Garnier Low Heights

Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir
1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80533-611-2
Verlag: Pushkin Vertigo
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten

Vultures at least have the decency to wait until their prey is dead before they rip it to pieces . . .At the home in the mountains he shares with his put-upon nurse, Thérèse, cantankerous retiree Édouard Lavenant is attempting to write his memoirs when a visitor calls, claiming to be his long-lost son. Jean-Baptiste's presence seems to bring about a softening of Édouard's temper, but the family reunion is soon threatened by the local vultures circling overhead . . .

Pascal Garnier, who died in March 2010, was a talented novelist, short story writer, children's author and painter. From his home in the mountains of the Ardèche, he wrote fiction in a noir palette with a cast of characters drawn from ordinary provincial life. Though his writing is often very dark in tone, it sparkles with quirkily beautiful imagery and dry wit. Garnier's work has been likened to the great thriller writer, Georges Simenon.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Garnier, Pascal

Weitere Mitwirkende

Florence, Melanie

Leseproben

The first cherries were barely ripe, yet the market in Nyons was teeming like high summer. Space was limited and they had been forced to park well beyond the Pont Roman, which had, of course, only exacerbated Monsieur Lavenant’s bad mood.

‘Just look at that! English, Dutch, Germans, Belgians … Do I go and do my shopping in their countries? No! You’d think we were still under the Occupation.’

‘I could easily have done the shopping on my own; you didn’t have to come.’

‘That’s right, you’d like me to stay shut up in my hole like a rat. I do still have the right to go out, you know.’

‘Why don’t you wait for me nice and quietly on the café terrace with your newspaper and a cold drink?’

‘That’s exactly what I had in mind. But don’t dawdle like last time. It doesn’t take three hours to buy a kilo of tomatoes. Have you got the list?’

‘I have. See you later, Monsieur.’

‘And don’t let anyone rip you off, we ’re not tourists.’

Seated at a small table in the shade of a blue-and-white-striped awning, he watched Thérèse go off, basket in hand, and melt into the brightly coloured crowd. As soon as she was out of sight he felt a vague anxiety, a sense of having been abandoned. He shrugged his shoulders and curtly ordered a pastis from the waitress who was bustling among the tables like a frantic insect.

Thérèse allowed herself to be carried along by the wave of passers-by, intoxicated by the infinite variety of colours, scents and sounds, as if at the heart of a giant kaleidoscope. Bodies scantily dressed in the lightest of fabrics rubbed against hers and she experienced the same giddiness as she had at dances in her youth. She desired everything, and everything was there. After the gloomy days counted off like rosary beads in Monsieur Lavenant’s joyless house, this was a sort of resurrection and she made the most of it, every pore straining for the tiniest atom of life. She criss-crossed Place du Docteur Bourdongle, enclosed by arcades whose violet shadow suggested stolen kisses, filling her basket with tomatoes, peppers, aubergines, basil, fromage frais, piping-hot bread. She tasted an olive here, a crouton dripping with virgin oil there, a slice of saucisson, a spoonful of honey …

As she made her way back, having come to the end of her shopping list, she stopped short in front of a stall selling hats, dozens and dozens of hats …

GREAT DEALS!

FREE! We will clear your attic, cellar or whole house … 500 F plus paid for German helmets, uniforms, other historical memorabilia, Resistance, militia, US …

PRIV. INDIVID. SEEKS OLD MILITARY objects, from flintlocks to caplocks, matchlocks, percussion caps, trigger guards, various barrel bands, even in poor condition …

Monsieur Lavenant pushed his newspaper away and stared mournfully at his empty pastis glass. In theory he wasn’t allowed more, but since sucking the ice cube, all he could think of was having another. There was something indecent about feeling so good and everything in him rebelled at the idea of calling the waitress again. Yet he was dying to. He would have to make up his mind before Thérèse came back. He glanced at his watch but as he didn’t know how long he’d been there, he was none the wiser. The sight of the crippled hand to which his watch was attached decided it for him. It was scrawny and hooked, like a bird of prey’s talon, the hand of an Egyptian mummy, of use to him now only as a paperweight to stop the newspaper from blowing in the breeze.

‘The state I’m in already … Fuck it! I can do what I want.’ Immediately, his right arm shot up and the crow in a white blouse and black skirt replaced his empty glass with a new one which he half emptied in order to fool Thérèse, before becoming engrossed once more in the indescribable experience of reading the classifieds.

