Read Online Soft in the Head by Marie-Sabine Roger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marie-Sabine Roger
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Simca.
In the meantime, my mother would have cleared away the plates. Gardini would set the case on the table. He would start giving her the sales pitch while he showed her his tacky crap.
“Here, try on this necklace. It’s genuine silver plate, look at the hallmark! Go on, try it on! Just for me… It would beautifully show off that elegant neck of yours.”
I wondered why he was always talking about her neck since the necklaces were never chokers, but chains that dangled down to her breasts.
Gardini was always helpful, I’ll say that for him. He would go round behind her and press up against her.
“Just a minute, Jacqueline, just a minute, I’ll put it on for you.”
It must have been a tricky process, because he seemed to struggle for a long time behind her. My mother would giggle loudly. He would blush and his voice sounded hoarse.
Eventually, my mother would say:
“Germain, I’ve just noticed the time, shouldn’t you get back to school?”
That was suspicious in itself since usually she didn’t give a shit whether I went to school or not. Then she’d say, in this strange, soft voice:
“Go on, go on, you don’t want to be late.”
And I thought to myself, women are stupid, one silly necklace and suddenly they’re in a good mood.
Kids are so dumb.
G ARDINI WAS QUICK to get his feet under the table. He would come for two weeks, disappear for three days, then come back again, and so on. He would stretch his size 11s farther and farther under the table, sink deeper and deeper into the sofa. He had decided to, as he put it, take me in hand.
He started giving me orders, Tidy your room, set the table, stop bugging me, go to bed. He started calling my mother by her first name and finding fault while he was at it, You’ve put too much salt in the stew, fetch me a can of beer, what’s keeping you with the coffee?
My mother may be a fine filly, but don’t go jerking the reins. In our family, we’ve got short fuses. I don’t know if I told you: I get my height from her. Obviously her height is a bit more feminine. But not much more, relatively speaking. Gardini just about came up to her ear.
Anyway, what is bound to happen, happens. That’s the law of fate, and I’ve noticed that it’s a law that also means shit happens.
One night, I don’t really remember why, he gave me a clout. Now, my mother might not have had an ounce of maternal fibre, but she had a sense of propriety. Only one person was allowed to wallop her son and that was her. She said:
“I won’t have you hit that child!”
“Shut your hole!” Gardini said.
“What?” my mother said, “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me! And stop busting my balls, I’m watching the match.”
My mother turned off the TV. Gardini roared:
“Turn the fucking TV back on!”
“No,” said my mother.
Gardini lost his head, he leapt to his feet and said: “Jesus H. Christ! You’re asking for a slap too!”
He lashed out at my mother, whack whack, and gave her a box round the ears. Now that, that was a mistake.
My mother went completely white, she walked out without a word, she went straight to the garage.
She came back with a pitchfork. And my mother waving a pitchfork is not something you laugh at. Especially when she’s pointing it at your belly and saying in a patient voice:
“You’re packing up your bags and you’re leaving.”
Gardini tried to come on like gangbusters. He stepped towards her, raising his hand, really threatening as if to say, What, you want a second helping, haven’t you had enough?
My mother stabbed him— tchak —right in his blubbery thigh. A quick, fast jab, like a torero in a bullfight. The guy started bleeding and screaming:
“Ow-shit-fuck-shit! You’re a bloody lunatic!”
My mother said:
“Looks that way.”
Then she added:
“I’m going to count to three. One…”
Gardini grabbed the keys to the Simca off the sideboard, stumbled backwards towards the door,
In the meantime, my mother would have cleared away the plates. Gardini would set the case on the table. He would start giving her the sales pitch while he showed her his tacky crap.
“Here, try on this necklace. It’s genuine silver plate, look at the hallmark! Go on, try it on! Just for me… It would beautifully show off that elegant neck of yours.”
I wondered why he was always talking about her neck since the necklaces were never chokers, but chains that dangled down to her breasts.
Gardini was always helpful, I’ll say that for him. He would go round behind her and press up against her.
“Just a minute, Jacqueline, just a minute, I’ll put it on for you.”
It must have been a tricky process, because he seemed to struggle for a long time behind her. My mother would giggle loudly. He would blush and his voice sounded hoarse.
Eventually, my mother would say:
“Germain, I’ve just noticed the time, shouldn’t you get back to school?”
That was suspicious in itself since usually she didn’t give a shit whether I went to school or not. Then she’d say, in this strange, soft voice:
“Go on, go on, you don’t want to be late.”
And I thought to myself, women are stupid, one silly necklace and suddenly they’re in a good mood.
Kids are so dumb.
G ARDINI WAS QUICK to get his feet under the table. He would come for two weeks, disappear for three days, then come back again, and so on. He would stretch his size 11s farther and farther under the table, sink deeper and deeper into the sofa. He had decided to, as he put it, take me in hand.
He started giving me orders, Tidy your room, set the table, stop bugging me, go to bed. He started calling my mother by her first name and finding fault while he was at it, You’ve put too much salt in the stew, fetch me a can of beer, what’s keeping you with the coffee?
My mother may be a fine filly, but don’t go jerking the reins. In our family, we’ve got short fuses. I don’t know if I told you: I get my height from her. Obviously her height is a bit more feminine. But not much more, relatively speaking. Gardini just about came up to her ear.
Anyway, what is bound to happen, happens. That’s the law of fate, and I’ve noticed that it’s a law that also means shit happens.
One night, I don’t really remember why, he gave me a clout. Now, my mother might not have had an ounce of maternal fibre, but she had a sense of propriety. Only one person was allowed to wallop her son and that was her. She said:
“I won’t have you hit that child!”
“Shut your hole!” Gardini said.
“What?” my mother said, “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me! And stop busting my balls, I’m watching the match.”
My mother turned off the TV. Gardini roared:
“Turn the fucking TV back on!”
“No,” said my mother.
Gardini lost his head, he leapt to his feet and said: “Jesus H. Christ! You’re asking for a slap too!”
He lashed out at my mother, whack whack, and gave her a box round the ears. Now that, that was a mistake.
My mother went completely white, she walked out without a word, she went straight to the garage.
She came back with a pitchfork. And my mother waving a pitchfork is not something you laugh at. Especially when she’s pointing it at your belly and saying in a patient voice:
“You’re packing up your bags and you’re leaving.”
Gardini tried to come on like gangbusters. He stepped towards her, raising his hand, really threatening as if to say, What, you want a second helping, haven’t you had enough?
My mother stabbed him— tchak —right in his blubbery thigh. A quick, fast jab, like a torero in a bullfight. The guy started bleeding and screaming:
“Ow-shit-fuck-shit! You’re a bloody lunatic!”
My mother said:
“Looks that way.”
Then she added:
“I’m going to count to three. One…”
Gardini grabbed the keys to the Simca off the sideboard, stumbled backwards towards the door,
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