Free Jigsaw by Campbell Armstrong Page B

blanc?’
    â€˜Red,’ said Streik. He used his English defiantly. Why try to pass himself off as something he wasn’t? His French was so poor that whenever he tried it he was treated with offhand contempt. Everybody could tell he was American, so why hide it?
    A bottle and a glass were set down on the counter. Streik took them to a table at the window. He was the only customer. He drank two glasses quickly, folded his hands together, looked out at the street. Snatches of conversation came from a back room. Streik heard the words poisson and mal . A squabble in the kitchen. The French took their chow too seriously. When a soufflé collapsed they acted like it was Armageddon.
    The café had begun to smell of garlic suddenly. He realized he was hungry but he’d never been one to believe there was a relationship between wine and food. Wine you drank, food you ate. He belched quietly and looked out the window. These small French towns were always comatose. He poured a third glass, lit a cigarette, and thought: Fuck reality. A stooped woman came out of the butcher’s shop carrying a white package streaked with blood. Probably ox-head or horse-tongue, Streik thought. The French choked down anything.
    He had the thought way at the back of his head that he ought to stay a little in touch with sobriety, but how was he supposed to deal with stress and fear without assistance? They had a contract out on him, for Christ’s sake. Somewhere in the world executioners were hunting him. And when you lived with that fact you were bound to get wigged-out now and then. He had a sudden image of Montgomery Rhodes, the features that might have been chiselled out of clay by an evil sculptor, the sinister dark shades Rhodes always wore. Rhodes really scared him shitless. He was a horror story.
    Out of nowhere a young man with a backpack materialized. Tall and blond with a fierce beard, your basic Viking, he eclipsed the grey light in the doorway when he stepped inside the café. Streik was at once as alert as he could be. Assassins came in different guises. They didn’t all look like thugs. They didn’t all carry violin cases. This hiker in the long black coat could be on the level, you never knew. Streik put his hand in the pocket containing the pistol and watched the young man go to the bar. In fluent French he asked for a beer and a packet of Disque Bleu. He exchanged a few words with the patron then he sat down at a table facing Streik, who looked into the blue eyes briefly before turning his head away.
    â€˜Français?’ the young man asked.
    Streik said, ‘You talking to me?’
    The young man smiled. ‘Ah. American.’
    Streik drank his wine, said nothing.
    â€˜Allow me to practise my English,’ said the young man.
    â€˜You think I look like some goddam language instructor?’ Streik said.
    â€˜Pardon?’
    â€˜Skip it.’ Gruffness had always come quite naturally to Streik. He was a true believer in defensive rudeness. If you were obese, you developed an abrasive shell.
    He turned away. His perceptions were askew. The window of the butcher shop was occupied by a lamb carcass and for a second Streik thought he saw it shimmer. Slow down on the rouge, he told himself.
    â€˜I am learning English for seven years,’ said the young man in a stiff way that suggested arduous hours with English textbooks. ‘I am from Hamburg. Do you know it?’
    Streik struck a match. He glanced at the young German who was grinning benignly.
    â€˜I am a student in Holland. At Utrecht. I decided to take a little time to myself and hitch-hike across Europe. The university is good. But I think there are other kinds of education, however. Perhaps I will go to Morocco. Have you been there?’
    Jesus Christ, Streik thought. ‘Listen. No offence. I’m sitting here enjoying this, this vinegar , and I ain’t in the mood for talking.’
    The German looked gloomy.