C'est la Vie E-Book

Pascal Garnier

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 130

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'Happiness for those unused to it is like food for the starving - a little too much can be fatal.'Writer Jeff Colombier is not accustomed to success. Twice divorced with a grown-up son he barely sees, he drinks too much and his books don't sell. Then he wins a big literary prize and his life changes for ever. Overwhelmed by his newfound wealth and happiness, he feels the need to escape and recapture his lost youth, taking his son, Damien, with him. And if shady characters lead them down ever more dangerous paths . . . well, c'est la vie.

Leseprobe

Pascal Garnier was born in Paris in 1949. The prize-winning author of more than sixty books, he remains a leading figure in contemporary French literature, in the tradition of Georges Simenon. He died in 2010.

Jane Aitken is a publisher and translator from the French.

‘Wonderful … Properly noir’

Ian Rankin

‘Garnier plunges you into a bizarre, overheated world, seething death, writing, fictions and philosophy. He’s a trippy, sleazy, sly and classy read’

A. L. Kennedy

‘Horribly funny … appalling and bracing in equal measure. Masterful’

John Banville

‘Ennui, dislocation, alienation, estrangement – these are the colours on Garnier’s palette. His books are out there on their own: short, jagged and exhilarating’

Stanley Donwood

‘Garnier’s world exists in the cracks and margins of ours; just off-key, often teetering on the surreal, yet all too plausible. His mordant literary edge makes these succinct novels stimulating and rewarding’

Sunday Times

‘Deliciously dark … painfully funny’

New York Times

‘A mixture of Albert Camus and J. G. Ballard’

Financial Times

‘A brilliant exercise in grim and gripping irony; makes you grin as well as wince’

Sunday Telegraph

‘A master of the surreal noir thriller – Luis Buñuel meets Georges Simenon’

Times Literary Supplement

‘Small but perfectly formed darkest noir fiction told in spare, mordant prose … Recounted with disconcerting matter-of-factness, Garnier’s work is surreal and horrific in equal measure’

The Guardian

‘Bleak, often funny and never predictable’

The Observer

‘Brief, brisk, ruthlessly entertaining … Garnier makes bleakness pleasurable’

John Powers, NPR

‘Like Georges Simenon’s books, Pascal Garnier’s subversive, almost surreal tales come in slim little volumes, seldom more than 150 pages or so. But in that space he manages to say as much, and more memorably too, than many authors of books that are too heavy to hold’

Literary Review

‘Superb’

The Spectator

‘Deliciously sly and nuanced’

Irish Times

Also by Pascal Garnier:

Pascal Garnier: Gallic Noir Volumes 1, 2 and 3Low Heights

The Eskimo Solution Too Close to the Edge

Boxes

The Islanders

The Front Seat Passenger

Moon in a Dead Eye

The A26

How’s the Pain?

The Panda Theory

C’est la Vie

C’est la Vie

Pascal Garnier

Translated by Jane Aitken

Pushkin Vertigo

A Gallic Book

First published in France as Nul n’est à l’abri du succès by ZulmaCopyright © Zulma, 2001

English translation copyright © Gallic Books, 2019

First published in Great Britain in 2019 byGallic Books, 59 Ebury Street, London, SW1W 0NZ

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781805336082

Typeset in Fournier MT Pro byPalimpsest Book Production Ltd, Falkirk, Stirlingshire

Printed in the UK by CPI(CR0 4YY)

Contents

PROLOGUE(The way things were)

Damien

Hélène

TV

Eve

To Me!

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

I always thought that as long as manis mortal, he will never be relaxed.

Woody Allen

PROLOGUE

(The way things were)

Damien

‘You’re sure you can afford them?’

‘I’ve said so, haven’t I? We’ll take them,’ I said to the girl, and to Damien, ‘Do you want to keep them on?’

Six hundred francs! Six hundred francs for a pair of trainers, for a pair … of plimsolls! I was in shock. I could barely afford to re-sole my decrepit old loafers. But, of course, I kept this to myself and signed the cheque I knew would bounce with the nonchalance of a man who has money to burn. A normal, reasonable father would have managed to avoid buying them, but a sham father like me, who only saw his son every other year, would go to any lengths to persuade himself he was a decent bloke.

