Chapter 2 Chapter Two Unsolved Murder

I reckon it was once really a legitimate check, only weather-stained and wrinkled, and the numbers worn out beyond recognition.It was an act of sheer optimism to exchange cash for such a dilapidated and questionable antique. unsolved murder (1) My first encounter with Marius almost led to bloodshed. I saw the tall figure of Marius from a distance.With his hands in his coat pockets, he walked in the middle of the road leading to the village.Hearing the sound of the car, he turned around and saw me driving up. After a heart-pounding experience or two on this stretch of road, I've learned not to trust anyone passing by, pedestrians, cyclists, tractor drivers, dogs, and panicked chickens.Their actions are too unpredictable.

I gradually slowed down the speed of the car.But he suddenly jumped in front of the car and opened his arms, as if he wanted to hug the car. Thanks to my foot stepping on the brake all the time, I didn't let his hug succeed.The car stopped just a dozen inches away from him. He nodded at me first, then went around to the right, opened the door, and got in the car. "Hello," he said with a familiar southern accent, "are you going to the village? My electric bicycle is being repaired there." He originally said that he would get off in front of the coffee shop, but when he arrived at the coffee shop, he didn't seem to want to get off.I looked at him as if he were paying attention to the change on the plate next to the handlebar, which I put into the parking meter when I was about to pull up.

"Aren't you going to take ten francs? For a phone call?" I asked, pointing to the plate. He rummaged through the plate carefully, finally took a ten-franc piece, smiled at me, and disappeared into the coffee shop.But he didn't even pretend to glance at the pay phone next to the coffee shop. The comedy repeated itself over the next few weeks.Marius was often in front of my eyes, wandering the streets or the village, then reaching out for a ride.His e-bike is constantly being repaired, and he always has to make a phone call. After a while, we simply got rid of those cumbersome surface forms.I specially prepared two ten-franc coins on the plate next to the handle, and Marius put the money in his pocket as soon as he came.We are both very satisfied with this procedure, it is efficient, civilized, and it keeps us from discussing money vulgarly.

Unknowingly, our relationship has been further developed, and it has begun to surpass the primary monetary relationship and take on some social characteristics.This situation first appeared after two or three months. One morning I went to the post office and saw Marius manipulating a piece of paper which he insisted on passing to the saleswoman at the counter.The female salesperson shook her head frequently and pushed the paper back.All the while she kept shrugging, ending with an audible pout.Speaking of pouting, it's a common French way of saying "no" by squeezing the air contemptuously out of a downturned lip.Then the two sides fell into silence, and it was obviously difficult to continue the negotiations.

My arrival gave the saleswoman an excuse not to negotiate. She turned to Marius and said good morning to me.When Marius turned around and saw it was me, the anger on his face dissipated immediately.He patted me on the shoulder and said, "I'll wait for you outside." Outside he told me that the saleswoman had refused to cash his check for five hundred francs and that he was going to accuse her of being unimaginative, surly, and unhelpful.He held the check in front of his eyes, looked at it carefully, and said, this is really an effective fund-raising tool. He handed me the check, which trembled in the wind.I reckon it was once really a legitimate check, only weather-stained and wrinkled, and the numbers worn out beyond recognition.It was an act of sheer optimism to exchange cash for such a dilapidated and questionable antique.I said so to Marius, and besides I don't have five hundred francs with me.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "in that case, it would be all right if you bought me a drink." I found it hard to say no to this kind of lovely audacity, perhaps because I was so lacking in it.Two minutes later, Marius and I were seated in the back of the coffee shop.Since previous meetings had been in the car, my eyes had been on the road, so this was the first time I had the opportunity to see him up close and direct. His face was intriguing, and the weather must have done too much to his complexion, so that his skin was like the rough bark of a tree.Where there are wrinkles on other people's faces, he has deep grooves; where other people's faces are smooth, he has wrinkles.But he had bright eyes, and a thick head of hair, thick and bristly, gray and cropped.I estimate his age to be around sixty.

