Vernon tries to connect a car battery to an amplifier he found by the side of the road. He smiles ingenuously. He is short-circuiting as much as ever. It is as though he has epileptic fits that gently dissociate him from reality in slow motion. After a fashion he loses consciousness, but rather than suffering painful convulsions, he seems radiant. When he regains consciousness, he does not seem worried. His clothes are filthy, but he still smells nice. The three-day stubble brings out the gray of his eyes. The guy is possessed; he attracts company like a magnet. He says:
“Did something happen last night?”
“How did you know?”
“Charles told me he saw people running. Aïcha, Céleste, and some people he didn’t recognize … And Olga saw you pass by, but you didn’t come to see us … Is everything all right?”
“Are you spinning a set at Rosa’s tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It’s probably the last time we’ll see each other there. There was a bit of a ruction…”
“You can’t stop people doing what they have to do.”
“It feels like the end of the holidays … If people stopped coming to the park, what would you do?”
“I’ll see. I have trouble planning ahead.”
“I noticed. Do you want us to put you up somewhere, with someone who’ll look after you?”
“The one thing I don’t want is to be put up somewhere. Do you want to tell me what you’ve all been keeping from me these past few weeks?”
“We haven’t been hiding anything. We were being discreet.”
Pamela and Daniel came up with the idea. It was something they got from the Bolivian girls who had spent ten days in Paris. They rounded up five prostitutes, all of whom had known Satana, and had asked Aïcha if she wanted to be part of it. The kid had thrown a hissy fit when she found out she was surrounded by whores, but she was a little more pragmatic when she realized they were prepared to put themselves in danger to avenge her mother. She had agreed. The Hyena had become their confidential advisor. The proved exceptionally good at following orders. They memorized routes to within a meter so they could avoid the CCTV cameras, at the agreed-upon signal, they changed their clothes and pulled on balaclavas as though they had been doing it all their lives. The Hyena had suggested they get into the habit of running, so they would be able to scatter quickly, and every morning since, they had come running in the park. They took training sessions with some girl they’d discovered near the place Stalingrad, who was covered in Buddhist tattoos but was skilled in martial arts and had a thing for doing push-ups. They were the perfect team. The Hyena had never thought of herself as a team leader, but felt it was worth adapting just this once: not a blunder, not a misplaced word during the day, not a dumbass question, and—rarer still—not a single overweening ego to destabilize the group. Just a gang of beautiful women hungry for action. The Hyena had taken her role seriously. She had watched as Aïcha got hooked on the adrenaline. It had not been surprising that she had felt she needed to do more. She could have predicted what happened next.
After Anaïs told her that she had been fired, the Hyena had rushed straight over to see Dopalet to make sure that he had not caught on. He trusted her implicitly and had been as eager to see her as always. Leaving him, she had felt reassured: he had not made the connection between her and Anaïs and clearly harbored no suspicious about her. It was at this point that she got a call from Gaëlle at Rosa Bonheur, and the Hyena realized that she had missed a step: she should never have left Anaïs alone with a shit-stirrer like Gaëlle.
From what she has been able to piece together, Antoine had made his grand entrance at Rosa’s and had insisted on speaking to Aïcha alone, and Anaïs had gone out to smoke a cigarette while she waited. She had been gazing down at the lake and had seen a confrontation between two figures. Antoine was talking, waving his arms about, vehemently trying to explain, when Aïcha suddenly grabbed him by the neck. He was struggling like a madman and Anaïs had started running toward them, shouting for help to passersby, but no one came. By the time she reached the railway bridge, Aïcha was trying to throw Antoine onto the tracks while he clung to the metal railings. Céleste was trying to help him, but neutralizing the furious girl was no mean feat. Anaïs had thrown herself into the fray, a grotesque shambles of ripped T-shirts and clumsy punches. In the end, she had sunk her teeth into Aïcha’s shoulder, biting down until she heard a howl of pain. Antoine had managed to struggle free and was standing in the middle of the bridge, screaming: “You could have fucking killed me! When all I came to say was that I’m on your side…”
“Just fuck off! I don’t want you on my side. I want you to drop dead, I don’t need your support. This stupid fucker has been saying the same thing for the past hour. I’m going to kill him.”
