William Boyd - On the Yankee Station - Stories

Eight cows later, Marcel wheeled in the first of the buckets. He was simple and had a harelip. He never spoke much. He turned on the hoses and water sprays and plunged his bare hands into the gelatinous mass of entrails and heaved great piles into the brimming sinks. There were arm-length rubber gloves for this purpose but Marcel maintained that they only made his job harder.

Marguerite stood above the overflowing steaming basins and quickly sorted the larger pieces of offal from the long strings of intestines. She flung the stomachs onto a recessed tray which Marcel later took through to the tripe room. Her overalls were soon covered by a green slime of blood and feculence. She took a bucket of the washed viscera over to the mangle and forced an end of gut between the rollers. She grunted slightly as she turned the handle to run them through. Green and purple efflux plopped and spouted from the other end, splashing onto her boots and the floor, where it was hosed into the drains by Marcel.

Pale emptied ropes of intestine were collected in a zinc bucket on the other side of the mangle. Marguerite gave them a final wash-through with a high-pressure hose to remove all remaining particles before Marcel took them to be prepared for tripe. She worked on this way until lunchtime, pausing occasionally to smoke a cigarette or take a drink from a bottle of Calvados she kept on a window ledge.

That night Eric lay in bed thinking about the next day. It was all arranged for lunchtime. Apparently Marguerite always ate lunch in her car. Momo was going to write a note for him to give to her. That was all he had to do.

Eric wondered what it would be like. What it would feel like. He wondered what Morton and Haines would say when he told them back at school. Was it going to be any different from when he did it himself? He slipped his hand into his pyjama trousers and touched himself, ran his fingers over his neat bush of pubic hair. He couldn’t imagine it at all. It seemed so easy. What if something went wrong?

The three boys were waiting at the back of the abattoir by eleven o’clock. Eric kept clearing his throat, and his palms were wet with perspiration even though it was a cool morning. Momo had written out the brief note; he was being especially nice that day.

“What is it I have to say?” Eric asked for the tenth time.

“Just say, ‘ Vous êtes Madame Marguerite?’ and give her the note.”

“Vous êtes Madame Marguerite?”

“Good,” Momo said. “Très bien,” and handed him the piece of paper. Eric unfolded it. Momo had printed in block letters “JE VOUDRAIS TE SAUTER GROSSE TRUIE.”

“What does it mean?” Eric asked Pierre-Etienne.

“It means: ‘I want to make love with you, you lovely woman.’ ”

Eric frowned. “Are you sure? I always thought sauter meant to jump.”

“Oh, it’s an expression you can use,” Pierre-Etienne said quickly, glancing at Momo, who added, “It’s a more agreeable way to say it.”

“Ah. I see. Okay.”

When Marguerite appeared, Eric was surprised at how big she was. When she climbed into her car it tossed on its springs like a boat in a storm. At once a blind funk seized him and he felt convinced that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But Momo and Pierre-Etienne were urging him on relentlessly, as if they were aware of the weight of self-doubt building up in his mind. The consequences of backing out at this stage were too severe to be contemplated; the immense agonies of shame and abuse that would have to be endured. It was too late for second thoughts now. In any case he felt strangely cushioned from events and embarrassment by the barrier of language; it was like watching yourself on a home movie. Besides, if she swore at him or called the police he just wouldn’t understand, and anyway, he was going home tomorrow.

However, as he crunched across the gravel of the carpark he felt very lonely and exposed. He looked back at Pierre-Etienne and Momo, who eagerly waved him on. They had made it sound like the most natural thing in the world, something any youth in Villers-Bocage did as a matter of course — an easy initiation. There had been disparaging remarks about the effeminate, gelded sissies who balked at the opportunity. “Ils sont vraiment les gonzesses, les tantouzes.” Eric asked what they were. “Les pédés, homosexuels,” plump Momo said, his voice hoarse with disdain. Now as he walked across the car-park he felt the gaze of the two boys at his back like a goad.

Marguerite sat in the passenger seat of her small car, which listed heavily. She had finished her sandwich. Eric looked at her forearm, which rested on the sill. It was very white, white as a fridge, and large and soft. There was a dark shadow of hairs running down it. Her fingernails were rimmed with what looked like brown ink.

Eric cleared his throat. “Êtes-vous Madame Marguerite?” he asked, holding out the note.

“Êtes-vous Madame Marguerite?”

Marguerite looked round. The boy was standing against the light and at first she couldn’t really see him. She took the note he was holding but he didn’t go away. She opened it up and read the message. She felt her face grow hot with anger and her mouth tightened. To her surprise the boy remained standing; she had expected to see him scampering off, laughing delightedly at his filthy joke. But he was not even smiling; he seemed a little nervous.

Marguerite opened the door of the car and got out. She folded her arms across her bosom and glared at the boy. He was tall and slender with straight blond hair that fell across his forehead. His face was awkward and uneven with adolescence, as if he’d borrowed some features from a larger person. He had small pink spots at the corners of his mouth and on his chin.

“Ah, bon,” she said, her anger making her voice tremble. “Tu veux m’sauter”

“Um … ah, pardon?” the boy said.

She heard his accent. Her anger began to fade. It never lasted long anyway. The joke was on him. “Anglais?” she asked.

He nodded. Marguerite looked round for his friends, the ones who had played the joke, but she couldn’t see anyone. She flourished the note.

“C’est ordurier ça” But he didn’t understand her. His quick smile was nervous and uncertain and she suddenly felt sorry for him. She breathed out slowly and looked at him again. The anger had barely rippled the placid lake of her total indifference. She seldom let her mind contribute anything to the flow of experience. It had only brought her anguish and difficulty. So now she passively received the sensations it threw at her. She had no doubts and she had no complaints.

“Okay,” she said and beckoned him to follow. She led him out of the car-park and round a corner to a cluster of outbuildings, garages and store-rooms. She opened a wooden door at the back of a garage and showed him in. On the wall a shelf of sunlight from a high window illuminated some old packing-cases and cardboard boxes. In the corner was a bed of sorts: a mattress and a blanket. There were a grimy sink and a table and a chair. Some newspapers and magazines lay on the table. The room was used by the security guards; somewhere to go if the rain was heavy, a place for an undisturbed smoke and a chat, somewhere to take Marguerite.

She came up behind the boy, who was looking round him uncomfortably. She touched his hair; it was very clean and shiny. He was surprised and glanced round quickly, automatically raising a hand to the back of his head. Marguerite smiled at him, enjoying his youth and his reticence.

“Vas y,” she said, pointing to the mattress. The boy started to unbutton his shirt and slipped it off his shoulders. He kicked off his shoes. Marguerite was surprised; no man had ever bothered to undress for her before — at the most, trousers were lowered to the knees — and she removed only what was essential.