“The fire department came the other day,” said Le Grand. “They found a kid who was half dead. He’d been hit in the temple.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So what happened?”
“I don’t know, I don’t read the paper.”
“Who was it?”
“One of those weird kids from Hennicourt. Seems he was bleeding like a stuck pig when they found him.”
“You can’t kill those people. He probably pulled through.”
The sarcasm, which was usual when talking about the inbreds, didn’t get a laugh out of Manu. His father had worked at Metalor from middle school until his accident. His uncles had spent their lives in there as well. His grandfather, too. It was the same with the Casatis and half the people in the valley.
“All right, guys,” Manu continued in his monotone. “What is it you want?”
“It’s about the Boualis.”
“So?”
“You know them, right? You’re tight with everybody.”
“I don’t know anything. I never see those people. What’s this problem of yours?”
In a few words, the cousin explained. The party and Hacine showing up. The motorcycle disappearing. Their suspicions. When he heard about the bike, Le Grand whistled admiringly.
“Man, when your dad hears about this…”
“You sure you can’t talk to them?”
“To say what? You don’t even know if it was them.”
Put that way, the whole approach looked completely ridiculous, of course. The cousin went on chatting, for appearances’ sake, and then the conversation dried up. The low ping of ball bearings ricocheting in the mill resumed. Shading his eyes, Le Grand tried to see inside, then gave up.
“C’mon, I’ll get you a drink. It’ll be something, anyway.”
The boys thought he was going to treat them to another beer at L’Usine, but instead of that, he invited them to his place. He lived just down the street toward the cemetery. The boys didn’t dare refuse.
* * *
—
On the way, Anthony thought about the half-crazy kids who were shooting up the steel mill. They lived in tiny settlements strung along empty departmental highways with run-down farms, abandoned post offices, and walls bearing Monsavon advertising posters. No one knew why, but all the people living there looked more or less the same, with oversized heads shaved bald as cue balls, and ears that stuck out. You hardly ever saw them in winter, but when spring came they drove into town in their patched-up cars. When you encountered them downtown, they hugged the walls, but in their element, they weren’t so constrained. People said they ate dogs and hedgehogs. Anthony had been in elementary school with a few of them: Jérémy Huguenot, Lucie Kreper, and Fred Carton. They weren’t especially mean, but they were already tough and proud, quick to throw a punch. You didn’t see them after fifth grade. They probably clustered in vocational schools until they were of age. After that, they lived marginal lives on welfare and petty theft, incestuous families that got into fights and once in a while produced a force of nature that scared the hell out of the whole canton.
* * *
—
Manu’s apartment was up under the roof, and it was even hotter than in the bar.
“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the sofa bed.
He threw the windows open. The boys were already drenched with sweat.
A little dog was asleep in a basket on the floor, panting. The exposed beams bore paperback books and pieces of decorative African art; a dreamcatcher hung in a corner. Aside from that, there wasn’t much, a big orange armchair and a Subway poster on the wall. A thumbtack had popped out, and the poster’s upper-right corner curled down.
Manu emerged from the open kitchen with a six-pack of beer he’d bought at Aldi. It was Labatt 50—cheap stuff—but it came straight from the fridge. He took one, left the others on the coffee table, and dropped into his armchair.
“Drink up while it’s still cold,” he said.
The boys did so. The beer was icy, a treat.
After setting his beer down, Manu swung his chair around so he could scratch the head of the little dog, which was still sleeping in its basket. It was a small black and tan mutt with a pointed muzzle. The dog sighed at being stroked, and Manu poured some beer into its bowl.
“Want a little drink?”
He moved the bowl closer to the dog, which opened a dubious eye before lapping it up. Then it lowered its head back in the basket.
“Poor animal. In this heat, he sleeps all day long.”
After that, he switched on the hi-fi. A guy started singing “Je peux très bien me passer de toi.” It was a good song, and Manu turned the volume up a little.
“You’ve got a nice place,” said the cousin. “I didn’t know you did any traveling.”
“Are you kidding? Three-quarters of the stuff here comes from the Saint-Ouen flea market. Back in the day I used to go there all the time. Guys were always giving me crapola like that.”
He took a long pull on his beer and set the can down, carefully putting it on the ring it had left on the coffee table.
“Anyway, I’m comfortable here. I have a room for my daughter. It’s not too far from downtown. I’m easy. Except for the summer; that’s a killer.”
The cousins were in agony sitting on the sofa bed, which was as hard as wood. Le Grand sipped his beer and watched them, clearly pleased to see how uncomfortable they were.
“You guys okay?”
“Yeah.”
Suddenly serious, he leaned toward them and said:
“You know, the Bouali family, I mainly knew the cousins when I was working at L’Escale. Saïd and I were in the joint at the same time. But I’d be amazed if I talked to him twice in my life. And as for the kids, zip. I keep my head down now.”
As he talked, Manu rummaged under the coffee table. There was all sorts of junk down there: movie tapes, magazines, food wrappers, a baby bottle with curdled milk. The cousins exchanged a glance. They were starting to regret having come.