He took a box of gas stove matches from the pocket of his military jacket and lit a cigarette.I found that the thumb of his left hand had been chipped off by something, probably by pruning the vines. After taking a big sip of red wine, his body trembled a little, as if to express his gratitude, and then he started to ask questions.He said I spoke French a bit like a German.When I said I was British, he seemed very surprised, because it is well known that the British prefer to use the language they are familiar with abroad, and even if they encounter situations that the locals do not understand, they will just raise their voices and get rid of it.Marius covered his ears and grinned, the wrinkles on his face suddenly stretched.

But what is an Englishman doing here in winter?What do you live on?People often ask me this question, and my answers generally elicit two very different reactions.One is regret, because writing is a profession with a bad reputation and its ups and downs; the other is interest, because many French people have respect for those who work hard and pursue hard in the field of literature.Marius falls into the latter category. "Ah," he said, "you're careful, but you're obviously not poor." He tapped his empty glass. More dim sum is served, and the questions can continue.I told Marius what I liked to write about.He leaned forward slightly, squinted his eyes, and looked at the smoke he exhaled, as if he was about to make some serious news.

"I was born here." He raised an arm and gestured casually to confirm that he was born somewhere outside the cafe, "I have a lot of stories to tell you, but next time, not now .” It turned out that he still had a date today.There was a funeral in the village, and he would not miss such an opportunity.He liked the solemnity, uniformity, and, of course, the mourning of funeral ceremonies.He also loved watching the women at funerals, because they were all in their best clothes and high heels.If the funeral had been for his old enemy, he would have been even more delighted.He called it the final victory, in order to prove the superiority of his own existence.He grabbed my wrist and looked at his watch.It seems that he should go, and the story has to be postponed.

I am disappointed.Listening to a story told by an eloquent Provencal is like enjoying the performance of a ventriloquist.If the performers play it right, and the venue is not a country pub, these scenes in the story have an almost comedic effect and are infinitely charming. When I saw Marius again, he was lying on his electric bicycle by the side of the road, tilting his head and staring at the gas tank, as if listening to what it whispered to him.Dry as July rock, he told me as he got into the car.But I can take him to the gas station and fill him up, can't I?Buy him another drink, because it's been a restless morning.As always, Marius was confident that there was nothing serious about me that would prevent me from being his driver for a while.

