Three Drops of Blood and a Cloud of Cocaine

by Quentin Mouron

  GEORG LUKÁCS

  THE PRESENT SIGNIFICANCE OF CRITICAL REALISM

  Suite 478 in the Grand Conference Hotel is immersed in semidarkness. The curtains are drawn. A strong, complex, noxious odor – a mixture of Casablanca lily, wallflower, and turpentine – pervades the room. McCarthy is rooted to his chair, motionless, his eyes closed. Before him, on a side table, in the shadows, sits the dirty china which just an hour before held braised breast of Bresse pigeon, fillets of gilthead bream, mullet with Espelette peppers, veal sweetbreads, saddle of lamb Prince Orloff, and a Madagascar vanilla-flavored biscuit soufflé. On the table are two empty glasses and three bottles of Saint-Estèphe; little scraps of aluminum foil and a silver spoon reflect the (feeble) light cast by three massive candelabras.

  The metallic voice resumes its psalmody: “Bianca seemed the very young daughter of this recumbent Venus, who, with lascivious satiation, displayed the animal seduction of her potently voluptuous body to the gallery.”

  McCarthy is emerging from his torpor. He opens his eyes. Franck, standing on the bed, naked, his back arched, violently, extravagantly, is holding the Péladan volume at arm’s length. The flames from the candelabras cast a glow over his face and body. His lips are red, his eyelids painted with garish eyeshadow; his hair seems darker, while his ravaged features, with dark circles and prominent cheekbones, have a corpselike pallor. His eyes express a hard, cold determination. He falls silent for a moment, holding quite still. The sheriff is suddenly overcome by anguish, by pangs of withdrawal. He senses that the spectacle cannot end here. That it must continue. That there would be a kind of false note if it were interrupted at this point in the text – at this juncture in the feast. He clenches his fists. Tenses up. He starts to get to his feet, to open his mouth, to speak. But suddenly, to the policeman’s relief, Franck, with a sway of his hips, steps to the left. He passes one hand behind his back, puffs out his chest, arches his back even further, and resumes his recitation.

  “She already possessed her full figure, her warm complexion; her bosom was a woman’s and her hips held a promise of fertility. A prayer-book angel, denuded as a foolish virgin by a depraved maker of images; such seemed Leonora.”

  McCarthy reaches out for one of the three bottles.

  “Such seemed Leonora!” repeats Franck, before continuing. “Her complexion, of a dazzling olive hue, was vernal, without any hint of red, not even on the knees or the elbows; the pallor of her slender arms extended into her hands, and of her sloping shoulders into her long neck.”

  The sheriff, with some difficulty, pulls the bottle to him. His eyes shine.

  “She was delicately slender, but nothing of her bone structure was visible. On her flat chest the small, finely shaped breasts were cleanly attached, distant and sharp, with no transitional curves.”

  The bottle is empty. His arm drops, letting it roll on the carpet.

  “The line of her waist swelled slightly at the hips, blending into the excessively long legs of an Eve by Lucas van Leyden.”

  The sheriff reaches out again. Aluminum foil. A small bag of powder.

  “Her slender outlines, the delicacy of her joints, the gracile length of her limbs, the predominance of verticals rendered her flesh, already of an unreal hue, immaterial: she might have been taken for one of those female saints stripped for martyrdom by Schongauer’s burin.”

  Then he picks up the spoon…

  “But the ambiguous gaze of her green eyes, the disturbing smile on her broad mouth, the old-gold flavescence of her hair, her entire head, refuted the mysticism of her body.”

  …which also drops to the ground.

  “But soon they were embarrassed by their nakedness, and Bianca snuffed out the candelabras.”

  Franck falls silent. The lights come on again. Then he leaps off the bed and comes back to sit opposite McCarthy, who, after a few moments’ hesitation, applauds him violently.

  “Did you like that?” asks the detective.

  “Yes, yes! What a voice you have! A beautiful, magnificent voice! Like an organ, but better, much better than in church…”

  “Thank you, Paul.”

  “No.” (He almost falls off his chair.) “It’s for me to thank you! To thank you for everything!”

  “Not at all! I just invited you to dinner.”

  “Oh, more than that, let me tell you… You’ve spoiled me!”

  “You’ve no idea how true that is, Sheriff. But we’re not done yet… We still have the night before us. What would you say to a little more dessert?”

  “Well, I’d say that’s one hell of a good idea! Shake on it!”

  He holds out his hand, which Franck doesn’t take.

  “Pass the powder,” he orders. The sheriff slides the envelope across the table.

  “Now the spoon, please.”

  McCarthy bends down, picks it up, and passes it to the detective. Franck puts the cocaine into it. From his pockets he takes an elegantly decorated silver flask, encrusted with tiny sapphires, which is filled with ammonia.

  “My Zippo?” he asks the policeman. McCarthy starts, pats his uniform, and finally produces the lighter.

