.: e u r o p o l a r :. The European polar in line of sight :. fiction

It Seems…

Hervé le Corre
Translation: Claire Gorrara
(Il paraīt...)

It seems that when he came into the bar he said hello but no one answered, perhaps because of the noise of the TV showing a game from the African Cup. He went to sit down at a table near the window next to some card players who were smoking and drinking tea and talking loudly and occasionally laughing noisily. There were other empty tables in the bar but he walked towards that corner and sat down heavily, looking tired, wrapped up in a parka jacket, his chin covered by green scarf.

It was cold that day. An upsurge in the flu epidemic was expected in the region and perhaps this explains the green scarf, the exhausted air of the man and the hoarse voice with which he ordered his large coffee.

It seems that he didn’t look at anything, his big almond-shaped eyes were either devoid of expression or flickered over people and things without really stopping to look, not even the card game taking place two or three meters away from him. Sometimes, he put his hand on his chest, feeling something through the thickness of his clothes, like someone making sure that he has his identity papers on him or that his wallet is safely in his inside pocket.

It seems that men like him, lonely and sad, are often seen in this district of town where a good number of lonely, sad men live. These are destitute men who were born into even greater poverty and have been scorched by the sun and stifled by red dust. They have travelled along tracks traced by bare feet in the dry earth. Such poverty kills many more than massacres ; is worse than the hoards of child soldiers abandoned in the street. It is a poverty that throws men into the depths of a dry well to dig endlessly for water.

From time to time, this can be seen on your colour TV screen and you sympathise and ask yourself how are such things possible… what poor people, poor people. Sometimes you send money when there are too many dead bodies, when poverty and misfortune seem overwhelming, when the people cry out too loudly.

He got up slowly and stood for a moment, motionless, like a petrified statue, and you could see that he was tall, taller than had been thought when he first arrived. Then he plunged his hand into this parka jacket and pulled out a knife, a sort of machete with a freshly sharpened blade which flashed cold and white. Then he walked towards one of the card players, a man dressed in a spotless charcoal grey suit, a shirt with gold buttons and a blue tie; one of those men who are well dressed in a showy way, rings on all his fingers, and who draw looks from passers by.

It seems that he spoke one word that no one understood except the well dressed man who raised eyes filled with terror to him before the blade sank into his neck, a blade capable of cutting straight through a young sapling in a single stroke. Then, to the sound of his playing partners screams as they were sprayed with blood, the man’s grimacing head rolled onto the table into the middle of the cards and the multicoloured counters and ended up on the floor amongst the overturned chairs.

He pushed the stump of a body with the end of his foot and it tipped over onto the floor. He then sat down at a table, with his weapon laid in front of him.

It seems that, leaning calmly back in his chair, he stared directly at the three men who had not fled shouting into the street like the others. He looked straight into their terrified faces with his almond-shaped eyes, framed in curling lashes like flower stems arranged in a vase. At that point, the three men thought that their time had come and they commended their souls to God. Yet they couldn’t help looking at the head lying on its side, its eyes open, and the body slumped under a table in its beautiful charcoal grey suit.

The owner always kept a loaded gun in his office but either didn’t dare fetch it or the thought had not crossed his mind; he probably didn’t know which himself.

It seems that he did not move until the police arrived a few minutes later. He did not try to escape and he didn’t threaten anyone. He didn’t once look at the man he had just killed. When the policemen burst in, he got up which made then even more nervous than they usually are for this type of operation. They pointed their guns at him and moved towards him, crouching down like advancing soldiers, before throwing him to the ground with the barrel of a gun stuck to his temple.

It seems that they called him Mamadou or Bamboula but neither was his real name. His real name was only known afterwards when they asked him directly but they probably didn’t believe him because he did not have any identity papers on him.

It seems that he answered all their questions fully in an even voice, respectfully but wearily, so wearily that the cops, used to all kinds of play acting and dissemblance, hardened men like the scorched earth where rain no longer cares to fall, these cops began to speak less loudly to this melancholy murderer who told them in a quiet voice of even more terrible crimes.

