sat there, confident, radiant, offering its open arms to whoever wanted to take it home.

  ‘When they die, cats purr. Yes, it’s true, I’m telling you! When I had to have mine put down she was purring … Hang on a second … Monsieur Gabriel, can I talk to you a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Madeleine said her goodbyes to the Sonia on the other end of the phone and hung up. She was wearing a low-cut pink T-shirt, which emphasised her chest, especially when she leant forward. Her little nameplate necklace bounced from one breast to the other.

  ‘Are you thinking of staying for much longer?’

  ‘I don’t know, perhaps a bit longer, yes.’

  ‘It’s just that your room is reserved for someone else from the fourth to the seventh. Would you mind changing rooms?’

  ‘No, not at all. What day is it today?’

  ‘Actually, it’s the fourth.’

  ‘Ah, well, in that case I’ll go and get my things.’

  ‘Thank you. The rooms are practically the same, you know.’

  ‘It’s no problem at all.’

  ‘I’m putting you in number 22. It’s on the next floor up.’

  ‘Great. I’ll go and get my bag.’

  ‘One more thing. I wanted to ask you what you were doing today.’

  ‘Nothing really. Why?’

  ‘I’m off this afternoon and I wondered, well, whether you fancied going for a walk? It’s not raining.’

  Her cheeks flushed red. She should blush more often. It suited her.

  ‘Is that too forward?’

  ‘No, not at all. It’s a great idea. Of course, I’d be glad to.’

  ‘I finish at noon.’

  ‘Perfect. I’ll see you later then.’

  It was the first time he had seen her outside work, in her entirety, standing up and not behind the desk. She was tall, as tall as he was, maybe even taller. It was a little intimidating. Even so, it was she who lowered her eyes and clutched her bag with the awkward charm of a young girl caught stepping out of the bath.

  ‘Okay, shall we go?’

  ‘After you.’

  She opened the door as if about to plunge into the unknown and strode off down the road on her long legs in a sort of blind charge, the tail of her raincoat flapping in the wind. She talked as fast as she walked.

  ‘I know a great Vietnamese restaurant, or Italian if you prefer. There’s a very interesting models museum and a cinema, but I don’t know what’s on. It’s a small town. There’s not a lot to do, but it is pretty, especially by the banks of the—’

  ‘I’ve got some calves’ liver.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Madeleine stopped in her tracks. Her dark eyebrows arched so high they almost touched the roots of her hair.

  ‘Calves’ liver. I could cook it for you if you want. I have all the ingredients. Do you like calves’ liver?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I love it, but—’

  ‘At your place. I could cook it there.’

  Madeleine looked bewildered, as if she’d been plonked down in the middle of nowhere at a crossroads of identical streets. She burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re quite something, aren’t you! Why not? I live nearby.’

  They walked side by side at a slower pace. Madeleine didn’t say a word, but shot Gabriel the occasional curious glance, followed by a disbelieving shake of her head.

  ‘You know,’ Gabriel said, ‘I often end up wandering around unfamiliar towns. I like it, but it’s nice to have somewhere to go.’

  ‘Do you travel around because of your work?’

  ‘It’s not exactly work – it’s a service I provide.’

  ‘What sort of service?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘And does it take you all over?’

  ‘Yes, all over.’

  ‘Here we are. I live on the third floor. The one with the geranium at the window.’

  The stairwell was unremarkable. It was typical of a modest 1960s building, clean, with a succession of dark-red doors distinguished from one another by nameplates and colourful doormats. Madeleine Chotard’s – that’s what was written on the copper nameplate: M. Chotard – was in the shape of a curled-up cat.

  Cats were everywhere in the two-bed flat in all sorts of varied guises: a lamp stand, wallpaper, cushions. There were figurines in wood, bronze and porcelain of cats jumping, sleeping, arching their backs, stretching …

  ‘The kitchen is on your left if you want to put your stuff down.’

  Even more cats in the kitchen: cat salt and pepper mills, cat jugs … Gabriel put the food on the worktop next to the hob and went back into the living room to join Madeleine. The room was small, but bright and very clean. Not a single cat’s hair in sight.

  ‘Make yourself at home. Do you want a drink before you start?’

  ‘I’d love one.’

  Being at home obviously freed Madeleine from the demeanour required at work. She was comfortable with her body, most probably sporty, natural – what’s known as a fine specimen. The strip of flesh visible between the bottom of her T-shirt and the belt of her skirt when she bent over to take a bottle from the cupboard was smooth and flat, not an ounce of fat.

  ‘I haven’t got a great choice. To be honest, I hardly ever drink aperitifs – I just keep some for friends. Do you fancy a Martini?’

  ‘Perfect!’

  It was as if there were a second world underneath the smoked glass of the low coffee table, an almost aquatic parallel universe where the reflection of the hands dipping into the bowl of peanuts merged with the floral carpet.

  ‘It’s funny seeing you here,’ she said.