Damien, walking along beside me, couldn’t take his eyes off the enormous shoes whose laces he had undone because that was the fashion. He wore size 43 and was a good head taller than me. Everything about him was oversized: his nose, his arms, his legs. Time had acted on him like a steamroller, he was all long and flat. He was twenty now. I sensed he was as uncomfortable as I was. All we had in common was a surname, Colombier, and a handful of memories as faded as his jeans. I couldn’t for the life of me think of anything to say to him. I would have liked to be rich to make up for this lack. I would have bought him anything – a tree, a dog, a cloud.

‘How’s your mother?’

‘Dunno. OK, I think. I don’t see her much, just in passing.’

I was getting a stiff neck from turning to talk to him. An old woman went by, holding the lead of a poor old black-and-white mongrel with one of those plastic cones to prevent it from scratching a pink wound on its back. I felt a bit like that dog.

‘Are you hungry? There’s quite a good little restaurant near here.’

‘I don’t mind.’

Damien sniffed disdainfully as he looked at the menu. But it was a good place; one of my editors had brought me here once. Traditional cuisine, but of a high standard.

‘Have you decided?’

‘Steak frites.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather try something else? The andouillette is excellent, and the rabbit in mustard sauce, or the tripes à la provençale. That’s the chef’s speciality – do you know it?’

‘No. I don’t like things I don’t know.’

You can’t argue with that. So I didn’t press the point, and ordered him steak frites and a Coke. While we ate, everything went reasonably smoothly, like the truce between dog and cat at feeding time. Occasionally we stole a glance at each other, both equally astonished to find ourselves face to face like this. I ordered another half-bottle of wine. I felt as if I had a sort of airbag in my chest, about to burst.

‘You’re not saying much.’

‘What would you like me to say?’

‘I don’t know … what you’re up to at the moment, your girlfriends. You know, things, about your life.’

‘Things are OK. I play in a band; it’s going quite well.’

‘Really? What kind of music?’

‘Grunge; you wouldn’t know it.’

‘I’d like to come and listen to you sometime.’

‘We don’t have anywhere to practise any more.’

‘Ah … Listen, Damien, I wanted to tell you that I’m with someone now, she’s called Hélène.’

‘Oh.’

‘I would like you to meet her. She’s a journalist, really nice; I’m sure the two of you will get on well.’

‘If you want me to. Can I have a dessert?’

‘Of course!’

There was nothing left of the île flottante except the sprig of mint stuck to the side of the bowl. I lit my fourth cigarette.

‘Can I have one?’

‘Help yourself.’

The clouds of smoke between us obscured our view of each other.

‘Do you remember when we were boxing in your room and you gave me a bloody nose?’

I saw the ghost of a smile appear fleetingly on his face and his ears reddened. ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

Damien must have been about eight. I had given him red boxing gloves for Christmas which made his skinny arms look like matches. We had stretched washing lines across his bedroom to make a ring and worn shorts and bathrobes. As I didn’t have any gloves I had wrapped my hands in towels like a burns victim. To compensate for my height advantage, I was on my knees. Alice, Damien’s mother, banged a saucepan for a gong. As soon as we began, his fist struck me full in the face and I spent Christmas Day with cotton buds in each nostril … It’s amazing the damage a little kid can do. But he was the one who was crying, wailing, ‘I haven’t killed him, have I, Maman?’ He never wanted to go near those gloves again.

‘What made you think of that?’

‘I don’t know. Here we are on either side of the table.’

‘All that’s a long time ago.’

‘True.’

‘I’m going to have to go now.’

Outside on the pavement, we looked ridiculous next to each other. I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. An old couple glared at us. I’m sure they took me for a gay man with his young lover.

‘So, uh, bye, and thanks.’

‘What for?’

‘The trainers, lunch …’

‘Oh, that. I’ll be in touch. See you soon.’

I was in the mood to watch regional TV, or listen to a Barbara record. I could also have tried to hang myself but I was sure the rope would break.

Hélène

‘It’s strange how most human beings are shaped like coffins.’

The man spoke quietly. He was staring at a dozen people huddled together under a bus shelter on the other side of the road. Rain slashed against the café windows. His gaze as he turned to me was obscured by his milk-bottle glasses. ‘It’s a bit worrying, don’t you think?’

Taken by surprise, I shrugged, opening my hands as if setting a bird free. ‘C’est la vie!’

‘You think so? They say our mortal fate is our mothers’ fault. What do you think?’

It was All Saints’ Day, or the Day of the Dead in some places. Chrysanthemums bloomed outside florists’ shops, and spilled over like harmful algae from the boots of passing cars, which sprayed the pavements with greasy water. Since the morning the city had smelled of damp soil.