It seems that he came from a village that the desert had begun to swallow up like a snake opening wide its jaws to ingest its prey. Children played there in the dust, women went to fetch muddy water from the well in the rippling heat, worn out men broke their hoes on burning stones and vultures constantly hovered overhead in the blindingly hot sky.

The old ones kept to the paltry shade of the few sparse trees and said prayers for the rain to come. They spoke of the days when people could bathe in the river whose outline now made up the track to the north, and told the young ones stories about prairies and antelopes.

It seems that the young men didn’t want to believe these tales and dreamt at night, in their huts, of the great towns of France, built on the banks of rivers that never dried up, of their shining lights that could put out the stars, of their friends or cousins who were there and did not want to come back until their fortune was made.

The young men used to lie awake, next to their wives, fired by their dream, it seems.

It seems that one day the youngest children were wracked by a bad cough and they had to be taken to the community clinic. There were about a dozen little ones, some still clinging to their mothers’ backs. It was a very bad cough.

The community clinic did not have anything. The nurse come by once a week in his car and looked at your eyes and mouth and listened to your chest and asked if everyone was well and said that everything would be fine. Sometimes he brought medicine.

It seems that that day he had some cough mixture that a cousin of his, a chemist, had sent over from France. The children drank the cough mixture and the parents brought one or two bottles to the village to help care for the others.

The children cried and didn’t want to drink it but they were forced to so that they would get better. Sometimes medicine does not taste nice.

The children died two days later.

It seems that it wasn’t cough mixture, although this was written on the box, on the bottle and on the instructions.

It seems that it was antifreeze. They put that in cars because, it seems, in some countries even the cars get cold.

There was great pain and immense anger. The old ones prayed to the vengeful gods and invoked the wild beasts of the past to come and prowl around the huts and enact the curses they heard.

It seems that it was easy to find the chemist cousin. He sold very cheap medication; he was very active in the trade.

It seems that the village nominated the wisest and most worthy of them to find him and to exact justice and everyone gave money to pay the people smuggler.

It seems that it took him two months to reach France.

When he had finished his story, it seems that the murderer began to cry. He said that they were tears of joy because he had fulfilled his duty.

An inquest will take place into the death of the children … it seems.