  ‘It was you who invited me, the other day. You suggested I cook for you.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  ‘Well, I took it seriously. Would you rather go to a restaurant?’

  ‘No! It’s just that it’s surprising, that’s all. Normally you get to know people in a public place like a café or a club …’

  ‘A neutral place, yes. But why do you want to get to know me?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe because you always look a bit sad and bored.’

  ‘You must get a lot of people like that at the hotel, travelling salesmen, loners, people passing through …’

  ‘This is the first time! Don’t think—’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything like that, believe me. I’m happy to be here. Are you hungry?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Okay then, I’ll get started.’

  ‘Do you want me to show you …?’

  ‘No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll manage.’

  It was as he had expected. Luckily, he’d thought of everything. It was a typical singleton’s kitchen. The fridge was practically bare and contained just a few fat-free yogurts, half an apple wrapped in cling film, some leftover rice, a half-frozen lettuce stuck to the back of the vegetable drawer and a jar of Nutella for those nights when she needed comfort. It was touching.

  The new potatoes were soon bobbing up and down in the boiling water, the shallots slowly caramelising in the pan to which he added the two good-sized pieces of calves’ liver drizzling them with balsamic vinegar and sprinkling a pinch of finely chopped parsley. The surrounding white ceramic tiles, unused to such aromas, blushed with pleasure. Madeleine’s face appeared in the doorway, her nostrils twitch
ing.

  ‘Mmm, it smells nice.’

  ‘You can sit down if you like. It’s almost ready.’

  The liver was cooked to perfection, the onions melted in the mouth and the potatoes, glistening with butter, were as soft as a spring morning.

  ‘It’s been a very long time since I’ve had calves’ liver. I never think to buy it. It’s delicious. And the shallots …!’

  I am cooking for you because I like you. I am going to feed you. We barely know each other and yet here we are, just inches apart, where together we’re going to drool over, chew and swallow the meat, vegetables and bread. Our bodies are going to share the same pleasures. The same blood will flow in our veins. Your tongue will be my tongue; your belly, my belly. It’s an ancient, universal, unchanging ritual.

  ‘… and that’s why she was worried.’

  ‘Who was?’

  ‘My grandmother, of course.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sorry.’

  ‘It was just a bit of anaemia. It often happens to kids who grow too quickly. I hated that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Minced horse meat cooked in stock. I just told you. Weren’t you listening?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Minced horse meat cooked in stock. It’s true. It can’t have been that appetising for a little girl.’

  ‘You said it. But she thought she was doing the right thing. I was very fond of her. I’ll have a bit more wine, please. Thanks, that’s enough! I think I’m a little bit tipsy.’

  ‘Did she die?’

  ‘Yes, five years ago.’

  ‘And your cat as well?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘I accidentally overheard you mention it on the phone this morning.’

  ‘It’s true. Last year. She was called Mitsouko, after my perfume. She lived to be fourteen.’

  ‘And you haven’t replaced her?’

  ‘No, but I often think about it.’

  ‘When you have your Nutella nights?’

  ‘Nutella nights? What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t know why I said that.’

  ‘Would you like coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The flat had already changed. It was now filled with the smell of cooking, rather than the smell of nothing at all. Things had been moved around and the sofa cushions were creased. There was another person there. Madeleine must have been aware of it when she heard him moving around in the kitchen. Gabriel walked over to the window and raised the net curtain. It was a small, anonymous street, the sort of street you go down on the way to somewhere else. How many times had Madeleine stood by the window cuddling her cat, waiting for something to happen down below? And how many times had she drawn the curtains without witnessing anything but the slow flowering of her picture-postcard red geranium?

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘The street isn’t exactly lively, is it?’

  ‘It’s a street.’

  ‘I sometimes think it’s more of a dead end. The rent is cheap, though, and it’s quiet.’

  ‘I once lived on a street like this. One day I saw a Chinese man fall from a sixth-floor window.’

  ‘That’s awful!’

  ‘It took me a moment to realise that it was the Chinese man from the sixth floor. He flashed past. It was a beautiful day; the window was open. I didn’t see what happened, but I felt it, like a large bird or a shadow passing over. And then I heard shouts. I leant out of the window to have a look and saw something lying in the middle of the road in the shape of a swastika. There was an elderly couple across the street. The woman was screaming. All the other windows opened at once. Someone yelled, “It’s the Chinese man from the sixth floor!”’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I think I closed the window. I didn’t know him that well. We’d met a few times on the stairs. A neighbour told me later that he was a bit unstable and part of a cult, something like that.’

  ‘It must have been a weird feeling.’

  ‘You feel a bit of a voyeur, even if it’s unintentional. All day it felt as though I had something in my eye I couldn’t get out, a kind of indelible subliminal image. It was quite annoying. I don’t know why I’m telling you this – it’s stupid.’

  Gabriel regretted telling the story. The room now teemed with falling Chinese men. Madeleine was hunched over, staring into her cup, her brow furrowed. Would she ever dare open her window again? Would she let her geranium die of thirst? What if she was indeed sporty and her hobby was parachuting? He was an idiot.

