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Rose Royal: A Love Story - Hardcover

Mathieu, Nicolas

 
9781635421958: Rose Royal: A Love Story
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 1635421950 ISBN 13: 9781635421958
Verlag: Other Press, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

From the Goncourt Prize–winning author of And Their Children After Them, a devilishly smart noir novella that finds uncomfortable truths in the everyday about romance, violence, and women’s desire and desirability.

Nearing fifty, with a divorce and a string of other failed relationships behind her, Rose has given up on the idea of love, if not sex—though that always comes with risks. Determined not to let another man hurt her, she even ordered a .38 caliber handgun after an argument with her latest boyfriend almost turned violent. Now she carries it everywhere, just in case.
 
As if on autopilot, Rose spends her days at work and then at the Royal, a familiar haunt where she knocks back one drink after another, sometimes with her best friend Marie-Jeanne. And then a sudden accident brings Luc into the bar, and Rose decides to give love one last chance.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Nicolas Mathieu was born in Épinal, France, in 1978. His first novel, Aux animaux la guerre, was published in 2014 and adapted for television by Alain Tasma in 2018. He received the Prix Goncourt, France’s most prestigious literary award, in 2018 for his second novel, And Their Children After Them (Other Press, 2020). He lives in Nancy.

Sam Taylor is an award-winning literary translator and novelist. He has translated more than sixty books from French, including Laurent Binet’s HHhH and Leila Slimani’s The Perfect Nanny, and his four novels have been translated into ten languages. He was born in England, spent ten years in France, and now lives in the United States.