  “Thanks.”

  Franck pours the ammonia into the spoon and brings it level with his eyes, which have an eager, almost obscene glint; then he slowly combines the two substances using the flame of his Zippo. He wipes up the remaining solids using a tissue, and places them on a smooth, straight-edged scrap of foil. The sheriff holds the foil while Franck, again using the flame of his lighter, heats the solid from below. Soon there remains only a small amber drop, which the two men smoke voluptuously.

  “Getting it up, Sheriff?” Franck briefly inspects his fly. “No… Too bad.”

  They are stretched out on the bed.

  “You see, Paul, this is what I call a party. Now that the word has become a meaningless entry in our dictionary – meaningless because what it represents has taken over our world – I maintain that the only real parties are intimate, private ones. Here we are with our liberty (what’s left of it!), just our own selves (what’s left of them!); I mean without the organizers, communicators, and event planners who dam rivers and pack down the earth so well that it’s become impossible to sink into it, to lose yourself in it – adorable sorceress, do you love the dammed? Ha ha! Freedom Day, World Book Day, Human Rights Day, Poetry Day; processions, carnivals, independence festivities, jingoistic bacchanalia; celebrations of the equinox, pop concerts, Lollapalooza. It’s all so impoverished, sad, vulgar, public. It’s only in the bedroom that sedition is possible – what am I saying, Sheriff? – in the suite… in our suite! Government snoops of the world unite! – They’re alarmed to the point of risking scandal, defying the electorate, slapping the people in the face. A regime can only survive with a cop in every house. It’s only on that condition you can talk about lasting forever. Look at me, Paul, look at me!”

  With difficulty, McCarthy turns toward him.

  “Wouldn’t anyone think I was talking politics? It’s rather comical, isn’t it? Yes, I’m blathering, I’m jabbering on, talking too much. But what can you do, what you call ‘drugs,’ ‘hard drugs,’ ‘narcotics,’ are a simple – but effective, and delicious – inducer of thoughts. You can feel them welling up in you, your thoughts, can’t you? A surge! A tide! Coming together! Yes, coming together! Now we’re truly endowed with personality!”

  The sheriff remains silent; he is staring at the ceiling, hands trembling.

  “As for our party, since a party it is, let me assure you that you will remember it! The Greeks had a sense of the spectacular, and the Romans too! But the mood has changed… We’ve had to beat a retreat, rein in our energy, contain our frenzy behind closed doors. Oh! There were still great processions, splendid festivities, but there was no more… possession. Are you possessed, Sheriff? The best way to prevent possession is never to be yourself. Take the leap! Up and away! Far from ourselves! We’ll smoke again, I give you my word! But watch out: I’ve no word to give! O
r rather: I have a word, but no mouth. And no mouth because I’ve no face, you see? No one can wear a mask for very long, says Seneca. But I could only wear a face for even less time. We’ve gotten to know one another today, and I’m glad of that. What kind of an impression did I make on you? Seriously? Have you actually met Franck? Is Franck this person stretched out beside you, high on coke, plastered with makeup, a porn star cutout? God only knows! Take a look! But all you’ll get is a fragment… a speck of dust. A speck like what you’ve snorted, which stands for Franck but is never all of him. But why should you care? You’ve got other fish to fry… A whole panful. Your family! What a joke, a splendid trick, this Marshall and his confession! A trick! The real world makes a fool of you, takes you down a peg, Sheriff – but always with a smile. A smile I’ve lost, because I’ve no mouth anymore, because I’ve… I’ve told you already! I’m repeating myself. The real world repeats itself too, by the way. What about another smoke? You’re not answering?”

  McCarthy, pale, brings a hand to his heart. “Water!” he croaks. “Give me water, Franck!”

  Franck is on his feet in an instant. “Paul! Come on! Paul!” He slaps him twice, lightly, on the face. “Paul! You’re turning pale!” The detective rushes to the minibar, takes out a bottle of brandy, and brings the neck to the sheriff’s lips. “Drink this, it’ll do you good.”

  McCarthy takes several gulps, and then violently turns his head away.