We still go to the coffee shop.I asked him if the last funeral was a good one. "It's all right," he said, "this time it's old Fernand." He patted his nose lightly. "You know what? They say he's one of five husbands. You must have heard the story gone." Seeing me shake my head, he turned back and ordered a bottle of Karaf, and started talking.Sometimes he glanced at me for emphasis, or to see if I understood, but most of the time he stared into the distance, as if searching for every clue in his memory. For some reason, there is often an intimate relationship between butchers and women, one that goes beyond simply buying and selling, he said.Who knows why.Maybe it was the sight of the meat, the pink puff of the flesh color, and the crisp sound it slapped on the meat, plus the promise to cut some good meat or something.But whatever the reason, it's not unusual for butchers and customers to develop a certain kind of intimacy.If the butcher had been younger and prettier, he would have been able to flirt and add to the fun when buying lamb chops.Generally speaking, this is normal, and if there is no harm to each other after a few such rapport, then a spark may flash in a woman's eyes when she does housework. Generally this is normal, but not always.Not so with the story about Arno, the butcher. Many years ago, at the beginning of the story, he was a new butcher in the village, to replace the old butcher who had retired.The old butcher was sullen, quiet, and petty, and this kept the women here from expressing their thoughts.But by the time rumors of Arnold's affair spread around the streets, they began to praise him.He completely changed the image of the small butcher shop, redecorated, replaced outdated facilities, and installed modern lamps.When it was all done, being there was a treat in itself.There are transparent glass and steel windows facing the front, and the fragrance of sawdust is still exuding on the floor, not to mention the young owner with a smile on his face. Unsolved Murder (2) Arnold's situation has changed accordingly.His hair was black and shiny, and his brown eyes were piercing.Most notably his teeth.At that time, there were very few dentists in the countryside, and their skills were more like tooth extraction than filling.Therefore, very few adults can have complete teeth, and the remaining teeth are not beautiful at all, crooked, and yellowed due to the long-term influence of tobacco and alcohol.But Arnold's teeth are perfect to the extreme - white, neat and well-proportioned.Women who see him for the first time always walk away feeling disappointed, wondering why they didn't see such a handsome man before they got married. Arnold is not unaware of his appeal to female customers. (In fact, later investigations confirmed that the reason why he was forced to transfer here from the village where he worked was because of an affair with the wife of the village chief.) However, he is a businessman, if smiling at customers can make business If it's booming, then he'll just smile.This is normal. In addition, he is also a kind butcher, the meat is cut just right, and the blood sausage and enema are round and very filling.He is also very generous in cutting meat, always only a little more, and he will give away marrow bones for free.Free marrow bone!Always been this way.As he hands customers neatly folded pink waxed paper bags, the kind that have his name and a happy calf printed on them, his smile is almost radiant. In just the first year, after a winter and a spring, his reputation has spread far and wide.The villagers found themselves eating more meat than ever the old butcher was around, and the meat was better.When they say that, their wives nod in agreement.Yes, they would say, the new butcher changed a lot, and it was good to have him in the village.Some wives sit at the dining table and look at their husbands opposite, often unconsciously making comparisons, only to find that they are thinking about young Arnold, but what they are thinking has nothing to do with his professional skills.For example, look at his shoulder!And those teeth! At the end of June, a heat wave arrived, and with it trouble.The village is located on a hill, and the south-facing stone houses seem to absorb all the sunlight, and the heat can't dissipate even at night.At home, people close the blinds to keep out the scorching sun and constant heat, but commercial establishments are not so lucky.Their transparent windows do not insulate the heat, they allow it to spread.For this reason, Arnold had no choice but to change the way he worked.He moved all the perishables from the window, removed the sausages that used to sit there, cut up the meat, and wrote a notice letting customers know that the meat was refrigerated in the back of the house. Of course, the butcher himself has to avoid the heat.By early July, Arnold was reduced to more utilitarian work clothes, replacing the dungaree trousers and thick sweatshirts he usually wore.He also wears an apron, long and white (albeit often bloodstained), covering most of his body.But under the apron, all he wore was a pair of old black sports shorts, tightly wrapped around his hips, and rubber-soled clogs. Arnold's already thriving business became even hotter at this time.The meat that hangs behind the counter sells best.Arno had to turn around to get the meat, so that the well-developed muscles of his back and thighs would be exposed to waiting customers.Female shoppers prefer to go straight to the freezer behind the counter to get their meat so close to the cute, almost naked chap. The appearance of Arnold's customers has also changed quite a bit.Summer clothes and cosmetics, even perfume, replaced the usual attire.The local barbers thrived because of this, and visitors from outside would be forgiven for thinking that the women who went to buy meat were attending some fair or grand ceremony.As for the husbands, those who noticed the above changes blamed the hot weather for everything.Anyway, the wives take good care of them, and they are extra courteous to their husbands because of their guilt, so the husbands should have no complaints. July is still unbearably hot, and the hot and dry weather continues