Total Chaos

by Jean-Claude Izzo

  “What time is it?” I asked.

  “Twenty after three.”

  “Got any cigarettes?”

  She lit one for me and put it between my lips. I sucked on it, then lifted my left hand to take it out of my mouth. It was a small movement, but it gave me an excruciating pain in my stomach. I opened my eyes.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I had to see you. I mean, I had to see someone, and I thought of you.”

  “How did you get my address?”

  “Minitel.”

  Minitel. Shit! Fifty million people could show up here uninvited, thanks to Minitel. Stupid fucking invention. I closed my eyes again.

  “I was sitting outside the door. The woman next door, Honorine, suggested I wait in her house. We talked. I told her I was a friend. Then she opened this door for me. It was getting late, and she thought it was better for me to wait here. She said you’d understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “What happened to you?”

  I told her. As succinctly as I could. Before she could ask me why, I rolled over on my side and sat up. “Help me. I need a shower.”

  I put my right arm around her shoulders. I weighed only a hundred and fifty pounds, but it took all the strength of Hercules to lift myself from the bed. I was still bent over. I was afraid of reawakening the pain that still lurked in my stomach.

  “Lean on the wall.”

  I put my back against the wall. She turned on the faucets.

  “Lukewarm,” I said.

  She took off her T-shirt and jeans and helped me into the shower. I felt weak. The water immediately did me good. I was standing against Marie-Lou, my arms around her neck. I closed my eyes. The effect didn’t take long to make itself felt.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” she cried, becoming aware of my hard-on. “So you’re not dead yet!”

  I smiled, despite myself. All the same, I was feeling increasingly unsteady on my legs, and I was shaking.

  “Shall I make it hotter?”

  “No. I want it cold. Get out.” I placed my hands on the tiles. Marie-Lou got out of the shower. “Go on!”

  She turned the faucet full on. I screamed. She stopped the water, grabbed a towel, and rubbed me. I went to the bathroom sink. I needed to see my face. I switched on the light. What I saw didn’t thrill me. My own face was intact, but behind me, I could see Marie-Lou’s face. Her left eye was swollen, and almost blue. I turned slowly, holding onto the sink.

  “Who did that?”

  “My pimp.”

  I drew her to me. She had two bruises on her shoulder and a red mark on her neck. She huddled against me and began to cry, softly. Her belly was against mine. It felt hot. That made me feel a whole lot better. I stroked her hair.

  “We both look like hell. Tell me all about it.”

  I freed myself from her, opened the medicine cabinet, and took out a bottle of Dolipran. The pain was intense.

  “Get two glasses from the kitchen. And there’s a bottle of Lagavulin around in there somewhere.”

  I went back to the bedroom, still bent over. I collapsed on the bed, then set the alarm for seven.

  Marie-Lou came back. She had a wonderful body. She wasn’t a hooker anymore, and I wasn’t a cop. We were two of life’s walking wounded. I took two Dolipran with a little scotch. I offered her one. She refused.

  “There’s nothing to tell. He beat me up because I was with you.”

  “With me?”

  “You’re a cop.”

  “How does he know?”

  “Everyone knows everything at the O’Stop.”

  I looked at the time. I emptied my glass. “Stay here. Until I get back. Don’t move. And...”

  I don’t think I even finished the sentence.

  They picked up Mourrabed as planned. He was in bed, his eyes swollen with sleep, his hair a mess. There was a girl with him, just a kid, not yet eighteen. He was wearing a pair of flowered shorts and a T-shirt with the word ‘Again’ on it. We hadn’t told anyone in advance. The Narcs would have told us to drop the idea. They didn’t like us collaring the middlemen. It threw the big boys in a panic, they said, and jeopardized their operations. And the local station would have quickly spread the word all over the projects, just to frustrate us. That was happening more and more frequently.

  We took in Mourrabed like a common criminal. For assault. And now, corrupting a minor. But he was no ordinary criminal. We grabbed him just as he was, didn’t even let him get dressed. We were humiliating him, quite gratuitously. He started yelling, calling us fascists, Nazis, telling us to go fuck ourselves and our mothers and sisters. We just laughed. Doors opened on the landings, and everyone could see him with handcuffs on his wrists, wearing nothing but his shorts and T-shirt.

