Moon in a Dead Eye by Pascal Garnier

anything goes. It was strange, but since Maxime had shot at him, he had become fixated on the revolver; he wanted one of his own, the same as Maxime’s. Not because of the gypsies, or to defend himself from anything, no; just so that he could feel the weight of the weapon in his hand, the roughness of the grip, to hold out his arm, close one eye, cock the hammer, and then … The target was not important. His parents, staunch pacifists and strict vegetarians, had never even let him have a pop gun, dart gun or water pistol, nor indeed anything that might in any way be seen to mimic war play or hunting. At tea time, Martial would nibble his way through his Petit Beurre biscuits so that he could go out and play with his classmates and swap his chocolate bar for slices of saucisson. The disappointment every Christmas at finding another miserable board game, Meccano No. 4 set or a light-up globe under the tree, while his friends strutted about dressed as Zorro or Robin Hood … Wham! … The thirteenth fly gave up its flattened ghost on the arm of the chair. Maxime blew sharply on the swatter and a speck of existence fell away.

    ‘I don’t give a damn what special powers you have and, as for your report, you know where you can stick it! My gun licence is entirely in order and if that’s not enough, let me tell you I have friends in the very highest places. If you bloody well got on with your job instead of hounding good, honest people, we wouldn’t have to worry about defending ourselves! For crying out loud, it’s a free country, isn’t it?’
    Monsieur Flesh shrugged and turned on the doorstep of Maxime’s house, leaving its wheelchair-bound owner beetroot-redand spitting venom. On his way out of the garden, he shoved past Martial coming the other way, having overheard the end of the argument. Something along the lines of ‘stupid old fart’ emerged from the caretaker’s pursed lips. Martial carried on up the path, his hand outstretched.
    ‘What’s going on, Maxime?’
    ‘Some bastard’s told him I shot at you … Martial, it wasn’t …’
    ‘The very idea! I’d never dream of it, nor would Odette! We keep those sorts of things to ourselves.’
    ‘What about Léa then?’
    ‘She wasn’t here.’
    ‘Well, someone must have told him! … Forget it, I don’t give a damn. Let’s have a drink, that moron has got me all wound up.’

    The umbrella kept the men in a cone of shade, like two sad clowns left in the gloomy big top at the end of the show. They could hear laughter and splashing coming from the swimming pool. Maxime was on his third glass. Beads of sweat, darkened by hair dye, streamed from his temples to his neck.
    ‘That pool … That damned pool! There’s nothing to do in this place but swim. We’re not bloody ducks! … Are all three of them in there?’
    ‘I didn’t see Léa.’
    ‘With all that coming and going, that woman’s going to come to no good. It’ll be her own doing.’
    ‘Will you tell me something, Maxime? During the war, did you kill anybody?’
    ‘Why do you want to know that?’
    ‘I don’t know, I just wondered … what it’s like …’
    ‘It’s like … well, it’s not like anything, because you neverknow. Most of the time it’s dark or you’re surrounded by smoke and you can’t see anything. You just shoot … and maybe.’
    ‘What about bodies? Did you ever see dead bodies?’
    ‘Of course I did! I don’t see quite what you’re getting at.’
    ‘Oh nothing. Like I said, I just wondered … I’ve seen dead people too, but they died naturally – my father, my mother, an uncle, an aunt … You see what I mean, it’s not the same … because they were old, I suppose.’
    ‘You’re right, it’s not the same. It’s like they’re just playing dead. It all happens so quickly in war … I’ve seen bodies twisted out of all recognition, blown to bits, torn apart, blackened … Could we talk about something else?’
    ‘Yes, of course, sorry … Maxime,