Ring Roads

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The heaviest of the three is my father, though he was so thin back then. Murraille is leaning towards him as if whispering something. Marcheret stands in the background with a half-smile, puffing out his chest a little, his hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. It’s difficult to tell the colour of their clothes or their hair. It looks as though Marcheret is wearing a very loosely cut Prince-of-Wales check suit, and has fairish hair. Note the sharp expression on Murraille’s face, and the worried one on my father’s. Murraille seems tall and thin, but the lower half of his face is pudgy. Everything about my father expresses total dejection. Except his eyes, almost starting out of his head.

Wood panelling, a brick fireplace: the Clos-Foucré bar. Murraille has a glass in his hand. As has my father. Notice the cigarette drooping from Murraille’s lips. My father has his wedged between his ring and little fingers. A jaded affectation. At the back of the room, in semi-profile, a female figure: Maud Gallas, the manageress of Le Clos-Foucré. The armchairs in which Murraille and my father are sitting are probably leather. There’s a slight sheen on the back, just above the spot which Murraille’s left hand is stubbing into. His arm curls around my father’s neck in a gesture which could be hugely protective. Flagrant on his wrist is an expensive watch with a square face. Marcheret, given his position and athletic build, is half hiding Maud Gallas and the shelves of aperitif bottles. On the wall, behind the bar, you can see — without too much difficulty — a tear-off calendar. The number 14, clearly visible. It isn’t possible to make out the month or year.

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