ection>
Praise for Pascal Garnier:
The combination of sudden violence, surreal touches and bone-dry humour have led to Garnier’s work being compared with the films of Tarantino and the Coen brothers, but perhaps more apposite would be the thrillers of Claude Chabrol, a filmmaker who could make the ordinary seethe with menace. When the denouement suddenly begins in The Panda Theory, it is so unexpected that I read the page twice in shocked disbelief. This might be classed as a genre novel, but Garnier’s take on the frailty of life has a bracing originality.
Sunday Times
The final descent into violence is worthy of J G Ballard.
The Independent
This often bleak, often funny and never predictable narrative is written in a precise style; Garnier chooses to decorate his text with philosophical musings rather than description. He does, however, combine a sense of the surreal with a ruthless wit, and this lightens the mood as he condemns his characters to the kind of miserable existence you might find in a Cormac McCarthy novel.
The Observer
For those with a taste for Georges Simenon or Patricia Highsmith, Garnier’s recently translated oeuvre will strike a chord … While this is an undeniably steely work … occasional outbreaks of dark humour suddenly pierce the clouds of encroaching existential gloom
The Independent
A brilliant exercise in grim and gripping irony.
Sunday Telegraph
A master of the surreal noir thriller – Luis Buñuel meets Georges Simenon.
TLS
The Front Seat Passenger
Pascal Garnier
Translated from the French by Jane Aitken
For my brother Philippe
Contents
1 Title Page
2 Dedication
3 The Front Seat Passenger
4 About the Author
5 Also by Pascal Garnier:
6 Copyright
‘Love stories usually end in tears …’
An index finger with a bitten nail abruptly cut Rita Mitsouko off. The sudden return to silence hurt. Ten fingers began to tap the steering wheel, making a dull, monotonous, rhythmic sound. Like rain. The dashboard dials glowed fluorescent green. There was no other light for miles around. No stars. Just a very faint gleam, over there, behind the hills, revealing a faraway town. The right hand moved from the steering wheel, caressing the gear lever, as one might the head of a cat, or the handle of a gun. It was a good car, powerful, reliable, grey. Eleven thirty, they shouldn’t be long now. Staring at the second hand made it seem as if it had stopped. But no, it was continuing its relentless passage, like a donkey turning the grindstone of a mill.
Then suddenly coming over the hill, the beam of headlights, night paling, receding … The right hand grasped the lever and changed up a gear. The left hand gripped the steering wheel. The right headlamp of the car hurtling over the hill was skewed towards the verge. The grey car, all its lights off, accelerated forward like a bagatelle ball. It was definitely them: right time, same wonky headlight.
In the forest a fox had just ripped open a rabbit. It pricked up its ears when it heard the squealing of tyres on tarmac and the clang of metal in the ravine. But that only lasted a few seconds. Then silence descended again. With one bite, the fox disembowelled the rabbit and plunged its muzzle into the steaming innards. All around it, thousands of animals, large and small, were eating or climbing on top of each other for the sole purpose of perpetuating their species.
‘You eat your vegetables with your meat?’
‘Uh … yes.’
‘When you were little, you used to do the same as me: first the meat, then the vegetables … People change.’
His father had a habit of punctuating his speech with little platitudes like ‘People change … When you got to go, you got to go … That’s life … That’s the way it goes.’ He made them sound like wise maxims. People change … It was true that the old man had taken it hard when he heard that Charlotte had died, even though he hadn’t seen her for thirty-five years. He seemed to shrink in on himself, collapsing as if someone had just whisked a stool out from under him. He appeared hollowed out. Had you tapped him on the back he would have uttered a sound like owls in a dead tree. Fabien had noticed it last week on the phone, a sort of strange echo in his father’s voice, like a far-off appeal.
‘There’s a car-boot sale at Ferranville next Sunday – do you want to give me a hand? To get rid of some stuff …’ And then just before hanging up: ‘Charlotte’s dead.’
From the moment she had left them when Fabien was five, she was always referred to as Charlotte, never ‘Maman’. Fabien had never heard his father say a bad word about her, nor a good word; he simply didn’t mention her. Like Dreyfus, he had exiled her to a place in his memory as distant as Devil’s Island.
His nose practically touching the end of his fork as he bent over his plate, the old man was making little heaps of carrots, potatoes and green beans, neat and tidy the way they grew in his vegetable patch.
‘It went quite well today. How much did you make?’
‘Not sure … Five hundred francs, six hundred maybe. It was really just to make space.’
‘I didn’t realise you had kept all that stuff up there.’
‘All what stuff?’
‘Charlotte’s things.’
His father shrugged, rose and went to scrape his barely touched plate into the compost bin. Fabien had the impression that it was so that he could turn away and wipe a tear. He bit his lip. He shouldn’t have mentioned Charlotte, but he’d been here for three days now and he was still waiting for his father to say something about her. He couldn’t help suspecting that for the last thirty years the old man had secretly been hoping that one fine day Charlotte would reappear to collect her possessions. Her possessions … Ghosts didn’t have possessions; they didn’t have lizard-skin shoes or red handbags. A young girl had bought the shoes and bag that morning at the sale. Seventy francs altogether. His father hadn’t tried to push the price up. His hand hadn’t trembled as he handed over the thirty francs’ change. But he had gazed after the girl until long after she had disappeared into the crowd.
‘What time’s your train?’
‘Six
