The Mad and the Bad

18

After the storm the sun came out, shining more brightly than ever between cloud banks scudding eastward. The road surfaces shone brightly as well. The red-faced motorist hummed as he drove.

“He’s a great sleeper, that kid of yours, I must say. My goodness, what a sleepyhead! Ha! Ha! Is he your son?”

“No, he’s the younger son of my boss,” said Julie, putting on an accent.

“Are you French?”

“No, I’m English.”

“I guessed it from your complexion. You know, lily-and-rose.”

“What’s a lily like?”

“It’s a white flower that symbolizes purity and beauty.”

“Oh.”

“A lily-and-rose complexion is a poetic way of referring to a fine English complexion.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I suppose the men in France flirt with you a bit?”

“So do the men in England.”

Julie was having a grand old time with the vocabulary. She pictured men flirting with her-and her shooting them point-blank. I must be in a manic phase, she told herself.

“Yes, but Frenchmen,” said the red-faced motorist, “what do you think of them, the way they flirt?”

“I don’t know. Some of them are crude.”

“Crude? You mean brutal?”

“No, crude. They talk dirty to me!”

This gave the motorist pause.

“Well, you know how it is, a girl in shorts, it’s inevitable. Are you from London? A student?”

“At Oxford,” declared Julie. “I study economics.”

“Well, that’s amazing.” the man exclaimed enthusiastically. “I’m a salesman myself. I could tell you a thing or two about economics! Aren’t you going beyond Pithiviers?”

Julie stretched in her seat. Her thigh muscles rippled.

“Are you going farther yourself?”

“I’m stopping for five minutes, just to see a customer, then going on. Where are you headed?”

“South.”

“That’s perfect. I go to Sully, then Bourges. That will get you along.”

Julie contemplated the man. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit. His face was square and ruddy, and his brown hair fell in curls over his forehead. He had little eyes behind rectangular glasses. He was piglike.

“You are a nice man,” she said.

With her right hand she gave the motorist a friendly little tap on the shoulder, then pressed her palm against his chest and drew her nails raspingly across the material of his jacket. The man turned beet red. An idiotic smile tugged at his lips. Julie withdrew her hand. Flushed and perspiring, he kept on driving, darting frequent sideways glances at the young woman. He was wondering whether she was the genuine article. The sweat gathered like drool on his glistening curls.

“Couldn’t we stop for a moment?” asked Julie.

“Stop? What, pull over? Yes, sure. Why?”

“There!” cried Julie. “A dirt road!”

She was pointing. The 204 braked sharply, turned, and bumped onto the dirt road.

“Stop here.”

The car pulled up. The driver put the handbrake on. He looked back furtively at Peter asleep on the back seat. Julie opened her door.

The young woman got out. Through the windshield the motorist, smiling like an imbecile, watched her indecisively. He saw the girl vanish behind a hedge. Was she going to piss, the man asked himself, or insert her diaphragm? He was trembling with apprehension. Suddenly Julie reappeared. She was waving an arm in an odd fashion.

“Bring your starting handle over here!” she shouted.

The motorist opened the door on his side and reached into the back of the car.

“What’s happening?”

“Quick! Your starting handle! Bring your starting handle!”

“But what for? Oh, okay, screw it!” said the man.

With the implement in his hand, he ran over to Julie. He had short legs and his pants ballooned over his fat backside. Julie was bent double, gazing at something within the hedge. The motorist contemplated her spread legs.

“Give it here! Quick! It’s still in there!”

The motorist felt Julie wrench the starting handle from his grasp. The girl was frantically pointing to the bottom of the hedge.

“There! There!”

Discombobulated, he leant over. Julie brought the handle down on his skull. I thought so, he told himself as he fell onto all fours.

“You pig! You swine! You’re disgusting!” said Julie.

He tried to get up. Julie struck him on the forehead. His scalp split. Blood streamed down the good citizen’s face.

“Stop!” he pleaded.

Julie hit him twice more. He subsided onto the dusty track. He was moaning. Almost unconscious. He tried to grab Julie’s ankle, meaning to bring it to his lips. Or perhaps to make the girl fall-he no longer knew which. A final blow from the starting handle finished him. He stopped moving. Julie searched him. He had an opened pack of Gitanes filters on him, along with a packet of condoms, a receipt book with counterfoils, a silver ballpoint pen, and pocket change. In his wallet Julie found various papers in the name of Émile Ventrée and a five-hundred-franc note. She slipped the bill into her shorts. Then she took Émile Ventrée’s shoes off and tossed them well away. She tugged off his pants and undershorts and systematically tore them up. She returned to the car. The key was still in the ignition. Peter was sleeping deeply. Julie started the motor, got back onto the main road, and drove away quickly. Less than an hour later the 204 took the Autoroute du Sud at Courtenay and headed in the direction of the Mediterranean.