Free The Front Seat Passenger by Pascal Garnier

white as a sheet by the time the car stopped in front of an immense wooden door.
    ‘All right?’
    He didn’t reply. He scrabbled feverishly to free himself from the seat belt, opened the door and took three steps before falling to his knees in the wet grass. His eyes closed, he took deep slow breaths, as though to inhale the entire night into his lungs. Martine patted his cheeks.
    ‘Lean on me. There … that’s better.’
    He let himself be guided like a blind person in the pitch black. The only sign of the car was a faint whiff of petrol that hung in the air. They made him totter up a few stone steps then a light sprang on from behind a half-glass door. The house smelt a bit mouldy and of wood fires. In the hallway, a stag’s head stared at him with its glass eyes. He wondered if the rest of its body appeared in the same position on the other side of the wall.
    ‘My God, you’re pale. Come in quickly! I’ll light you a fire to warm you up.’
    They made him sit down, shivering, in a large freezing-cold armchair. Eyes shut, he heard the two women moving about, exchanging words he couldn’t understand and even laughing, which shocked him. A few minutes later, flames were dancing and sparkling in the grate. Slowly the blood began to circulate in his veins again.
    ‘There we are. You’re coming back from the dead? Here, drink this. Then you can eat.’
    ‘I’m not very hungry.’
    ‘Yes, you are. You feel ill because your stomach is empty. Trust me.’
    That was too much to ask, since Madeleine’s unrelenting energy and good humour was getting on his nerves. But he swallowed the glass of marc she was holding out to him anyway.
     
    ‘Dinner is ready!’
    Martine had laid the table behind him as if for a banquet, with a white tablecloth, china, silverware, crystal glasses, fine wine, and boeuf bourguignon. He wondered which hat she had pulled that from.
    ‘Not from a hat, from the freezer. Madeleine always prepares for an evening arrival. You’ve got your colour back!’
    Fabien shook his head like someone getting out of water. The brandy had revived him.
    ‘I feel as if I’m reliving my rescue from the sea. This is all magical; your house is beautiful, Madeleine, really very beautiful.’
    Everything was beautiful when you had been ill. He knew that, but objectively it was a beautiful house with everything in the right place, furniture, panelling; it was luxurious, peaceful and sensuous.
    They sat down at the table. After a few glasses, they all began to look at the world with rose-tinted spectacles. They reminisced about the holiday in Majorca, taking care not to mention anything that might cause embarrassment or mar the wonderful camaraderie of the moment. The atmosphere was a bit like a hunting dinner, everyone sharing anecdotes. Fabien felt relaxed; snippets from his childhood came back to him and he talked abouthis father, about Charlotte, and, the burgundy having loosened his tongue, he moved on to Sylvie. He ignored the little warning lights blinking in his brain – he couldn’t help himself; he felt the need to talk about her, to unburden himself, to unfurl a carpet of truth in front of him. Like arriving at the beach on the first day of the holidays, you just want to get rid of your ragged old lies and run naked into the waves. The more entertaining he was, the more the two women laughed and the more he threw caution to the wind. He was about to tell them who he was. Now that they were friends, he was sure they would understand and everyone would feel better for knowing. Madeleine rose from the table and went to get the bottle of marc.
    ‘A little glass with your coffee, Monsieur Delorme?’
    ‘With pleas—’
    A chasm opened up, a chasm in which he saw wounded angels dragging their wings. Madeleine had just called him by his name and was fixing him with her smile.
    ‘Why are you calling him that?’
    ‘Because his name is Fabien Delorme, isn’t it?’
    Fabien looked in vain for the