She goes to the doorway where Arnaud confronted me a few days earlier. The warped door’s hinges creak as she opens it, letting light into what I now see is a small, windowless storeroom. A wave of cold, damp air rolls out from it, and as my eyes adjust I make out an untidy sprawl of building equipment with bags of sand and cement. Like the platform at the top of the scaffold, there’s a touch of the
There’s a groan from the hinges as the door starts to swing shut behind us, cutting off the light. I turn to stop it, and jump as I see someone standing there. But it’s only a pair of overalls hanging from a nail. At least Mathilde hasn’t noticed my nerves. She stands to one side of the doorway, as though reluctant to come any further.
‘Everything should be in here. There’s cement and sand, and a tap for water. Use whatever you need.’
I look at the mess in the small room. ‘Was your father doing the work before?’
‘No, a local man.’
Whoever he was, he left in a hurry. I give the spade handle a tug. It quivers but doesn’t budge, stuck fast in the solidified mortar.
‘Why didn’t he finish?’
‘There was a disagreement.’
She doesn’t enlarge. I go to examine the cement. Damp has made the grey powder from the split bag clump together, and when I prod the unopened bags they’re hard as stone.
‘I’ll need more cement.’
Mathilde’s standing with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest. ‘Do you need it straight away? Isn’t there something else you can be doing?’
I consider the piled bags, knowing I’m just stalling for time. ‘I suppose I can hack out more of the old mortar…’
‘Fine,’ she says, and goes back out into the courtyard.
I take a last look around the dark room with its abandoned tools, then follow her into the sunlight. Mathilde is waiting in the courtyard, and though her face is as hard to read as ever she looks pale.
‘Everything OK?’ I ask.
‘Of course.’ Her hand goes to her hair, absently tucking it back. ‘Is there anything else you need for now?’
‘Well, I’m out of cigarettes. Is there somewhere nearby I can buy some?’
She considers this new difficulty. ‘There’s a tabac at the garage, but it’s too far to—’
The front door opens and Gretchen comes out. She’s carrying Michel on one hip, and her lips tighten when she sees us. Ignoring me, she gives her sister a sullen stare.
‘Papa wants to see him.’ She lifts her chin with malicious satisfaction. ‘Alone.’
It’s the first time I’ve been inside since I asked for water. The kitchen is low-ceilinged and dark, with thick walls and small windows built to stay cool in the summer heat. There’s a smell of beeswax, cooked meat and coffee. An old range dominates one wall, and the heavy wooden furniture looks as though it’s stood here for generations. The scratched white boxes of the refrigerator and freezer look gratingly modern in this setting.
Arnaud is cleaning his rifle at a scarred wooden table. The half-moon glasses perched on his nose give him an incongruously bookish air, difficult to reconcile with the man who kicked me down the steps. He doesn’t look up, continuing to work on the rifle as though I’m not there. I catch a whiff of gun oil and what I guess is cordite as he threads a long wire brush, like a miniature chimney sweep’s, into the rifle barrel. It makes a fluted whisper as he pulls it through.
I shift my weight on the crutch. ‘You wanted to see me?’
He unhurriedly squints down the barrel’s length before lowering it. Folding his glasses, he puts them in his breast pocket then sits back in his chair. Only now does he look at me.
‘Mathilde says you’re looking for a job.’
That’s not how I remember it, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘If there’s one going.’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ Arnaud’s jaw works as if he’s trying to crack a nut. Below it, the flesh of his throat has loosened with age, like an ageing weightlifter’s. ‘My daughter can tell you what she likes, but I’m the one who’ll decide who works here. Ever worked on a farm?’
‘No.’
‘Any building experience?’
‘Not much.’
‘Then why should I take a chance on you?’
I can’t actually think of a reason. So I remain silent, trying not to look at the rifle. Arnaud sniffs.
‘Why are you here?’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s because of his traps, but that would only provoke him. Even if I’m no longer quite so worried that he’ll shoot me, I’m uncomfortably aware that any job offer depends on his good graces.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I
I can tell from his manner that Gretchen’s been talking. ‘This and that. I’ve had a few jobs.’
