‘I know you, Didier Marchant, I know who you are!’ one shouts, as another of them speaks into a phone.
‘Fuck off and die,’ Didier calls back without looking round.
He’s been pumping himself up, getting ready to start. Suddenly he feints a punch, snapping his fist out and drawing back at the last second. They laugh as I step back against the edge of the fountain. I instinctively raise the walking stick but my arms feel cumbersome and heavy.
‘Yeah?’ Didier says. ‘You going to hit me with that? Come on, then!’
He doesn’t really believe I will, and there’s an instant when I have a chance. The end of the walking stick is weighted and thick, and I can imagine the impact as it strikes his head. I can hear the crack of bone again as Georges brings the hammer down onto the pig’s skull, the thud of a falling body. For a heartbeat I’m back in a dark street, seeing blood black and sticky under a streetlight. It makes me hesitate, but Didier doesn’t.
He hits me in the face.
There’s a burst of light. I stagger sideways, swinging the stick blindly. It’s knocked from my hand. As it clatters to the ground something drives into my stomach, forcing the breath from me. I double up, raising my hands in a futile attempt to protect my head.
‘What’s going on?’
The voice is deeper and authoritative. Gasping, I look up as someone shoulders my attackers aside. Still bent over, all I can make out is a pair of bib-and-braces overalls. I raise my head further and see the brawny man from the roadside bar, the one Mathilde called Jean-Claude. Behind him is the boules player who was on the phone earlier, standing well back as the newcomer confronts the three younger men.
‘I said what’s going on?’
Didier answers sullenly. ‘Nothing.’
‘This is nothing, is it? And does Philippe know one of his mechanics is bumming off work doing this sort of “nothing” in the town square?’
‘Keep out of it, Jean-Claude.’
‘Why? So you stupid shits can beat someone up in the middle of town?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘None of my business? Whose business is it if it isn’t mine? Yours?’
‘He’s working for Arnaud. He’s got no right to be here.’
‘And you have?’ The man’s stubbled face is growing darker. ‘OK, if you’re going to beat anyone up you can start with me.’
‘Jean-Claude—’
‘What are you waiting for?’ He spreads his hands, looking capable of snapping all three younger men in half. ‘Come on, hero, I’m waiting.’
Didier looks down at his feet.
‘No? Lost your taste for it?’ The man shakes his head, disgusted. ‘Go on, fuck off, all of you.’
They don’t move.
‘I said go!’
Reluctantly, they begin to drift away. Didier pauses long enough to point at me.
‘Don’t think this is over.’
The man watches them stalk off. ‘You all right?’
I nod, but I have to lean against the fountain to hide my shaking. My cheek hurts from Didier’s punch and my stomach feels bruised, but there’s nothing serious.
I raise a hand in acknowledgement as the old boules player goes back to the game, then retrieve my walking stick and straighten to face the man who’s just saved me. I don’t blame my attackers for backing down. He’s about my height, but there’s the solidness of a rock about him, and the thick hands are so calloused they look incapable of bleeding.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Forget it. I should be the one apologizing.’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Didier’s my cousin. When he screws up it always comes back on the family.’
‘I appreciate it, anyway.’ I lift the dripping bag of croissants from the fountain. Water streams from the sodden pastries as I drop them in a bin. ‘What’s his problem with Arnaud?’
The big man glances at my overalls. I get the impression he’s been trying hard not to. ‘You’re working on the house?’
‘I just came in for building supplies.’
I notice he’s avoided answering my question. For the first time it occurs to me that, if I’m right about him being Michel’s father, then I might have taken his job. But his next statement rules that out.
‘I manage the builders’ yard. I must have missed you.’ Again, his eyes go to the overalls I’m wearing. ‘How did you wind up at Arnaud’s?’
‘I was hitching and injured my foot in their woods. Mathilde patched me up.’
‘I thought you said you trod on a nail?’
It’s my turn to be evasive. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to stir up trouble either.
‘Why is everyone so worked up about Arnaud? What’s he done?’ I ask instead.
Jean-Claude’s face closes down. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’
‘That isn’t what Didier thought.’
‘Didier’s a prick. But if you want my advice, stay clear of town. Or better still, find somewhere else to work.’
‘Why? Come on, you can’t just leave it at that,’ I say, as he starts to go.
For a second or two I can see he’s torn. He rubs at his chin, turning over some point in his mind. Then he shakes his head, more to himself than to me.
‘Tell Mathilde that Jean-Claude was asking after his nephew.’
Leaving me by the fountain, he walks out of the square.
11
In the heat of the sun the drying mortar gives off a smell as evocative as freshly baked bread. I mix the sand and cement together in the metal tub, then carry a bucketful up to the top of the scaffold. I transfer a small pile onto a wooden board, about a foot square, that I found in the storeroom, then trowel it into the grooves I’ve hacked out between the stones.
Pointing the wall is slow work yet oddly restful. There’s something pleasurable about the soft hiss the trowel makes as I run the flat of its blade along the wet mortar to smooth it. Foot by foot, the wall is being remade. I replace the loose stones as I come to them, easing each heavy block into place and then mortaring around it until it’s indistinguishable from the rest. In the days since I visited the town, the upper level of the house has begun to look solid and whole rather than a ruin on the verge of collapse. Each evening when I stop work I get a small charge when I look at what I’ve accomplished. It’s a long time since I’ve done anything constructive.
It’s longer since I’ve done anything I’ve felt proud of.
I finish the last of the mortar and take the bucket down to the storeroom to refill. The afternoon sun is blinding overhead, whiting out the blue of the sky with its mindless heat. When it’s like this it’s impossible to imagine the same landscape in winter, made brown and brittle or hidden under a skim of frost. But I know it’ll come, all the same.
What little mortar is left in the galvanized tub has set. I scrape it out onto the pile outside the storeroom and decide I’ve earned a rest before I mix another batch. I sit in the shade and light up a cigarette. From down here it’s apparent just how much there is still to do. The knowledge is somehow comforting. I take another drag on the cigarette, contemplating it.
‘I’m not paying you to sit on your arse.’
Arnaud has appeared around the corner of the house. I take an unhurried drag of the cigarette.
‘You’ve not paid me for anything yet.’
‘What do you call three meals a day and a roof over your head? You’ll get the rest when you’ve earned it.’ He squints up at the house. The completed section seems even smaller than it did a moment ago. ‘Not done much, have you?’