  “You’re getting a bit of color back! You’re not a red-faced guy, not ruddy like your colleagues in the detective division. You haven’t got a Grecian profile, yet you’re more finely formed than your basic Yank. I’ll take this opportunity to tell you that among all the arts, sculpture is the one that leaves me coldest. Now why is that? Maybe it’s because, unlike painting or literature, it obliges me to go somewhere, to appreciate it from the middle of a crowd, in a museum. Art loses its power when it’s prostituted to the herd. Like partying, like the individual, like anything great. The pack hungers for dead meat; it turns everything into Culture. Producing Culture means making nothingness sing, whereas a reproduction of a painting, or a book, can be appreciated in solitude, in exile, in the illusion of its singularity. I was talking about jokes. Your family, Paul. Your neighborhood. Your equilibrium. Yet here you are, this evening, on the verge of fainting, as high as a kite, stretched out alongside a killer… Yes! Yes, Paul!” He raises his voice. “Look at me!” McCarthy, still pale, looks at Franck. “I’m a murderer! I’ve killed someone, Sheriff! Arrest me! I tell you, I’m a murderer! And a lot of other things besides… You’re a cop and a father. But me… I’ve got more strings to my bow, more than one card up my sleeve! I try to deceive the real world. But you’re its accomplice. You went along with the farce quite consciously. You should have gone mad, but you became colorless. Your kingdom is well worth a heart attack! Poor guy! Stretched out beside Franck, the Francks, you remind me of that hag in the Ensor painting, mercilessly surrounded by masks. Aren’t you going to drink this brandy? Drink, I tell you! Hey!” He brings the bottle to McCarthy’s lips. “Do you know what tonight reminds me of? I had a young girl of about fourteen stretched out on my bed, blonde, naked. I went down on her, tasted her. Her smell: light, almost a breeze. Her eyes remote, her eyelids heavy with drugs and eyeshadow, she was almost comatose. It was then I knew love. For a few seconds. Aren’t you my pupil this evening? My languorous little blonde?” He draws closer to the sheriff. “Do you think you’re able to resist me? No, my dear friend. You can’t anymore. It’s too late! All your life you’ve resisted. Your crazy, drunken parents that you’ve tried to forget, to bury beneath your impeccable garden. The house of the dead, like a citadel that you’ve constructed. Your career, your family, your activities in the community. And along I come. Along comes Marshall. Old Jimmy’s ghost. Reality comes back in a flood: all that’s left is for you to drown. What? You’re turning pale! Yet my coke was almost pure. Like that little blonde girl. Did I tell you about purity? My ideal? ‘Ideal’ is a big word. Anyway, for someone who has lost the sense of reality, words are all too big, too vague. They no longer work as signs, but like formulas, like mantras that you repeat to avoid finding yourself drained dry, robbed of speech, to help maintain the illusion that you have something to say. Anyway, it was because of a word – a play on words – that poor Lyllian died. You see, we were about to become friends, and I wanted to snort some coke, and it occurred to me that I could make a pun by saying, ‘I’m drawing a line under our friendship.’ I needed a drug, and I got it! A dead friend, and I got one! You know as well as I do that people will kill for a cigarette, for a scrape, for an insult. I killed for a pun. The whole thing is dizzyingly, frighteningly lacking in substance. It’s nothing; that’s what scares you. What can you do? All you know is the farce, and I know nothing but impulse. What about a little more?”

  “No, no, please—”

  “Come on, Sheriff, you’ve got your color back. And even so, your pallor makes you more seductive. Has no one ever told you that?”

  No answer.

  Irritated, Franck raises his voice. “I’m talking to you, Sheriff! I’m asking you if you know how to dance!”

  He grabs McCarthy’s hands and forces him to his feet. Then he starts the Fauré “Elegy” on the CD player. “Sheriff, let’s dance!” he exclaims. “Let’s dance! Dance till we go nuts, till we shatter, pulverize ourselves! Let’s get pulverized, you old devil! Sheriff! I’ll teach you… Follow me! Follow me far away! Ready! Keep following me! Hey! I’m talking to you! Start moving! Let’s dance! Let’s dance!”

  The suite is dark again. The scent of Casablanca lilies has replaced the smell of ammonia. A window is open. Sitting on either side of the table, with a bottle of cognac – an excellent Martell Cordon Bleu – between them, the two men are facing one another. Franck has removed his makeup and gotten fully dressed; his eyes are mournful.

  “You’re a free man,” declares the sheriff, gravely.

  Franck refills McCarthy’s glass before answering, “You’re mistaken. I offered you a feast, drugs, we danced. I introduced you to Péladan. From that you’ve concluded that I’m an original…” He sighs. “But it’s quite the opposite. What we had this evening – which I had the cheek to call a ‘party’ – was basically just a series of everyday clown’s tricks, judiciously strung along the tightrope of necessity. And you’ll see the result! You’ll vomit once or twice, your heart will beat fast, you’ll suffer a bit from withdrawal, your life will resume its flow, and you’ll drown in it. As for mine, it has been hit hard. Maybe compromised… I’m dislocated, lost – there are killers on my trail.” He gets up and takes the suitcase he has packed. In the doorway, he turns around.

  “I’m very glad to have gotten to know you, Sheriff. Try to vacate the room before eleven.” He goes out.

  Franck crosses the underground garage whistling Interpol’s “Slow Hands.” He keeps a hand in his pocket, a finger on the trigger. A look around reassures him that all is quiet: no one, empty cars. He arranges his things in the passenger compartment of the 300C, connects his GPS, takes out a cigarette, lights it, and, reflecting that he has made some splendid encounters, admired several masterpieces, killed a man, and made a few amusing puns, he drives away.