‘I agree there would be no Day of the Dead without mothers giving us life, but it’s a bit facile. They are the first women we kick in the stomach. It’s an amusing turn of phrase. Is it yours?’

‘No, just something I heard. I buried mine this morning.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Don’t be. She was an old cow. Anyway, I’ll wish you a good day, Monsieur.’

He was, like me, about fifty, with a complexion like a wrung-out dishcloth, and looked as if he were desperate for this interminable day to be over. As he passed in front of my table, he gave off a vague odour of detergent.

Hélène was already half an hour late, which had given me time to turn my receipt into a miniature origami duck. We had separated a month ago and I had to hand back the keys to her apartment.

She arrived just as the waiter was bringing my third beer. She was wearing one of the brightly coloured berets she was so fond of – this one was pistachio green – pulled right down to her eyebrows. Her eyes were shining, the pupils dilated, as her scarlet mouth, like a sea anemone, kissed mine.

‘I’m sorry I’m late, Jeff. Someone phoned just as I was leaving.’

‘Don’t worry, I love hanging around in bistros on All Saints’, it’s a weakness of mine, yet another one. Before we forget, here are your keys.’

‘Thank you. How are you?’

‘Like a drowned man at the bottom of a swimming pool without water.’

‘Stop acting the martyr! It’s not your fault, or mine; these things happen. C’est la vie … Why are you laughing?’

‘Oh it’s nothing, it’s just that I said the same thing to someone ten minutes ago. It’s a useful expression, about as useful as “the number you have called is not available”, or, “the concierge will be right back”.’

‘There’s no point being bitter. Have you found somewhere to live?’

‘Yes! A lovely little studio where you can’t swing a cat. You put your key in the lock and you break the window. A real little love nest.’

‘You’re such a pain! At least you won’t be able to complain you don’t have peace and quiet for writing.’

‘True enough, no one is going to come and see me there! Sometimes I have to ask myself to leave, because it’s too crowded.’

Hélène raised her eyes to the intricately moulded ceiling and scratched her nose.

‘Order me a coffee, I have to go to the Ladies.’

‘Fine, off you go and re-powder your nose.’

Everyone has their little habits. You have to put up with them. We had lived together for five years, I with my nose in a glass, she with her nose in powder. Our different ways of anaesthetising ourselves. It wasn’t that I blamed her or that she blamed me but we were both upset because we had believed we would make it together. It’s not easy to escape the shipwreck of the forties, swimming in a dead sea as thick as pea soup, with that island on the horizon that shrinks as you approach it. We said to each other that we might get there if we stuck together. Our five years together had been nothing but a long suffocation. We had had to bow to the incontrovertible evidence that we would not be growing old together. It was a shame, because I consider old age to be man’s noblest conquest, far ahead of horses.

‘Wipe your nose, you’ve got powder on it.’

‘Do you want some? It’s good.’

‘I don’t want to feel good.’

Hélène lit a cigarette and swallowed her espresso in one gulp. Already we had run out of things to say to each other.

‘How’s the book going?’

‘It’s coming out in September. My editor is very positive about it – he even bought me a hot dinner.’

‘I’m sure it will do well.’

‘Hmm, we’ll see.’

‘You have to believe in yourself, for God’s sake.’

‘Maybe it’s for others to believe in me. I’m fed up with writing; I’m giving it up and taking up breeding.’

‘Breeding? What are you going to breed?’

‘Plugs and sockets. I found a whole pile of them when I moved into the studio. The previous tenant was an electrician. I’ve married them together and I’m waiting for them to reproduce.’

‘One day, I’m sure you’ll—’

Her phone buzzed deep inside the enormous shoulder bag she always carried, cutting off her prediction.

‘Hello? … Yes … No … I have a lunch … This evening, yes … (intimate little laugh) … Me too … Six o’clock … Me too, see you this evening.’

Well, ‘me too’, I’ll buy a mobile so I’ll be able to leave myself messages: ‘See you this evening, Jeff, don’t forget the bread!’

‘Sorry, that was …’

‘Your boyfriend. You should call him back and tell him you are free for lunch.’

‘But I thought …’

‘No, can you see us in a deserted Chinese, on 1 November, listening to the nasal tones of a star from Shanghai and chowing down on spring rolls? Forget it.’

She didn’t protest. I paid for our drinks and we parted ways on the pavement, she to the left and me to the right, wishing each other good luck. C’est la vie.

TV

‘Why did you do it?’

Serge Cumin, my editor, was looking at me, aghast and open-mouthed as if I’d killed someone, which was sort of true.