Céleste had exploded:
“All right, so you throw him off the bridge—then what? How is that going to get you any closer to what you want?”
“It’s what Dopalet deserves—to see his son’s face smashed in.”
“You really think it would hurt him to see his son dead? You’re deluded. He’d put on a nice suit, cry for the cameras, and use the opportunity to play the victim, that’s all. Just think about it.”
Anaïs had managed to draw Aïcha to one side. The girl was still paralyzed with rage. In the middle of the bridge, Antoine was talking animatedly to Céleste, and Anaïs had to call to the tattoo artist to get her to come and take care of her friend: “You need to get her to a hospital, right now. She needs to see a doctor. You can’t let her go home like that”—and the pretty dark-haired girl had promised. Anaïs had led Dopalet’s son away. He seemed to have recovered from what had just happened. The little geek was tougher than he looked. He didn’t want to go to the police. He wanted a beer.
The Hyena had seen them come into Rosa Bonheur. She had waited until Antoine went to the toilet and then beckoned to Anaïs. She had led her outside and asked what had happened, then she had simply said: “We won’t be able to see each other for a while.” Hardly had she said the words than Anaïs turned on her heel. Maybe in a few months, the Hyena had been thinking. But the situation was about to get much more complicated, and the best thing for Anaïs was to move on. She had headed off to Dopalet’s apartment. He was not answering her text messages. This was not at all like him. Standing outside the building, she realized she did not have the code for Dopalet’s private elevator, he had always opened it for her. She had had to walk around for a while before she found a public telephone. She wanted to call Aïcha. She didn’t for a minute believe that Céleste had taken her to a doctor to help her calm down. That would have been completely out of character. But she did not guess that the two of them had gone straight to the producer’s apartment. She had let the phone ring three times, then hung up and tried again, and then again. Aïcha answered. From the tone of her voice, the Hyena had guessed. “You’re at his place?” She could hear a machine whirring in the background. Was the silly bitch shaving his hair off? “I’m right outside. I’m coming up. I don’t want to use the buzzer, so could you watch for me on the videophone and let me in? And when I do come in, don’t say a single word, okay?” At the other end of the line, Aïcha’s voice was strangely calm, almost as though she were bored.
She had buzzed the Hyena in. Behind her, in the kitchen, tied to a chair, Dopalet’s back was streaming blood. He was blindfolded. At first, the Hyena thought they had been whipping him. Then she had understood. The other airhead was giving him a tattoo. Silly bitches. It was all the Hyena could do not to burst out laughing. RAPIST. Céleste was hard at work on the second tattoo: MURDERER. She still had four letters to finish. The Hyena had dragged Aïcha into one of the bedrooms and hissed in a low voice: “I’m going to go back outside. I don’t want him to know I’m here. I’ll ring the buzzer, you two panic and get the hell out and I’ll meet you downstairs.” And Aïcha had agreed to the plan, but not the timing: “Give us half an hour, Céleste still needs to tattoo YOU’LL PA
Y on his lower back.” They had stared at each other in silence, then Aïcha had compromised: “Okay, give us ten minutes so she can at least finish MURDERER.”
* * *
When the two girls had met up with her outside, they seemed so happy and relaxed the Hyena had not been sure whether to slap them or hug them.
“Antoine gave us the door codes, and we came straight here. We had to do something.”
“My father’s a cop. I know what we’ve done is really serious.”
* * *
The Hyena had felt a faint, familial pop in her chest: a discreet click, like the pull of a thread, after which everything would go to hell. She felt sorry for the girls, who were too young to realize that they had just changed the course of their lives and those of everyone around them. Or, more precisely, too inexperienced to know that they would regret this. She did not yet know how Dopalet would take it, but she was sure that he would not allow himself to be attacked like this without seeking revenge. And given all the resources he had at his disposal, criminal proceedings were the least of their worries.
