Fiction – paperback; Gallic; 169 pages; 2015. Translated from the French by Melanie Florence.
This is the fourth Pascal Garnier book I have read this year, and while enjoyable, it is probably my least favourite so far. This novella is less noir and more psychological, and the author’s trademark dark humour is not as apparent. Nonetheless, it’s still an intriguing and haunting read.
Missing wife
The story follows Brice Casadamont, a middle-aged man reeling from his young wife Emma’s sudden disappearance. Garnier does not explain what has happened to her, but it seems Emma, a journalist who often travels abroad on assignment, has failed to return home from a work trip and is presumed dead.
The couple had recently bought a house in the countryside, and Brice is a little annoyed that he has to organise the move alone.
In the unfamiliar surroundings of a quiet village, he believes he can isolate himself and cling to the illusion that his wife is still alive. But things begin to unravel.
The days went by, or was it perhaps the same one again and again? Other than a minimum of maintenance — eating, drinking, sleeping — which necessitated commando raids on the supermarket, Brice did nothing. […] He had adopted the stance of the monitor lizard: total immobility, eyelids half closed, prepared to wait for centuries for its prey — that is, a sign from Emma — to come along. He was becoming inured to boredom as others are to opium. (page 32)
Surrounded by unpacked boxes, Brice becomes increasingly detached from reality, unable to cope with Emma’s absence.
Rolled up in his filthy sleeping bag on the creaky camp bed, amid the horrendous tip the garage had become, Brice felt like a boxer alone in the ring, up against himself. (page 53)
Ironically, he’s a children’s book illustrator despite disliking children — “he feared them like the plague […] children are Nazis; they recognise only one race: their own” (page 44) — but alone in the countryside and failing to set himself up in his studio, he struggles to meet his deadlines.
Instead, he grows deeply resentful of Sabine, the character he illustrates, and eventually quits in a pique of anger.
Brice could no longer bear the little girl, still less her creator, Mabel Hirsch. Admittedly the two of them had been his bread and butter for a number of years now, but after about ten volumes he had had enough: Sabine Loses her Dog, Sabine Takes on Dracula, Sabine Sets Sail, Sabine … The little brat, whose face he riddled with freckles for sport, was seriously taking over his life. As for her creator, he must have killed her at least a hundred times in the course of troubled dreams. (page 42)
The only thing that seems to comfort him is a stray cat (hence the image on the cover), which hangs about the house and “persists in wrapping itself around his legs, purring” (page 69).
Isolation deepens
His isolation deepens when he befriends Blanche Montéléger, an eccentric neighbour who dresses in white and often invites herself around to watch his TV. She seems to think that Brice is her long-lost father, whom he resembles, which creates an odd frisson between them.
As their relationship deepens, Brice’s fragile grasp on his sanity begins to slide. It’s only when his in-laws make a surprise visit that the reality of his loss truly hits him. The conclusion is unexpected — and haunting.
In Boxes, Garnier crafts a tense narrative of loss, grief and mental breakdown. While it’s not overtly humourous, there are some blackly comic insights (see some of the quotes above) that prevent the story from becoming too grim and too dark.
For other reviews, please see Annabel’s at AnnaBookBel and Guy’s at His Futile Preoccupations.
I read this for #NovNov24 (Novellas in November), hosted by Cathy at 746 Books and Rebecca at Bookish Beck.
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