“Aha, here it is.”
Manu had found what he was looking for, a little metal patch kit. Opening it, he shook two grams of cocaine out onto the coffee table. It was lumpy and slightly pink. Anthony had never seen coke before, and his mouth immediately went dry. Manu was now busy making three neat symmetrical lines, using a playing card, an eight of diamonds.
“Hey, Manu, we aren’t doing any coke,” ventured the cousin. “It’s totally cool, but we’re gonna head home now.”
The dog opened its jaws and yawned. Seeing what its master was doing, it hopped up and gaily shook itself. Anthony felt a stab of dismay. The little dog had only three legs; the fourth was just a blackened stump. He watched as it hopped over to its master. Manu wet his finger, took a little coke, and offered it to the dog, which barked and happily licked it. Manu chuckled, showing him off to the cousins.
“He’s funny, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” said Anthony.
“But seriously, Manu,” the cousin tried again, “we’re going to split. There’s this thing I gotta do.”
“You’re gonna have a taste first. Even the dog does it.”
Le Grand rolled a Post-it note and inhaled a line of coke all at once. It must have been four inches long.
“Okay, your turn.”
He handed the Post-it to Anthony, who was literally dripping with sweat.
“Wait,” said the cousin, “we—”
“Don’t give me a hard time.”
Meanwhile, the dog was growling and spinning around in its basket at top speed, trying to catch its tail.
“What a little wretch,” said Manu, laughing.
The dog was spinning, hopped up and determined. The boys could hardly believe their eyes.
“Okay, calm down now,” said Le Grand.
“Hey!” He slapped the little dog on the rump, and it groaned and lay down.
“It’s the same old routine, every time. He wants a taste, and then he gets half crazy.”
Manu turned back to his guests, sniffed a couple of times, and smiled, displaying his synthetic teeth again. Anthony realized that his face reminded him of someone. Oh yeah: the old Inca in The Seven Crystal Balls.
“Damn, but it’s hot!” said Manu, yanking off his T-shirt. Underneath, he was lean as a rake. Even when he was seated, his stomach didn’t bulge. He turned back to Anthony, relentless.
“Okay, here we go. Time’s up, pal. Go ahead. You take a big snort, and bingo!”
Anthony knelt in front of the coffee table. His forehead was sweaty and his chest was so tight he thought he might faint.
“You’ll see. It’ll do you good.”
Anthony put the straw in his right nostril and inhaled hard. When he stood up, his fear was gone. He’d done it. He was feeling kind of proud of himself.
“Ha-ha!” Le Grand laughed. “So?”
Anthony was blinking. Aside from the irritation in his sinus, nothing happened. He sniffed. He pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger. He smiled. He ran his tongue over his lips.
“Holy shit!”
Le Grand burst out laughing.
“See what I mean?!”
Anthony wouldn’t have been able to describe the sensation. It was nothing like drinking or smoking weed. He felt completely in control, sharp as a scalpel. He could pass the baccalauréat as an independent candidate. And Steph suddenly seemed incredibly approachable.
His cousin followed suit, and when he raised his head, he was smiling, too. The two boys had met on the other side, safely home, all things considered. And it felt damned good.
At that point, the afternoon started to race by at an alarming speed.
Manu cut another three lines. Then he found a bottle of pastis and poured them big glasses on the rocks. Anthony was talking-talking-talking at top speed about the meaning of life, about coke, and he was thanking Manu, he was so happy to be there, no shit it was so cool, he dared say he’d like to try it again. As he talked, he reveled in his precision, his exactly calibrated elocution, the unbelievable speed of his thoughts. Talking felt like being in a speed-skating race; the feeling of speed in the turns was phenomenal.
Soon, he took off his T-shirt. His cousin was grinding his teeth, then got bare-chested as well. Manu wanted them to listen to something on the hi-fi. He spent a long time pressing Fast Forward and Play on the tape player. He was looking for a Janis Joplin song where she prays to God to give her a Mercedes-Benz, but it must’ve been on another cassette, and he finally gave up. Glancing at his watch, Anthony was surprised to see that it was only a little past three. He had the impression he’d been there for hours. The dog had gone back to sleep. Anthony asked what had happened to its paw.
Manu returned to his armchair, suddenly in a bad mood. With his cigarette, he started singeing the few curly hairs growing below his belly button. An unpleasant charred smell filled the room.
“It was an accident.”
“Car crash?”
“No. An asshole at a party. The dog was asleep on the sofa. This moron sat down on him.”
“Oh, shit.”
“He broke his paw in four places. Nobody told me. By the time I found out what happened, it was too late. They had to cut it off.”
“No…”
“He whimpered for hours, poor thing. And not one fucking person got off his ass to help.”
Manu drew so hard on his cigarette, you could hear the tobacco crackle. The story had pretty much killed the mood, as if from then on, the little dog’s presence kept them from having a good time. Anthony’s head felt heavy. He saw the cousin putting his T-shirt on.
“D’you really want to get your bike back?” asked Manu.
“What?”