day by day.The cat and the dog seemed to let go of their previous suspicions, and went to share a piece of shade, and stayed there honestly instead of fighting each other.In the field, melons are almost ripe, and the juice is fuller than in previous years.The grapes on the vine were also scalded.Villages on hilltops also continued to bask in the heat. Although business is booming, this period of time is also particularly difficult for butchers.He found it difficult to make friends quickly in this small closed community.Even a newcomer from only sixteen miles away was met with the polite guard of the neighbors.He is still being tested, and such tests often take years.No matter what it is, it can't change his status as an outsider now. It was an annoyance that he was too busy to take a trip to the Avignon, where the lights were brighter and there were more social opportunities.Every day at sunrise, he came down from the small bedroom above the butcher's shop, scrubbed the floor, sprinkled new sawdust on the floor, pushed dead flies out of the window, loaded the shelves with meat, sharpened the knives, and rushed to meet the customers. Grab a quick coffee before arriving, the earliest customers arrive before eight.Between noon and two in the afternoon, when the world around him was dormant, he was loading up.Because the streets are narrow and the wholesaler's cars can't get in, this job can only be done by him.The afternoon is long and the evening is the busiest time.Arnold can rarely close the store before seven o'clock, and then he has to face a lot of gray forms for accounting: the daily flow, the supplier's invoice, the official health certificate that requires strict inspection, and his bank Loan complaints.Such a workload is really heavy for him alone.He often said to himself about this, that what he needed most at this moment was a wife. In early August, he had a wife, but unfortunately it wasn't his wife. The woman was younger than most of his customers, a full fifteen years younger than her own husband.Her marriage was clearly not her own choice, and the orders of her parents played a major role in it, since the two vineyards are connected on the hillside below the village.What could be more satisfying than blood, family, and land all bound together?Apparently, the marriage was well-intentioned and overall saving on tractors, manure, wine and labor was a good idea indeed.So the date of marriage was fixed, and everyone began to encourage the couple to fall in love. The groom is a mild middle-aged man with no ambitions and is happy with the marriage because he is no longer dependent on his mother.Someone cooks and mends his clothes, and warms his bed during the long winter nights.In the future he will also inherit two vineyards and have children.Life is good and he is content. However, once the excitement of the wedding is over, the trivial and realistic daily life follows.The young bride then had a sense of loss.She is an only child who was spoiled since she was a child. Now she is a wife and needs to take on the duties of a wife: manage the housework, plan her life, and serve her hungry and tired husband.And the husband's clothes are always covered with hard mud, and he likes to take off his shoes and spend the whole night reading the newspaper, happiness becomes monotonous and dull.She thought seriously about the future and found a lifetime of labor dull and boring. It is not surprising, then, that she began to seek pleasure in the butcher's shop.She always figured out that in the afternoon he might be the only one to go.In her life, he was a rare bright spot, always smiling, so she couldn't help but pay attention to him.Beneath his simple summer dress was the alluring physique of a man, unlike her scrawny husband.His skin was flushed red, and the top of his apron peeked out from a thick tuft of black hair. Without words, things happened naturally one afternoon.Arnold was wrapping the buttocks of the pig, and the two stood side by side, so close that they could feel each other's body temperature.Then they went upstairs to the small room, and they were sweating profusely, throwing their clothes on the floor. When she left the butcher's shop, her face was peachy, so excited that she forgot about the meat on the counter. There is no wall that is impenetrable to the wind, not to mention that chasing wind and shadows is a hobby of a small village. There are rumors on the street, which penetrate into people's consciousness little by little like sunlight piercing through the mist.Women are always the first to know this kind of news.In the weeks after that afternoon, Arnold clearly felt that the customers were more active, and the space distance between him and him was getting closer and closer when buying meat.Customers used to pay and pick up goods, but now they have an extra job, which is to touch Arnold's fingers as much as possible.The young wife began to come regularly at two o'clock in the afternoon, and then shut the door behind her to give the signal.Others also chose different times and followed them in.Arnold is obviously thinner, but he is full of a sense of accomplishment. I don't know who first awakened the husbands who had been kept in the dark.Possibly one of the oldest old ladies in the village, one of the great joys of her life is to expose every anomaly she sees; perhaps by a wife who was given a cold shoulder by Arno because she never had the chance to visit That dark, meaty bedroom.Anyway, word started to spread and eventually reached the husbands.So cross-examination will be carried out between the couple's bed.Of course the wife denies it, but the husband doesn't believe it.The husbands corroborate what they have heard with each other, only to discover that they are members of the same miserable club. Unsolved Murder (3) Five of them got together in a café one evening: three farmers, a postman, and an insurance company clerk who was often out at night because of work.They sat at a table away from the bar, and a deck of cards on the table concealed the real reason for their gathering.In low, pained voices, they tell each other roughly the same story.She has changed and is no longer the woman I married, the