Joanne Harris - Five Quarters of the Orange

“Just watch,” he advised.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Luc reached in his pocket for his keys. “Must be in a hurry for breakfast, hein? Been waiting long?”

Louis just watched him without a word.

“Listen to this.” Luc made an expansive gesture. “Pancakes, farmhouse sausage, egg and bacon à l’anglaise. Le breakfast Dessanges. Plus a big pot of my very blackest, very meanest café noirissime , because I can tell you’ve had a rough night.” He laughed. “What was it, hein? Stakeout at the church bazaar? Someone molesting the local sheep? Or was it the other way around?”

Still Louis said nothing. He remained quite still, like a toy policeman, one hand on the handle of the trolley-thing in the grass.

Luc shrugged and opened the Snack-Wagon door.

“I guess you’ll be a bit more vocal when you’ve had my breakfast Dessanges.”

We watched for a few minutes as Luc brought out his awning and the pennants that advertised his daily menus. Louis stood stolidly beside the Snack-Wagon, seeming not to notice. Every now and again Luc sang out something cheerful at the waiting policeman. After a time I heard the sounds of music from the radio.

“What’s he waiting for?” I demanded impatiently. “Why doesn’t he say something?”

Paul grinned. “Give him time,” he advised. “Never quick on the uptake, the Ramondins, but once you get them going…”

Louis waited fully ten minutes. By that time Luc was still cheery but bewildered, and had all but abandoned any attempt at conversation. He had begun to heat the cooking plates for the pancakes, his paper hat tilted jauntily back from his forehead. Then, at last, Louis moved. Not far-he simply went to the back of the Snack-Wagon with his trolley and vanished from sight.

“What is that thing, anyway?” I asked.

“Hydraulic jack,” replied Paul, still smiling. “They use them in garages. Watch.”

And as we watched the Snack-Wagon began to tilt forward, ever so slowly. Almost imperceptibly at first, then with a sudden lurch that brought Dessanges out of his galley quicker than a ferret. He looked angry, but he looked scared too, taken off balance for the first time in the whole of this sorry game, and I liked that look just fine.

“What the fuck d’you think you’re doing!” he yelled at Ramondin, half incredulous. “What is this?”

Silence. I saw the wagon tilt again, just a little. Paul and I craned our necks to see what was going on.

Luc glanced briefly at the wagon to make sure it wasn’t damaged. The awning hung askew and the trailer had tilted drunkenly, like a shack built on sand. I saw the look of calculation come back into his face, the careful, sharp look of a man who not only has aces up his sleeve, but who believes he owns the whole pack.

“Had me going there for a minute,” he said in that cheery, relentless voice. “Hey, you really had me going. Knocked me sideways, you might say.”

We heard nothing from Louis, but thought we saw the wagon tilt a little more. Paul found that from the bedroom window we could see the rear of the Snack-Wagon, so we moved for a better view. Their voices were thin but audible in the cool morning air.

“Come on, man,” said Luc, a flicker of nerves in his voice now. “Joke over. Okay? Get the wagon back on its feet again and I’ll make you my breakfast special. On the house.”

Louis looked at him. “Certainly, sir,” he said pleasantly, but the wagon tipped a little farther forward anyway. Luc made a rapid gesture toward it, as if to steady it.

“I’d step away if I were you, sir,” suggested Louis mildly. “It doesn’t look very stable to me.” The wagon tipped another fraction.

“What do you think you’re playing at?” I could hear the angry note in his voice returning.

Louis only smiled. “Windy night last night, sir,” he observed gently, with another touch at the hydraulic jack at his feet. “Whole bunch of trees got blown down over by the river.”

I saw Luc stiffen. His rage made him graceless, his head jerking like that of a rooster getting ready for a fight. He was taller than Louis, I noticed, but much slighter. Louis, short and stocky, had spent most of his early life getting into fights. That’s why he got to be a policeman in the first place. Luc took a step forward.

“You just let go of that jack right now,” he said in a low, threatening voice.

Louis smiled. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

We saw it in a kind of inevitable slow motion. The Snack-Wagon, perched precariously on its edge, swung back as its support was removed. There was a crash as the contents of the galley-plates, glasses, cutlery, pans-were suddenly and violently displaced, hurled into the far side of the wagon with a splash of broken crockery. The wagon continued to move backward in a lazy arc, propelled by its own momentum and the weight of its displaced furniture. For a moment it seemed as if it might right itself. Then it toppled, slowly and almost ponderously, onto its side into the grass of the verge with a crash that shook my house and rattled the cups on the downstairs dresser so loudly that we heard it from our lookout in the bedroom.

For seconds the two men just looked at each other, Louis with an expression of concern and sympathy, Luc in disbelief and increasing fury. The Snack-Wagon lay on its side in the long grass, sounds of tinkling and breakage settling gently inside its belly.

“Oops,” said Louis.

Luc made a furious dash at Louis. For a second something blurred between them, arms, fists moving too fast for me to see properly. Then Luc was sitting in the grass with his hands over his face and Louis was helping him up with that kind expression of sympathy.

“Dear me, sir, how could that have happened? Taken over faint for a moment, were we? It’s the shock, it’s quite natural. Take it easy.”

Luc was spluttering with rage. “Have you-any-fucking- idea what you’ve done, you moron?” His words were unclear because of the way he held his hands in front of his face. Paul said later that he’d seen Louis’s elbow jab him neatly across the bridge of the nose, though it all happened a bit too quickly for me to catch. Pity. I’d have enjoyed seeing that.

“My lawyer’s going to take you-to the fucking cleaners -be almost worth it to see you-shit, I’m bleeding to death-” Funny, but I could hear the family resemblance now, more pronounced than it had been before, something about the way he emphasized syllables, the thwarted squeal of a spoiled city boy who’s never had anything denied him before. For a moment there I could have sworn he sounded just exactly like his sister.

Paul and I went downstairs then-I don’t think we could have stayed indoors for another minute-and out to watch the fun. Luc was standing by then, not so pretty now with blood dribbling from his nose and his eyes watering. I noticed he had fresh dogshit on one of his expensive Paris boots. I held out my handkerchief. Luc gave me a suspicious glance and took it. He began to dabble at his nose. I could tell he hadn’t understood yet; he was pale, but he had a stubborn kind of fighting look on his face, the look of a man who has lawyers and advisors and friends in high places to run to.

“You saw that, didn’t you?” he spat. “You saw what that fucker did to me?” He looked at the bloody handkerchief with a kind of disbelief. His nose was swelling nicely, and so were his eyes. “You both saw him hit me, didn’t you?” insisted Luc. “In broad daylight? I could sue you for every-fucking- penny -”

Paul shrugged. “Didn’t see much myself,” he said in his slow voice. “We old people, we don’t see as well as we used to-don’t hear as well either-”