	European crime fiction in the crosshairs

	n°1 May-June 2005


	It Seems… Hervé le Corre Translation: Claire Gorrara (Il paraīt...) It seems that when he came into the bar he said hello but no one answered, perhaps because of the noise of the TV showing a game from the African Cup. He went to sit down at a table near the window next to some card players who were smoking and drinking tea and talking loudly and occasionally laughing noisily. There were other empty tables in the bar but he walked towards that corner and sat down heavily, looking tired, wrapped up in a parka jacket, his chin covered by green scarf. It was cold that day. An upsurge in the flu epidemic was expected in the region and perhaps this explains the green scarf, the exhausted air of the man and the hoarse voice with which he ordered his large coffee. It seems that he didn’t look at anything, his big almond-shaped eyes were either devoid of expression or flickered over people and things without really stopping to look, not even the card game taking place two or three meters away from him. Sometimes, he put his hand on his chest, feeling something through the thickness of his clothes, like someone making sure that he has his identity papers on him or that his wallet is safely in his inside pocket. It seems that men like him, lonely and sad, are often seen in this district of town where a good number of lonely, sad men live. These are destitute men who were born into even greater poverty and have been scorched by the sun and stifled by red dust. They have travelled along tracks traced by bare feet in the dry earth. Such poverty kills many more than massacres ; is worse than the hoards of child soldiers abandoned in the street. It is a poverty that throws men into the depths of a dry well to dig endlessly for water. From time to time, this can be seen on your colour TV screen and you sympathise and ask yourself how are such things possible… what poor people, poor people. Sometimes you send money when there are too many dead bodies, when poverty and misfortune seem overwhelming, when the people cry out too loudly. He got up slowly and stood for a moment, motionless, like a petrified statue, and you could see that he was tall, taller than had been thought when he first arrived. Then he plunged his hand into this parka jacket and pulled out a knife, a sort of machete with a freshly sharpened blade which flashed cold and white. Then he walked towards one of the card players, a man dressed in a spotless charcoal grey suit, a shirt with gold buttons and a blue tie; one of those men who are well dressed in a showy way, rings on all his fingers, and who draw looks from passers by. It seems that he spoke one word that no one understood except the well dressed man who raised eyes filled with terror to him before the blade sank into his neck, a blade capable of cutting straight through a young sapling in a single stroke. Then, to the sound of his playing partners screams as they were sprayed with blood, the man’s grimacing head rolled onto the table into the middle of the cards and the multicoloured counters and ended up on the floor amongst the overturned chairs. He pushed the stump of a body with the end of his foot and it tipped over onto the floor. He then sat down at a table, with his weapon laid in front of him. It seems that, leaning calmly back in his chair, he stared directly at the three men who had not fled shouting into the street like the others. He looked straight into their terrified faces with his almond-shaped eyes, framed in curling lashes like flower stems arranged in a vase. At that point, the three men thought that their time had come and they commended their souls to God. Yet they couldn’t help looking at the head lying on its side, its eyes open, and the body slumped under a table in its beautiful charcoal grey suit. The owner always kept a loaded gun in his office but either didn’t dare fetch it or the thought had not crossed his mind; he probably didn’t know which himself. It seems that he did not move until the police arrived a few minutes later. He did not try to escape and he didn’t threaten anyone. He didn’t once look at the man he had just killed. When the policemen burst in, he got up which made then even more nervous than they usually are for this type of operation. They pointed their guns at him and moved towards him, crouching down like advancing soldiers, before throwing him to the ground with the barrel of a gun stuck to his temple. It seems that they called him Mamadou or Bamboula but neither was his real name. His real name was only known afterwards when they asked him directly but they probably didn’t believe him because he did not have any identity papers on him. It seems that he answered all their questions fully in an even voice, respectfully but wearily, so wearily that the cops, used to all kinds of play acting and dissemblance, hardened men like the scorched earth where rain no longer cares to fall, these cops began to speak less loudly to this melancholy murderer who told them in a quiet voice of even more terrible crimes. It seems that he came from a village that the desert had begun to swallow up like a snake opening wide its jaws to ingest its prey. Children played there in the dust, women went to fetch muddy water from the well in the rippling heat, worn out men broke their hoes on burning stones and vultures constantly hovered overhead in the blindingly hot sky. The old ones kept to the paltry shade of the few sparse trees and said prayers for the rain to come. They spoke of the days when people could bathe in the river whose outline now made up the track to the north, and told the young ones stories about prairies and antelopes. It seems that the young men didn’t want to believe these tales and dreamt at night, in their huts, of the great towns of France, built on the banks of rivers that never dried up, of their shining lights that could put out the stars, of their friends or cousins who were there and did not want to come back until their fortune was made. The young men used to lie awake, next to their wives, fired by their dream, it seems. It seems that one day the youngest children were wracked by a bad cough and they had to be taken to the community clinic. There were about a dozen little ones, some still clinging to their mothers’ backs. It was a very bad cough. The community clinic did not have anything. The nurse come by once a week in his car and looked at your eyes and mouth and listened to your chest and asked if everyone was well and said that everything would be fine. Sometimes he brought medicine. It seems that that day he had some cough mixture that a cousin of his, a chemist, had sent over from France. The children drank the cough mixture and the parents brought one or two bottles to the village to help care for the others. The children cried and didn’t want to drink it but they were forced to so that they would get better. Sometimes medicine does not taste nice. The children died two days later. It seems that it wasn’t cough mixture, although this was written on the box, on the bottle and on the instructions. It seems that it was antifreeze. They put that in cars because, it seems, in some countries even the cars get cold. There was great pain and immense anger. The old ones prayed to the vengeful gods and invoked the wild beasts of the past to come and prowl around the huts and enact the curses they heard. It seems that it was easy to find the chemist cousin. He sold very cheap medication; he was very active in the trade. It seems that the village nominated the wisest and most worthy of them to find him and to exact justice and everyone gave money to pay the people smuggler. It seems that it took him two months to reach France. When he had finished his story, it seems that the murderer began to cry. He said that they were tears of joy because he had fulfilled his duty. An inquest will take place into the death of the children … it seems.
	powered by FreeFind