dirty bastard who ruined our lives with his smile and dirty shorts.The anger grew stronger under the influence of alcohol, their voices became thicker and their voices became higher.The postman, the only one sober in the room, proposed to continue the meeting in some secluded place to discuss the next course of action. It was the end of September and the hunting season had begun, so they made an appointment to meet in the mountains early on Sunday morning, and they all took their guns and hunting dogs to hunt wild boars. It was still hot when the sun went down on Sunday, not like September but like July.When the five people walked up to the top of the mountain, the guns and bullet bags on their shoulders seemed extremely heavy, and their lungs felt very stuffy.They came to the shade under a big cypress tree, unloaded their shoulders, took out wine bottles and passed them around to drink.The hounds searched the invisible trails, and seemed to be running non-stop. The sound of the bell on the neck broke the silence in the air.There were hardly any other voices and no one else, so they could talk without hesitation. To punish the wives, or to attack the butcher? Beat him up, break his bones, smash up his butcher shop, it might teach him a lesson.A husband said so.But the guy would definitely recognize them, and if he called the police, he'd be in trouble, maybe jail time.Besides, does this stop him from doing it?After being beaten, he will win the sympathy of his wives. Once he recovers, everything will start again. The wine bottles were passed silently, and the five imagined spending months in prison, maybe even longer.If their wives could cheat on them now, they would be even more reckless when they were alone. Finally, one of them said what they all wanted so badly: There had to be a one-time solution.In any case, the butcher must get out of here.Only in this way could their lives and their wives be restored to what they had been before the young lecher had dishonored them. The postman, who had always been the most sensible of them all, advocated talking to the young butcher.Might be able to persuade him to leave.The other four shook their heads frequently to express their disapproval.What kind of punishment is that?Just so useless?Where is that personality?Where is the axiom?Haven't been laughed at by the villagers?How can I meet people in the future?In the eyes of others, these are five cowardly men. Their wives are fooling around with other men, but they are helpless. The wine bottle was empty, one of them got up and stood the bottle on the stone, turned around and picked up the gun and pushed the bullet into the chamber.We should, he said.Then he shattered the bottle, looked down at the others, and shrugged.That's all. In the end, they agreed to draw lots to decide who would carry out the death sentence.After all this was done, they went down the hill to have Sunday dinner with their wives. The executor was very careful in his timing, waiting until a moonless day, leaving home late at night to start his operations.Just to be sure, he loaded two barrels of gunpowder, although a buckshot can kill an elephant, let alone a person in close proximity.All the while the young butcher heard the knock and came down to open the door, the man must have been cursing himself for being so slow.When he walked quietly through the deserted streets to the door of the butcher shop, he must have wondered whether the other people were tossing and turning because they missed him. He put two gun barrels against the young butcher's chest, and withdrew before he could see him fall.He was out in the fields below the village before the lights in the next house came on, and he stumbled across the vineyards on his way home. Before dawn the first police arrived, and it was one of the few telephones in the village that woke him from his bed.There were five or six people standing in the light of the butcher's shop at that time. They seemed very frightened and refused to leave, their eyes were fixed on the bloody corpse in the door.Less than an hour later, a criminal police unit from Avignon arrived, told them to leave the scene, removed the bodies, set up an office, and began the lengthy interrogation of the entire village. For the five husbands, it's a difficult time that tests their fidelity and friendship.They spent another Sunday in the forest, reminding each other to keep silent.Now it was their only self-preservation.As one of them said, as long as you don't speak, no one will know.The police will think that the butcher has some enemies before, and now they come to him to settle old scores.They passed the bottles encouragingly to each other, vowing never to tell the truth. The days passed by, and then the weeks passed.No one has come forward, there are no clues, and no one has admitted to knowing anything.Besides, the villagers don't want to discuss the affairs of the village with outsiders in police uniforms.All the police could confirm was the approximate time of death and, of course, the fact that the murderer used a shotgun.Everyone who owned the gun was questioned, and each gun was carefully inspected by the police.But buckshot does not leave a definite mark like a bullet.Any gun could kill a butcher. In that warm and dry autumn, the grape juice was particularly thick. Everyone agreed that the village's top priority was to harvest grapes, so the whole village should concentrate on it and go all out. Then a butcher came from an old family of the Adages, and he happily took over the beautifully furnished butcher's shop.And to his surprise, he found himself greeted with unusual friendliness by the men of the village. "That's the end of the story," said Marius. "It seemed like forty years ago." I asked him if he knew who the killer was.Because at least five people knew about it, not to mention, as he himself said, keeping a secret in a small village is like holding water with your hands.But he just shook his head with a smile. "But let me tell you," he said, "that the day the young butcher was buried, the whole village was there. They all had their reasons." After drinking, Marius stretched himself in his chair, " Oh, what a welcome funeral that was."