8

And then, after a long-drawn-out minute, the two hit men decided to flee. Because they weren’t finishing off their prey. Because their prey had turned into a kind of hysterical machine hurling masses of water around and threatening at any instant to scratch one of their eyes out. And because at any moment now Gerfaut would get enough air into his lungs to cry out, and the people around, who for the time being were peacefully playing their little games and minding their own business, would inevitably realize that something was amiss. Escaping would then entail fighting a way through a veritable throng while waist-high in water. The prospect did not fill the hit men with enthusiasm. So, for all these reasons, the pair decided to flee.

For a few seconds, Gerfaut continued thrashing about, groaning and moaning and unaware he was all alone. By the time he got his wind back and realized that he had really been released, his two attackers were already on dry land. It took Gerfaut a moment to spot them trotting back up the beach. A trickle of blood was visible on the small dark one’s leg, and he was hobbling. Then they left the beach and crossed the road and were lost to Gerfaut’s view. The beachfront road was elevated above the sand; there was a balustrade; and parking on the beach side of the street was forbidden. A minute or so later, Gerfaut saw a red sports car start up in a hurry and head off. He pointed vaguely, but he couldn’t even be sure that it was the aggressors’ car. His arm fell limply to his side. He cast a glance at the bathers around him.

“Murderers!” he yelled, but his cry lacked conviction.

The black African looked at him suspiciously, then swam off with an impeccable crawl. The others carried on throwing themselves into the water, playing ball, cackling and yelping. Gerfaut shook his head and waded slowly back to the beach, doing breathing exercises. As he made for Béa and the girls, his legs felt distinctly wobbly and his throat was burning. He sat down in his deck chair.

“How was the water?” asked Béa without raising her eyes from her book.

“Tell me this,” said Gerfaut abruptly in a hoarse voice. “Have you been pulling some kind of stupid practical joke on me?”

“What are you talking about?” Béa turned toward Gerfaut and pushed her sunglasses down onto the end of her nose. Over the frames, she contemplated her husband with wide eyes and not a little impatience. “What’s that on your neck? It’s all red.”

“Nothing. It’s nothing,” replied Gerfaut in a tone that discouraged further inquiry.

Béa raised her eyebrows and plunged back into her Kollontai. Gerfaut whistled a few bars of “Moonlight in Vermont,” broke off, and looked uncertainly at Béa. Twisting in his chair, he scanned the beach and the sidewalk of the beachfront, narrowing his eyes, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary. In point of fact, the two hit men were now four kilometers away in a café-restaurant. They were grumbling and bickering and had just ordered two dozen oysters and a bottle of Muscadet de Sèvre et Maine as consolation for their recent pitiful failure. Once again, Gerfaut shifted his position in his deck chair, leaning down to root in Béa’s beach bag for a book by someone called Castoriadis that dealt with the historical experience of the workers’ movement. For a while he pretended to read. A bit later, with the sun a little lower in the sky, Gerfaut, Béa, and the girls returned to their rented house to change and freshen up. Then they went out again and made their way to a Breton crêperie near the seafront between the amusement park and the bikerental store. Béa hated cooking. They ate quickly because the girls wanted to be back in time for a film showing that evening on television. The movie was Pickup on South Street, directed by Samuel Fuller. Gerfaut could no longer stand the feelings he was having. About eight-twenty-five, he announced that he was going out for cigarettes. As night slowly approached, he wandered around Saint-Georges-de-Didonne. Gerfaut almost wished that the two men would reappear and attack him again—if only to put an end to his uncertainty. He found himself on the beachfront, and when a bus came by on its way to Royan, he caught it. Once in Royan he resumed his strolling. At ten o’clock, he boarded a train from Royan to Paris. Afterward, curiously, the only thing he recalled from his walk around Royan that evening was the sign in the window of a store called Fairy Fingers: LINGERIE—GENTLEMEN’S SHIRTS—HOSIERY—NOTIONS—SPECIALISTS IN DELUXE UNDERGARMENTS—BABY WEAR—LACE—KNICK-KNACKS—BIBS—FINE HANDKERCHIEFS—BUTTONS—FORM-FAST AND REDUCING CORSETS (NEVER RIDE UP—NO NEED FOR GARTERS). ALSO ALL TYPES OF GIRDLES AND BRAS—PLEATING—OPENWORK EMBROIDERY FOR BED LINEN—BUTTONHOLES—STOCKING REPAIR—BUCKLES.