Jean-Marie Le Clézio - The Flood

The rain slanted down evenly, on him and in front of him, descending from the sky at a dizzy speed. Besson looked up and tried to make out the point at which it formed into drops. But in that great blanked-out hollow there was nothing, not a star, not so much as the winking navigation lights of an aircraft, no fixed or moving point on which his eye could fasten and use as a marker. Nothing but the void, opaque and unfathomable, glowing with faint reflections from the lights of the town, suspended like some delicate rose-pink dome over the darkness.

There was something frightening about these endless drops that descended from nowhere, pattering on the ground and on one’s upturned face. Only a very little change in these tiny tear-like drops, and they would become a lethal weapon. Supposing, for instance, that they all joined together before they reached the earth: then this solid wall of water would thunder down in a single solid mass and engulf the world in a flash.

And perhaps, after all, that would have been a preferable alternative. The present danger was more frightening, because nothing could stop it. One by one these small drops fell, pitting the earth’s surface, without violence and without pity. Their minuscule darts struck home everywhere, drilling, sapping, boring, rotting away the substance of things. Granules of stone were rubbed loose, wooden surfaces lost their rough texture, iron plates were hollowed out, imperceptibly but inexorably, by the needling tattoo of countless million raindrops. Not even men’s head or faces were exempt. The tiny painless blows beat on their skin, the minuscule bruises increased and spread, turned into open suppurating wounds, edged with gangrenous mould. And still the rain fell, as though it would never stop — cold, diamond-hard, with a muffled hammering note that was somehow highly disturbing. It was horrible to be made the victim of erosion in this way. You couldn’t escape the rain, sooner or later it would find you out, its fine slanting needles would brush your skin like a file, reduce it to minute fragments, devour it, dissolve it utterly, without rhyme or reason; it would never let up until you became mere impalpable dust in its own watery domain. The only solution would have been to live in some cut-and-dried region where the sun blazed down continually, bury oneself deep in baking pebbles, and dry out one’s whole body, like damp brushwood.

About ten minutes past six a bus ran into the back of a car. Within seconds a crowd had gathered in the road. Shadowy figures gesticulated, and cars began to sound their horns. Besson observed the incident with detached curiosity. He left the pavement and went over to the stationary vehicles. The back of the car was in a bad way: the metal surface had ripped and crumpled like paper. The bus-driver had his face a few inches from that of the car’s owner, and was shouting at him, but there was such a loud hubbub going on all around that his insults remained inaudible. The other man, wrapped up in his raincoat, was shouting too, though not so energetically. Presently he made as though to go. He walked to the door of his car, but just as he was getting into the driver’s seat he changed his mind, came back to the bus-driver, and began shouting at him again. From time to time he would fumble in his raincoat pockets, as though about to produce some documents, or a handkerchief, but he never took anything out.

A tight ring of spectators had gathered round them: fat women wearing head-scarves, dogs on leads, men with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Besson mingled discreetly with the crowd, listening to their random remarks.

‘Just look at that — proper mess, eh?’

‘It’s the bus’s fault. They never look where they’re going—’

‘Too true, they just press on regardless. They don’t care, it’s not them who have to foot the bill—’

‘All the same, the other fellow did brake a bit sharply—’

‘Seen what’s left of the boot?’

‘My, doesn’t he look cross, eh?’

‘Look, seems to me he’s punctured one back tyre, too.’

‘It’s always the same at this crossing. Some sort of accident every day. Yesterday there was a cyclist knocked down by a truck here. Every day something happens here. Every bloody day.’

‘Well, if that bus-driver was in a hurry, he certainly got his come-uppance.’

‘They all drive like madmen—’

‘And they all just bash through regardless, and devil take the hindmost.’

‘Did you see how many deaths there were on the motorway last Thursday? Twenty-seven. Twenty-seven .’

‘Buses ought to have a special road all to themselves, don’t you think?’

‘They ought to have one-way streets everywhere, that’s what they ought to do.’

‘They always rely on the insurance companies to cough up when they have an accident. It’s true, I’m telling you. Why should they care?’

‘Hey, Momma, come and see the accident!’

‘Stupid pinheads—’

‘I agree, madam; I absolutely agree—’

‘Henri! Did you see the fellow’s face? Just like a chimpanzee—’

A quarter of an hour later the whole incident might never have happened. The crowd had dispersed, together with the traffic-jam. There were no more blowings of horns, no more gesticulations or insults. The only sign that something had really happened was a scatter of broken glass in the roadway. Besson stood there by the kerb, staring at this glittering relic, now being methodically washed down by the rain.

A moment later Josette pulled up in her car and hooted at him. Besson walked round to the other side of the vehicle and got in beside her. She let in the clutch and the car moved off.

‘You’re late,’ Besson said.

She did not so much as glance at her watch. ‘Not all that much. Were you waiting in the rain?’

‘Yes’

‘Why didn’t you take shelter?’

‘I was afraid you might miss me.’

She trod on the brake sharply. ‘Did you see that? He ran across right under my wheels—’

Besson lit a cigarette and looked around for the ashtray. She pressed a button.

‘There you are. What filthy weather.’

‘It certainly could be warmer,’ Besson said.

‘Did you get my letter?’

‘Yes, this morning.’

‘I very nearly didn’t come. I’m supposed to work till seven, normally.’

‘It was you who wanted to see me, though.’

‘I know, but I was wondering, after — after the other day—’

Besson stared at a group of pedestrians standing on the edge of the pavement. The man had a black umbrella and was wearing a very long overcoat. The two women were watching the approaching car.

‘It was more than a week since we’d seen each other,’ said Josette. ‘I thought you’d come round. When I realized you weren’t coming, I made up my mind, and sent you that letter. I — it just can’t go on like this.’

Besson made no reply. He looked at the girl beside him, a rapid glance first of all, just long enough to see her profile, with its sharply outlined nose, overlaid now by shadows and reflections; then a lingering, detailed scrutiny, that took in every square inch of flesh, each curve and angle of face and body, the black hair drawn back in a chignon, the pony-tail hanging down in two pluming curves.

She stiffened. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ Besson said. ‘I was just looking at you—’

‘Oh stop playing the fool. I was hoping — I was hoping we’d be able to have a serious discussion. Once and for all. I’ll park the car somewhere—’

She turned off into a side-street. Both hands gripping the black plastic-sheathed steering-wheel, the upper part of her body leaning to the left, eyes alert, mouth firmly shut, feet pressed on the pedals, she threw all her strength into controlling the moving weight of the car.