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Part One

Rose jumped off the bus and hurried across the street, paying no attention to traffic, although it was dense in both directions. She was wearing a pale cotton skirt that day and a pretty top that showed off her shoulders. A black jacket was slung across her handbag, and her heels were an unmissably bright cherry red. From a distance, it was hard to guess her age, but the firmness of her figure and the fluidity of her movements suggested a certain youthfulness. Her legs, in particular, were still beautiful. Cars braked as she passed, causing a ripple in the smooth rush-hour flow, and a bearded man in a Ford Escort honked his horn for the sake of it. Rose didn’t even notice. She continued on her way, feet moving quickly, indifferent to her surroundings. She took off her sunglasses and slipped them into her purse just as she was opening the door of the Royal. The clattering echo of her heels faded to silence as she entered the familiar darkness of her local bar. She checked her watch. It was still early. Rose felt happy. She was thirsty. “Hi, everyone!”“Hey,” replied Fred, the owner.
While he poured her a beer, Rose opened the newspaper. She came here every day, on her way from work, and always sat at the bar, legs proudly crossed at the knees, to sink her first lager of the night. It was usually about seven o’clock when she got here. Often it was dark outside, except during summer, when Rose would feel a tinge of remorse.
The Royal was a narrow dive with dark walls and a long bar, three draft-beer pumps, and large, dusty bay windows offering a view of a Chinese restaurant, a shoe repair shop, and a convenience store. In the back they had foosball and pool. The furniture was from the seventies, in wood and blue leatherette. The restrooms were on the right as you went in; they were pretty clean, with stickers all over the walls. The atmosphere in the bar was eternally late-afternoon. The clientele could vary, but the music that came through the speakers was always rock. As soon as she swallowed her first mouthful of beer, Rose felt something loosen inside her chest. The beer was cold, the pages of the newspaper were crumpled, and beneath her left shoe she could feel the solidity of the metal footrest. Those three sensations were enough to make her feel at home, in her place. She licked her finger to turn the page and Fred asked her what was happening.
She shrugged. “Same old same old.”
Rose was almost fifty, but she didn’t mind too much. She was aware of her attributes: her figure was still good and her legs were gorgeous. Her face, on the other hand, was showing signs of wear. It wasn’t fat or especially gaunt, but time had left its mark of tears and sleepless nights. Her mouth was complicated by wrinkles. And her hair wasn’t as thick and luxurious as it had been, part of that sensual abundance that had made her so attractive. She dyed it, so at least nobody could tell she was going gray.
She had reached that difficult age where what remains to you of youthful vigor and electricity seems to be vanishing under the rising tide of days. Sometimes, during a meeting or while traveling on public transport, she would find herself hiding her hands, which she no longer recognized. Certain evenings, looking in the mirror, she would tell her reflection, Time to start taking better care of yourself. At the supermarket, she’d spend a small fortune on creams and shampoos. Words like “firming,” “cellulite,” “hematite,” and “collagen” had become part of her vocabulary. She’d enrolled in a water aerobics class and occasionally she would make a resolution to give up alcohol. She would also follow special diets based on vegetables, white meat, and nuts. But each time, she found herself surrendering to feelings of Oh, what’s the point? It was a little late for this kind of stuff, wasn’t it? Besides, it probably wouldn’t make much difference. Rose had married at twenty. She’d had two kids soon after that—Bastien and Grégory—and then a divorce without major complications. She’d had various bosses, adventures, symbolic promotions, health problems, meetings in the principal’s office. These days she was entitled to an annual bonus and a company car—a white Fiat Punto that she hardly ever used. She lived in a rent-controlled apartment and her boys had found jobs and girlfriends. She slept badly and had stopped making plans for vacations. Sometimes it seemed like she was living her life on autopilot. Her happiest moments were always here, sitting at the bar, chatting with Fred, feeling the first glimmers of intoxication. And then there was her best friend, Marie-Jeanne, who came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
“Is she coming tonight?”
“Who?”
“Marie-Jeanne.”
“Should be, yeah,” said Fred.
“There’s nobody here, though. She won’t be happy.” “I’ve told her before she should make appointments. She never listens.”
Twice a week the Royal was transformed into a hairdressing salon. Marie-Jeanne offered her services for ten euros a pop, and she had a drink between each customer, so it was always best to get your hair cut early in the evening. She and Rose had a lot in common: they were the same age, they were both sick of men, they’d brought up their kids single-handedly, and they felt like they were treading water and wished they weren’t. Anyway they had nothing to be ashamed of. They’d both made it through good times and bad. And they had each other.
Rose finished her first glass and ordered another. A few more customers had turned up and she was in a happy mood. When Fred said something about the latest railway workers’ strike bringing the country to a stand-still yet again, Rose just rolled her eyes—proof that she was in good spirits. Marie-Jeanne finally arrived just after nine, as Rose was finishing her third beer.
“What happened to you?”
“Oh God, what a day! Traffic jams practically nonstop from Pompey to here. All those damn trucks . . .”
The hairdresser looked around for potential customers. It wasn’t a busy night but it wasn’t dead either. As always, Serge Kalt and the Keuss were downing beers at the end of the bar. Apart from them, it was the usual crowd of marginals, drunkards, aging punks, people who hated their jobs, and people who hadn’t had a job in a long time. Nothing to write home about. Marie-Jeanne didn’t hold out much hope for those thirtysomethings sitting at a table talking about architecture and drinking La Chouffe. And then there was that guy in glasses chatting up a woman ten years his junior. Sensing a Tinder date, Marie-Jeanne sighed.
“Nothing but hipsters and hoboes . . . I bet you I don’t make a cent tonight.”
“There’s still time.”
“Yeah . . . I’m not going to be cutting hair at two in the morning, though, am I?”
Marie-Jeanne ordered a pastis to drown her sorrows and grabbed the newspaper from the countertop.
“I don’t believe it. After all this time! God, I’m so sick of reading about this story . . .”
She slapped the newspaper’s front page with the back of her hand, indicating another headline about the Grégory Affair. Thirty years after the murder, Jacqueline and Marcel Jacob were being questioned, while Murielle Bolle was finally going to speak out. Rose still remembered the first photograph appearing in L’Est Républicain one October morning. A gendarme carrying the child’s body, little Grégory’s hat pulled down over his face, his hands and...

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Verlag
Other Press
Erscheinungsdatum
2022
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
1635421950
ISBN 13 
9781635421958
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
96
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Verantwortliche Person
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