He took his time before answering, to keep them in suspense. He took another long drag, his cheeks sunken, eyes wide and rolling—a crow.
“Your bike. Because if Hacine swiped it, there’s only one way to get it back, pal.”
He stood up and went into the kitchen. The boys could hear him fumbling for something under the sink. When he staggered back, his shoulder bumping along the wall, he was carrying a bundle. He tossed it to them but misjudged the throw, and the thing hit the floor with a thump.
“Go ahead. Take a look.”
“What is it?” asked the cousin.
“What do you think?”
In fact, the shape of the bundle didn’t leave much doubt about what it contained.
“Go ahead.”
Anthony picked up the gun and peeled away the old L’Équipe newspaper pages. The pistol was wrapped in a cloth. It was a MAC 50. He took it in both hands and gazed at it. It was super beautiful.
“It’s loaded,” said Manu.
What made it really impressive was its density, the big screws in the grip, the feeling of solidity, and, to be honest, its extremely rudimentary character. Anthony ran his thumb along the grooves in the extractor. His cousin came over to take a look. He, too, touched it.
“Let me see.”
Regretfully, Anthony handed it to him.
“It’s heavy.”
Le Grand was back sitting in his armchair, smoking yet another cigarette. He looked as if he was about to be sick. He attempted a smile and, with a disdainful gesture, tapped his ash in midair.
“It’s clean. I’m giving it to you.”
The cousin laid the gun on the coffee table. Anthony was sorry that he hadn’t gripped it; he was itching to, now. He would like to hold it and see how it felt, having that possibility at the end of his arm.
“We’re gonna take off now,” said his cousin.
“Oh yeah? And just where d’you think you’re going?”
“It’s all good, Manu.”
A tiny vein was throbbing under Le Grand’s eye. Casually, he flicked his cigarette butt across the room.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve, you little pissant.”
The cousin gestured for Anthony to follow him to the door.
“You come to my place, you drink my beer, you snort my coke for free. No shit, just where d’you think you are?”
“Listen, it was cool,” said the cousin, his hands raised in an appeasing gesture. “We’re just gonna go now.”
“You aren’t going anywhere.”
Then Le Grand gagged on something. It hit his sternum and burned his whole esophagus. He struggled briefly, chin on his chest, eyes closed. When he opened them, his pupils were so dilated they were like a bottomless lake, black and uncrossable. Anthony shivered. The gun still lay between them on the coffee table. Le Grand leaned over and grabbed it.
“Now get the fuck out of here.”
He was holding the gun with strange indifference. It dangled from his bent wrist between his open thighs.
“Are you gonna be okay?” asked the cousin.
Manu looked pale, and drops of sweat began to run down his temples. He sniffed.
“I said beat it.”
As Anthony walked by him, Le Grand’s long, thin paw grabbed his biceps. It was burning hot, and there was something disgusting about the contact. Anthony thought about AIDS. He knew very well you couldn’t catch it from skin contact; they said that on TV often enough. But the thought occurred to him anyway. He felt a chill on the back of his neck as he pulled free.
“Go on, you little asshole…”
The two cousins ran out, slamming the door behind them. On the landing, the air felt cool. They stumbled down the stairs at top speed. Anthony wondered what happened to the guy who sat on the little dog.
8
The two boys walked home by way of downtown an
d Blonds-Champs. What remained of their high made the distance disappear, and they were hardly aware of covering it. But it was still very hot, and you could feel the weight of the town, its smell of melted tar and dry dust, its slow descent into evening.
Anthony was walking in silence, lagging a little behind. He was feeling torn. On the one hand, he was glad he’d snorted coke at Manu’s. That was a hell of a milestone, and he wished he could shout it from the rooftops. On the other hand, the mess he was in wasn’t getting resolved. Also, his cousin was striding along ahead of him, not saying a word. What could he be thinking? Was he in a bad mood? Other people’s inner lives were certainly deplorable.
“Hey, what did I do?” he asked. “Are you pissed off, or what?”
The cousin’s only response was to pick up his pace, to the point where Anthony had to start jogging so as not to be left behind. Here he was, someone who’d gotten as buzzed as one of the Rolling Stones, and this was bringing him down.
“Wait up, goddammit! Wait for me!”
Just as they were about to head up rue Clément-Hader, Anthony’s mood changed. He was suddenly overcome by the old malaise, of being sick of it all. It would never end, this feeling of being under people’s thumb, being young, and having to account for himself. At times he felt so bad he started getting desperate ideas. In movies, people had symmetrical faces, clothes that fit, and means of locomotion, usually. Whereas he lived by default, flunking school, getting around on foot, hopeless with girls, and he couldn’t even keep it together.
When they got to his cousin’s house, Anthony at least had the satisfaction of finding his BMX against the wall where he left it. The two boys stood for a moment without speaking. It was between three and five, when the day gets a second wind.
His cousin didn’t ask him in. Anthony couldn’t bring himself to leave.
“So what’s your problem?” he asked.
“You just have to tell your old man. That’s it, end of story.”
And Their Children After Them Page 9
