The Front Seat Passenger

translated from the French by Jane Aitken

For My Brother Philippe

‘Love stories usually end in tears …’

An index finger with a bitten nail abruptly cut Rita Mitsouko off. The sudden return to silence hurt. Ten fingers began to tap the steering wheel, making a dull, monotonous, rhythmic sound. Like rain. The dashboard dials glowed fluorescent green. There was no other light for miles around. No stars. Just a very faint gleam, over there, behind the hills, revealing a faraway town. The right hand moved from the steering wheel, caressing the gear lever, as one might the head of a cat, or the handle of a gun. It was a good car, powerful, reliable, grey. Eleven thirty, they shouldn’t be long now. Staring at the second hand made it seem as if it had stopped. But no, it was continuing its relentless passage, like a donkey turning the grindstone of a mill.

Then suddenly coming over the hill, the beam of headlights, night paling, receding … The right hand grasped the lever and changed up a gear. The left hand gripped the steering wheel. The right headlamp of the car hurtling over the hill was skewed towards the verge. The grey car, all its lights off, accelerated forward like a bagatelle ball. It was definitely them: right time, same wonky headlight.

In the forest a fox had just ripped open a rabbit. It pricked up its ears when it heard the squealing of tyres on tarmac and the clang of metal in the ravine. But that only lasted a few seconds. Then silence descended again. With one bite, the fox disembowelled the rabbit and plunged its muzzle into the steaming innards. All around it, thousands of animals, large and small, were eating or climbing on top of each other for the sole purpose of perpetuating their species.

‘You eat your