  ‘Do you do much sport, Madeleine?’

  ‘Yes, I like swimming. I go to the pool three or four times a week. I love it. How about you?’

  ‘Sometimes. I like swimming in lakes. It’s peaceful and relaxing.’

  ‘I’ll swim anywhere, in lakes, rivers or the sea. Ever since I was little I’ve loved the sea. I was never scared of it. To be honest I feel more at home in the sea than on dry land. I went scuba diving in Guadeloupe a few years ago. It was incredible. Have you been to Guadeloupe?’

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘It’s like paradise. Would you like to see some photos?’

  ‘I’d love to!’

  Madeleine’s happy memories were stored in a little imitation-leather album labelled ‘Holiday 2002’. She sat down next to Gabriel and opened her bible on her knees. Every photo showed white sand, coconut palms, rolling waves, a riot of flowers, a blindingly blue sky above a turquoise sea, all framing Madeleine’s perfect body, sitting, lying, standing, swimming or frolicking with the clown fish. A celebration of Madeleine as God had made her.

  ‘If you only knew how beautiful it is over there. Everything smells great, everything feels soft, everything tastes sweet …’

  ‘Even the sea?’

  ‘Even the sea. Here, hold this. All I have to do is close my eyes and I’m there. Close your eyes. Can you hear the sea?’

  As the album slipped onto the floor, Madeleine leant against Gabriel who shrank back into the sofa.

  ‘I don’t think it would be a good idea, Madeleine.’

  ‘Don’t you like me?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You’re very beautiful.’

  ‘Do you think I’m a nympho?’

  ‘Not at all. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Do you prefer men?’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’

  ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘No, not that either.’

  ‘So why not then?’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. But what does it matter? I cooked for you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So nothing. It’s just how it is. There’s nothing to understand. Don’t be offended. I like you a lot.’

  Carefully, Gabriel extricated himself, got up and smoothed down his hair. He was as pale as a plaster saint, haggard, tired of a life that was bringing him down.

  ‘I’m sorry. I would have liked to make you happy. Don’t hold it against me; it’s not your fault.’

  Madeleine stared at him from the depths of the couch like a discarded rag doll, her legs and arms splayed.

  ‘You’re weird. Really weird.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Madeleine.’

  The wardrobe took up most of the shop window. It was a beautiful piece and the owner of Obsolete Antiques must have been proud of it to display it so prominently that it overshadowed everything around it. Made of blond wood with a shiny satin finish, it was the perfect size, a classic, devoid of cumbersome ornate embellishments. Gabriel’s reflection in the shop window fitted it perfectly. It was as if it had been made for him. The wardrobe’s door was invitingly ajar. The perfect sarcophagus. The journey into the afterlife would be a cruise.

  ‘Eight hundred euros you say?’

  ‘It’s solid birch. And well built. Dovetail joints. No nails or screws.’

  ‘Edible then?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘It’s edible. There’s no metal in it.’
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  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Forget it. It’s very beautiful. Thank you.’

  It was a shame that Mathieu was dead. He would have liked to buy it for him. Mathieu had already eaten one, the one in which his wife had died. She had locked herself in by accident, the door closing on her, and had suffocated amongst her own furs. Mathieu had been infatuated with his wife and the grief had driven him mad. He had blamed the wardrobe and vowed to eat every last bit of it. It took him years. But bit by bit, splinter by splinter, he had eaten the entire thing. Each morning, using a penknife, he had sliced a piece off and chewed it with the single-mindedness of which only a spurned lover is capable. It had been a mahogany Louis-Philippe wardrobe. He took barely two years to finish one door.

  ‘You know what, Gabriel, it’s the fittings that are the problem. The wood itself is fine. It’s the fittings that slow me down. That’s what’s annoying about a Louis-Philippe.’

  But Mathieu’s appetite for revenge eventually diminished, and even though he was loath to admit it, his hatred for the wardrobe had turned into the same all-consuming love he had felt towards his wife. He savoured the object of his resentment with a gourmet’s relish.

  ‘I boiled a corner piece in water yesterday and you know what? It tasted just like veal!’

  One night Mathieu called Gabriel in tears.

  ‘Gabriel, come over. I’ve finished.’

  He lay on his bed, emaciated because, ever since his fatal promise, he had stopped eating anything other than mahogany, which is hardly nourishing. The only thing left of the wardrobe was the imprint of its feet on the dusty floor and the huge oblong of darker wallpaper.

  ‘It tasted good, you know …’

  Those had been his last words. His gaunt hand, lying clenched on his chest, had unfurled like a flower and a key had fallen from his palm.

  It was just about the only thing that Gabriel had kept from his former life – a key that would never open, or close, another door. He always kept it on him, deep in his pocket. It matched his body temperature: burning or freezing. He told himself that one day he would give it away or even lose it and that somebody else would find it, as that is what happened to things. They passed from person to person.