BULTEX SOFA BED, new, yellow. 1300 F.

WIN BIG ON THE HORSES! 70% success rate for our tip with good odds. WATCH THIS SPACE FOR RELIABLE INFO!

HORSE MANURE TO GIVE AWAY.

TWO THOUSAND-LITRE SEPTIC TANKS.

BRIDAL GOWN, size 38 + veil and tiara. 1000 F.

For a moment he saw it floating before him, a wispy cloud of white muslin. Deep in his wizened heart, something came loose. How long was it since he’d just let go, stretched out on the grass and watched the clouds go by? Years …

‘There now, I wasn’t too long, was I?’ Thérèse’s voice jolted him back to reality.

‘What have you got on your head?’

‘A hat.’

‘A hat!’

‘Well, you’re wearing one.’

‘It’s different for me. I can’t tolerate the sun. My hat is … useful.’

‘Well, mine is a hat that I like.’

It was a small straw hat with a wide brim which cast a veil of shadow over her shiny, slightly puffy face. Her violet eyes, the only beautiful thing about her, were sparkling with mischief, almost impudence. Monsieur Lavenant tried unsuccessfully to find something to say to make her lower them, but could only snigger and look away.

‘At the end of the day, you’re the one wearing it. Now, what have you brought for the picnic?’

‘The picnic?’

‘Yes, the picnic. Have you lost your wits or something?’

‘I thought that …’

‘You thought that … You thought … I’ve changed my mind, that’s all. I’m entitled to do that, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, it doesn’t bother me. Quite the reverse; it’s such lovely weather. We ’ve got all we need: melon, tomatoes, cheese and an excellent ham.’

Paying for his drinks, he couldn’t hide the fact that he’d had two pastis and she raised her eyebrows indulgently.

‘Yes, I’ve drunk two pastis; it won’t kill me.’

Monsieur Lavenant decided they should take the Défilé de Trente Pas and look for a place to stop on the way to the Lescou Pass where the air was cooler. The road was very narrow and winding. Thérèse drove carefully, sounding her horn at every bend since it was impossible to see round them. The walls of rock were so close together that it felt like being a bookmark between the pages of an ancient tome exuding a strong smell of mould. It was very impressive but slightly anxiety-provoking. The dense vegetation screened the river below, whose presence was suggested only by a guttural roar, an uninterrupted chant. Neither of them uttered a word until they were out of the gorge, and as one they sighed with relief when the little car came onto the road to the pass. The sun was sounding a fanfare and the clumps of trees were thinning out the higher they climbed. Their stomachs rumbled meaningfully and, quite independently, Thérèse to the left and Monsieur Lavenant to the right, they scoured the horizon for a favourable picnic spot.

‘Take that little one on the right! There, right away!’

Having missed it, Thérèse reversed and turned onto the track. It led to a not very attractive ruin without the slightest patch of shade. The view of the valley was magnificent but all they could think of was the Drummond family murders or something else sinister and tragic. Despite the hunger gnawing at them, they turned round. A little further on, a side road led them straight to a farm, out of which shot a large hound, fangs bared, slavering all over its chops and howling blue murder. Once more they had to turn back. Monsieur Lavenant was bright red, his jaw clenched in a silent fury which crept through him like poison.

‘Are you trying to make us die of hunger or something? It’s just like you to do something like this!’

‘You were the one who was set on coming here. You know the area, apparently.’

‘It’s changed! Everything changes the whole time. How do you expect me to know where we are? Anyway, you drive too fast so obviously we’re going to miss the best places. We passed dozens as we came out of the ravine.’

‘You wanted to go higher up because of the air.’

‘So it’s my fault now! Was I the one who had this stupid picnic idea? I loathe picnics. You always end up next to a rubbish tip, being eaten alive by insects, sitting on a pile of stones, with greasy hands and warm drinks – that’s if there ’s not some local halfwit hiding in the bushes waiting to cut your throat during your siesta.’

‘Let’s go home then.’

‘Yes. We will go home, we’ve wasted enough time.’

Each of them had retreated into a palpable sulk when, at the entrance to a hamlet, they noticed a tiny chapel in a hollow, with a small meadow in front of it, shaded by three magnificent lime trees. A stream meandered along the bottom of the field. Thérèse braked and gave Monsieur Lavenant a questioning look.

‘We ’ve come this far, we might as well have a go.’

Thérèse parked the car in the shade of one of the big trees. The...