Thursday I meet this girl. I like meeting girls on Thursdays, for
Mr. Square lives on a roundabout; a miniature castle surrounded
various reasons. ‘Where d’you work?’ I ask her. ‘At the canine
by a mount of road and beyond that, in the distance, a Mecca
beauticians’ she replies. I think about this. ‘Could you make me look
of service stations, fast-food restaurants and vehicle graveyards.
beautiful? I question. ‘Depends,’ she says ‘are you a dog?’ ‘Well,’
He has built a narrow tunnel under the bracelet of road, which is
I reply, ‘I have my moments.’ ‘I see,’ she says, ‘and where do you
the only way of entering or leaving his abode, unless you have
work?’ ‘Mr. Luggage’ I answer: ‘It’s a suitcase shop.’ ‘I guessed
wings or a talent for running through speeding cars. The tunnel
that,’ she says, ‘is it good work?’ ‘It’s all right’ I say: ‘Bit of a
is one hundred metres long and takes him directly from his
carry on.’ ‘Yeah. I bet’ she says, not laughing. Then there’s silence
kitchen to the disabled toilets in a nearby garage, where he
for a while. We sip our drinks. ‘What’s your take on conversation?’
works weekends. Mostly he lives alone, yet he has been known to
I ask, finally. ‘Overrated’ she replies. ‘Huh’ I say. She says
invite friends and hold raucous parties. These friends are almost
‘Mmmnn.’ Another silence, during which I notice she is staring at
always impressed by his standard of living. ‘You’ve got it made!’ is
my eyes, like I was a sick dog. And at length she produces her
a typical sentiment, which Mr. Square accepts with a smile. And
diagnosis. ‘Shall we get drunk and sign a suicide pact?’ she
yet, sometimes he considers whether this really is the case. At night
asks. ‘Sounds good to me’ I say, and for the first time that evening
he sits in his bedroom watching the cars go round and round the
we both laugh. ‘My house is full of chemicals!’ she laughs.
roundabout. Round and round and round and round and round.
(Pierre Monceau and Jean-Pierre Sertin)