“Don’t look at me like this is my fault,” Aïcha had said. “As it goes, I think I’ve been pretty restrained.”
“Okay, girls, you’re going to go home and pack your bags right now, we’ll get you out of Paris tonight, you need to lie low for a while.”
“Antoine is not going to say anything.”
“So what? Do you really think that Dopalet is going to leave you alone? I’ll meet you at Nation in two hours.”
* * *
Then the producer had called her and asked for her help. He was about to pass out. She had helped him sterilize the needle marks. He clung to her, bewildered and disoriented. The Hyena had force-fed him a fistful of Valium: like any self-respecting coke addict, his medicine cabinet was full of tranquilizers. She had more than enough time to get the two girls out of the city. After that she would have a couple of days, maybe a week, before Dopalet realized that she had double-crossed him. She had not covered her tracks carefully enough, he was bound to find out. His son wouldn’t say anything just yet. Anaïs was not likely to go and visit him. The Hyena ran through all the parameters in her mind as she covered the bleeding tattoos with plastic wrap to avoid them becoming infected, and lavished him with words of comfort and promises of vengeance.
The girls had left that night, as arranged. Neither of them had cried. They were hard-faced and determined. It had been more difficult for Sélim. He had stared at his daughter without saying a word. He was trying to understand how this could have happened. He was thinking that it could have been worse. This was small comfort.
* * *
She tells all this to Vernon as they go to join the others on the bank of the river. It is not raining, the day is bright and sunny. On the lawn, Daniel is playing soccer with Joyeux the poodle. A girl is shouting, “Shield your thigh, shield it, and the kick flex from the hip, not the knee,” then she shakes her head disappointedly, “Did you never play soccer when you were a kid?” Olga is offering salt and vinegar chips to Sylvie, who declines. “The Sex Pistols are a feminist group. Just listen to the lyrics of ‘Bodies.’” Xavier is convinced that he’s right. Laurent is lying on his back on the grass listening to Alex Bleach’s alpha waves on headphones. The quest for perfect sound has become an obsession with Sylvie. She shows up with a new pair of headphones every couple of days. Lighter, more powerful, better infrasonic bass definition. Charles watches her make a fuss, mocking but completely seduced. Patrice is sitting next to the cooler filled with beers. He has found himself a little folding deck chair like the ones you get at the beach. Émilie is telling him that when you smoke weed, you need to take melatonin supplements and vitamin C. He listens but does not seem overly persuaded. Sylvie interrupts the conversation: “Getting stoned is a young person’s sport. It’s all about recovery time. That’s why kids can take whatever they like. They recover overnight and the next morning they’re creative and alert. At our age, it’s tough, it takes longer to recuperate.” Pamela agrees, “At your age, everything is tougher.” Patrice laughs, “Get ready, you’re not far off yourself.”
“OKAY, SHE’S A DYKE, but would it really kill her to crack a smile? Do they get thrown out of the coven for being friendly? What happened to the cute waitress?”
“Céleste? Apparently she quit her job from one day to the next. Gaëlle is cool, you just have to get to know her. She’s nervous about being a waitress at her age.”
“You promise me I’m going to get to meet Pamela Kant, and here I am being snubbed by a female truck driver. I have to say, I’m disappointed.”
“Relax, she’ll be here. If you hadn’t insisted on running all the way, we wouldn’t have been the first to arrive.”
Loïc is a porn fiend. If he’s honest, he prefers getting off in front of a screen than with his girlfriend. And, in this case, it is not Pénélope’s fault: he’s the same with all girls. They’re never as exciting as the ones in the skin flicks. In fact, even when he does fuck, he’s constantly thinking about the porn he’s seen. The stimulus is too good, nothing comes close. They’re randy sluts, they’ve got tight asses, you can see every detail, and you can’t smell anything. He knows Pamela Kant’s filmography so intimately that he feels like a kid at the prospect of meeting her.
The bar is beginning to fill up. Loïc recognizes many of the faces. But no one says hello. He has been pigeonholed. The fascist who beat the shit out of Xavier. He keeps his head down. Not that he cares, he doesn’t like them. A bunch of worms slithering around some homeless guy and wetting themselves about his mix. He hates their guts.
