Soft in the Head Read Free Page A

your head spinning, you think about her every minute of every day the Good Lord sends, at times like this it feels like your brain has taken up residence in your dick, but if you just tell her I love you like crazy etc., etc., it can help a little when it comes to dealing with it.
    And yet what should matter is not the wrapping but what you put inside.
    There are beautiful gift-wrapped packages with pathetic shit inside, and crudely wrapped packages that contain real treasures. That’s why, when it comes to words, I’m suspicious, you understand?
    Thinking back, it was probably best that I didn’t know too many words. I didn’t need to choose: I simply said what I knew how to say. That way, I didn’t run the risk of making a mistake. And more important, I didn’t have to think so hard.
    All the same—and this is something I only realized sinceMargueritte, I think—having the right words can be useful when you want to express yourself.
    Ally, that was the word I was looking for that day. At the same time, if I’d known it, it wouldn’t really have changed anything. About how I felt, I mean.

 
     
    T HAT MONDAY , I told Margueritte the names of all my birds. Well, the ones that were there, because actually there are twenty-six that hang out in the park. I’m only talking regular visitors here. Not the migrant birds that flutter in, crash-land on the lawn and pounce on the breadcrumbs like they’ve got no manners and get a good thrashing from the regulars. I started:
    “That one there is Pierrot. Next to him is Headstrong… Bullseye, Thievish, Sweetie… That one there is Verdun. The little brown one is Capuchin… That’s Cachou… Princess… Margueritte…”
    “Just like me!” she said.
    “Sorry?”
    “My name is Margueritte too.”
    It was weird to think that here I was talking to a Margueritte while another Margueritte, feathered from beak to backside, was pecking at an apple core at my feet.
    I thought, Now there’s a coincidence!
    It’s a word I only learned the meaning of recently: every time Landremont comes into Chez Francine and sees me at the bar having a drink with Jojo Zekouc, he taps me on the shoulder and says:
    “Well, well. Germain sitting at a bar? Now, there’s a coincidence!”
    I used to think it was his way of saying, Hi, nice tosee you. But, no, apparently, it meant he thought I was a pathetic drunk clinging to the bar like a limpet to a rock. Jojo explained the real meaning to me one day. He said:
    “Our friend Landremont seems to think we’re a couple of alcoholics.”
    I asked why he said that. He explained.
    Landremont is not a friend. One week he’s playing belote with you and treating you like a brother, then Saturday night he’ll end up punching you in the face. When he drinks too much, he gets addled.
    Whenever he refers to Landremont, Marco calls him the weather vane. Jojo says he’s as changeable as the wind. Francine thinks he’s a crackpot. I used to think that meant as cracked as the pot, which sounded about right. But I also agree with the other definition: someone who suffers changeable, often disturbing mood swings; see also: capricious, whimsical, fickle.
    That said, it’s probably down to him that I learned most things before I met Margueritte. He’s read a hell of a lot, has Landremont. His place is crammed with books. Not just in the toilet, and not just magazines.
    He could teach Jacques Devallée a thing or two. Maybe even the mayor, who knows?

 
     
    L ANDREMONT IS A LITTLE , nervous guy with scrawny arms. He’s bald on top but has hairy arms. Thick bushy hair that’s not really blond but not quite white.
    His poor wife passed away from ovarian cancer, which is a complete bitch… Ever since, he’s been nursing his grief by damaging his liver, though he does it hypocritically, on the sly. When he’s with us, he’ll just have half a lager, a small white wine, a shot of Mauresque, a couple of glasses of pastis, just for the sake of