Eat Him If You Like Read Free

worried villager toyed idly with his hat. ‘Some people say it’s a comet. I do hope it won’t land on our heads! The barometer’s still rising.’
    Behind him, a couple of young calves struggled to keep their balance.
    ‘You don’t seem to have any females there, Antoine. I’m looking for a heifer for our Bertille.’
    ‘They’re with the other cows over there by the dried-up lake.’
    ‘And how’s business?’
    ‘Bad. We just can’t find any cattle dealers prepared to take the animals off our hands. I’ve never known anything like it. Everything is going wrong this year and the hens are barely laying either.’
    ‘Put your eggs in the shade, Antoine. They’ll bake in the sun.’
    ‘Silly me! What’s the matter with me today?’
    Alain continued on his way, trying to beat a path through the horseflies that buzzed relentlessly around the livestock. He was surrounded by the stench of animals, the shouts of horse dealers and the low drone of conversation. From time to time he would overhear the odd snippet: ‘This heat! Soon we’ll be trying to get water from stones!’ ‘My throat’s as dry as kindling. I’m almost afraid that if I spit, I’ll start a fire!’ A little old man who sold umbrellas was complaining he hadn’t sold enough this year. He was speaking to Sarlat, a tailor from Nontronneau. Sarlat peered through his glasses at Alain as he passed, recognised the summer suit that he himself had made, gave Alain a thumbs up, winking to let him know that it looked good on him. The smell of frying meat and doughnuts hung in the air, but hardly anyone could afford to buy them. Someone was telling a story:
    ‘So, the prefect of Ribérac went up to the mayor here in Hautefaye and asked, “Do you have any rebels in your region?” To which the mayor replied, “We’ve got brown bulls and black bulls, but no re-bulls!”’
    ‘That Bernard Mathieu, he does come out with them. I don’t know where he gets them from! He says such funny things,’ chuckled a cobbler.
    Despite the laughter around him, Alain had the impression that, this year, the place was pretending to be jolly. Sweating men tanned from the sun spread lard and rubbed garlic on their crusts of bread, which they swallowed down, rolling their worried eyes as they ate. On the other side of the road, Alain spotted the ragman he had overtaken on his horse earlier and to whom he had promised his ‘scraps’. The man was sitting on the low dry-stone wall looking stricken.
    ‘What’s wrong with him this year?’
    ‘Piarrouty learnt of his son’s death yesterday,’ explained a nearby man. ‘He was shot in the head by a machine gun at Reichshoffen. A letter was sent to the mayor’s house in Lussas. It was from one of the boy’s injured friends who’d found him shot to smithereens. He’d even picked a lucky number, but a pharmacist’s son who had an unlucky one bought it from him at Pons.’
    The old ragman remained prostrate, his weighing hook across his thighs and a bottle of wine at his feet. He was distraught that he had sold his son to replace someone else. A loud droning sound came from the crowd. Small knots of people started to form. The heat was becoming heavy and oppressive.
    Alain shook hands with the friendly villagers as he passed. Small landowners like himself, at the fair to do business, wandered amongst the crowd. The opulent glint of rings on their fingers made them easy to identify. They stopped to talk to tenant farmers about breaking the terms of their lease, and said they would discuss the matter again on St Michael’s day, when it was the tradition for bosses and workers to settle their yearly accounts.
    ‘Oh, Alain,’ said Pierre Antony, a friend and neighbour, as he approached, ‘I wanted to congratulate you on being elected unanimously as leader of Beaussac town council! There never was a worthier candidate.’
    ‘Amédée must be so proud!’ added a stonemason from Beaussac, referring to Alain’s father.