Xavier is off talking to Émilie. She is avoiding Loïc. Left-wing bitch. A frustrated frump looking down her nose at him. Loïc is sorry he and Xavier didn’t bring the dog along, at least he would have something to do to save face. But it was raining too hard to bring him. They had decided not to take umbrellas so as not to look like idiots. And besides, they had run the whole way here, holding their hoods over their heads. Physically, Xavier has made a full recovery. Loïc had to bust a gut just to keep up with him. Macho pride, neither of them could bear to slow down. The effort practically killed them both.
The price of beer here is outrageous, he holds off before ordering another one. Xavier doesn’t give a damn, his wife is loaded. Loïc lies to Pénélope about how much he spends when he goes out. With the price of drinks in this place, he could give her the iPad she’s always talking about, because all her girlfriends have one and they play online games she can’t get on her ancient cell phone. He is sorry he came. He had assumed he would be spending the evening at home with Xavier, he’d brought a six-pack of beer. Now here he is in this sleazy dump, with one eye on the door because he was told that Pamela Kant would be here, but that was just bullshit. What would she be doing with these losers?
He feels out of place here. He misses Noël. And the others. They’re probably getting ready for a demo. All hell will probably break loose. He won’t be there. Another group he’s fallen out with. He’s an idiot. As soon as he gets comfortable somewhere, he always manages to find a way to get himself rejected. He blows his chances. He’s always been that way. He can’t help it. He can imagine Noël’s face if he could see him here, with his tiny glass of beer, surrounded by hipster faggots, listening to shitty techno. He has to turn a blind eye to a lot of things here to stop himself from going off the deep end. He is pathetic. He seeks out company like a stray dog looking to be petted. No matter the price. This is what he has become. And this sets him off again. He misses his best friend.
It is at this point that Pamela makes her entrance. Loïc hardly notices Subutex on her arm. It all moves as one, it is astonishing. The tits, the ass, the hips, the ankles, the hair, the eyes, even the shoulders turn him on—he doesn’t know where to look, there is not a single detail about her that is not sexually overwhelming. Xavier is watching him, with a little half-smile. Loïc keeps his composure. He is glad that the bar is dark. His cheeks a
re on fire.
She is wearing a black sweater, the neckline cut low enough to reveal prominent collarbones that he finds arousing. She is probably the most beautiful woman he has ever seen close-up. Some little guy comes trotting behind her, another faggot probably, handsome, though, with delicate features. Loïc has the impression he has seen him before, but he cannot remember where. Loïc doesn’t like queers, he rarely notices whether men are handsome, but this guy is stunning.
Pamela Kant is wearing black jeans so tight that it’s worse than if she were naked, low-heeled ankle boots. Her thighs are both delicate and powerful, they make him feel dizzy. She is wearing her hair down. In films, she always wears too much makeup, and she’s not warmly dressed. But it suits her. What he wouldn’t give to have a woman like that … Just one. Just once. In his bed. Not even to show off to his friends. Just for himself. He certainly wouldn’t have to picture scenes from skin flicks he’d been watching the night before. He would be living a real porn movie.
He has never had a problem talking to girls, but he sticks to women of his own league. Mid-level. How do you even talk to a woman like that? What do you do when she undresses? How do you forget your own insignificance when faced with someone like that?
What the hell is she doing hanging out with Subutex? Is she sleeping with him? The guy has gray eyes, he’s tall, but apart from that … She can’t be being nice to him for the money. The fucker’s homeless … So why does she come to listen to him spin a set?
Subutex recognizes him, and stares at him intently, the way he has learned to do since he was dubbed guru of the nineteenth arrondissement. He looks a little less filthy than he does most days and he has had his hair cut. But Loïc is not in the mood to put up with his visionary pronouncements. Whenever the guy talks to you, it’s like he’s about to kiss you. It freaks you out. He says, “How’s it going, Loïc?” and stares like he’s saying I can see right into your soul and I suffer for you.
Vernon Subutex 2 Page 26
