The Watershed

Saïd has parked his car in front of the Watershed. Leaning against the passenger door, he wipes his hands on his thighs once, twice, and again. They’re clammy. He’s not exactly afraid, but even so. He looks at the iron wheel, smooth with algae and moss, spinning in the river, slowly sinking against the current, coming back up filled with water. He checks the time on his mobile phone and puts it nervously into the back pocket of his jeans. He squints at the harsh morning light, and his stomach does a somersault every time a car drives through the dust. When Manuel’s turns in, Saïd stiffens but does not panic. That’s what he’s here for, after all. The parking spaces aren’t full yet: it’s Sunday, second-hand market day in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. Everybody parks in the city centre or in the surrounding areas. It’s still quiet here. The Parisians will be along later to hang around by the river, have a drink and compare their supposed bargains. Saïd’s hands are shaking. He puts them in his pockets. The ducks seem to be mocking him: there are ten or so chuckling and waddling about, and he feels like throwing rocks at them. Manuel parks at an angle in front of Saïd’s car and turns off the ignition. By the time Manuel extricates himself from the pick-up truck, Saïd has put on his sunglasses and moved forward a little. They face each other at a respectable distance. They’re the same height, except that Manuel is built like an ox and Saïd is as slender as a reed. He takes the lead – it’s easier to talk than to tackle him in silence.

“Got anything for me?”

Manuel mutters something incomprehensible and gestures at the back of the pick-up with his arm. Saïd relaxes. He approaches the bed and lets Manuel slowly lift the tarpaulin.

“Odds and ends,” the man announces.

Saïd rummages and finds a lamp. Copper and leather, old enough to impress an American. “I’ll take this.”

He continues looking, more sure of himself now. So the ritual clearly hasn’t changed, despite the insults the other day. He concentrates so he can sort the wheat from the crappy, worthless chaff. Antique dealers have a good eye for this, and he’s spent so much time with them he’s learned the trick of ferreting out stuff that can be sold for an obscene price to the first Parisian or foreign tourist. He pushes away a rug that disintegrates, lifts the tarpaulin a little more, and discovers a section of a small, veneered secretaire. He lets out a whistle. “Not bad…”

“What about the rug?”

“You must be joking. It’s threadbare; besides, this kind of thing isn’t worth anything.”

“Bloody hell, I busted my gut to bring it. It’s fifteen feet by ten.”

“OK, well, it’s not worth anything. On the other hand, I’m taking the secretaire. And the lamp. Wait, let me look at the rest.”

Saïd picks up a few art deco boxes and an enamelled bowl with a blue rim. He loads them into his car. Manuel doesn’t lift a finger to help. “How much?” he asks.