  Outside, we even took time to have a smoke before we put him in the van. Just to give everyone a chance to gawp at him from their windows. The news would spread through the projects. Mourrabed in shorts: it was an image that would amuse people, and would stay in their minds. It was a whole lot different than getting arrested after a car chase through the projects.

  We took him to the station house in L’Estaque. They didn’t know we were coming, and they weren’t thrilled. They could already see themselves being besieged by hundreds of kids armed to the teeth. They wanted to send us back where we came from. To our local station house.

  “The complaint was registered here,” Perol said. “So it seemed sensible to deal with it here.” He pushed Mourrabed ahead of him. “We’re expecting another customer. An underage girl we picked up with him. She’s just getting dressed.”

  We’d left Cerutti at the scene with a dozen men. I wanted them to take an initial statement from the girl. And to go through the apartment, and Mourrabed’s car, with a fine-tooth comb. Then they’d inform the girl’s parents and bring her here.

  “There are going to be a lot of people here,” I said.

  Mourrabed had sat down, and was listening to us. He seemed to be finding it funny. I went up to him, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him to his feet without letting go.

  “Why are you here? Do you have any idea?”

  “Yeah. I hit a guy the other night. I was drunk.”

  “Just hit him, right? What did you have in your hands? Razor blades?”

  Then my strength failed me. I went pale. My legs started to shake. I was going to fall, and I felt like throwing up. I didn’t know which to do first.

  “Fabio!” Perol said.

  “Take me to the toilet.”

  Since the morning I’d taken six Dolipran, three Guronsan and gallons of coffee. I wasn’t feeling great, but I was still standing. When the alarm had rung, Marie-Lou had moaned and turned over. I made her take a Lexomil, so she could sleep in peace. My shoulders and back ached. And the pain wouldn’t go away. As soon as I put my feet on the ground, I got these stabbing pains, as if I had a sewing machine in my stomach. That filled me with hate.

  “Batisti,” I said as soon as he picked up the phone. “Those buddies of yours should have finished me off. But you’re nothing but a low-down scumbag piece of shit. You’re going to sweat like you’ve never sweated in your rotten life.”

  “Montale!” he screamed into the receiver.

  “Yeah, I’m listening.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I was run over by a steamroller, you piece of shit. If I gave you the details, would it give you a hard-on?”

  “Montale, I had nothing to do with this, I swear.”

  “Don’t swear, scumbag! Just explain.”

  “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re repeating yourself.”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Listen, Batisti, to me you’re just a prize bastard. But I’d like to believ
e you. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to find out what happened. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you where to meet me. You’d better come up with something good.”

  Pérol had seen that I wasn’t feeling myself as soon as I’d met him, and had been throwing me worried looks. I’d reassured him, telling him it was an old ulcer.

  “Yeah, I see,” he’d said.

  He saw it only too well. But I didn’t want to tell him about the beating I’d received. Or the rest of it. Manu, Ugo. I’d scored a bull’s eye, somewhere. I couldn’t make head or tail of any of it, but I’d gotten myself involved in something that could easily cost me my life. But there was only me, Fabio Montale. I didn’t have a wife or kids. No one would weep over me. I didn’t want to drag Pérol into my business. I knew him. I knew that, for friendship’s sake, he’d be ready to dive headlong into anything, however shitty. And it was obvious that wherever I was heading stank really badly. Worse than the toilet in this station house.

  The smell of urine seemed to impregnate the walls. I spat. Coffee-colored phlegm. My stomach went from high to low tide in thirty seconds. With a cyclone in between. I opened my mouth even wider. It would have been a relief to throw up everything. But I hadn’t put anything in my stomach since noon yesterday.

  “Coffee,” Pérol said, behind me.

  “It won’t go down.”

  “Try.”

  He was holding a plastic cup in one hand. I rinsed my face with cold water, grabbed a paper towel, and wiped myself. I was feeling a bit better. I took the cup, and swallowed a mouthful of coffee. It went down without too many problems. I immediately broke out in a sweat. I could feel my shirt sticking to my skin. I was sure I had a fever.

  “It’s OK,” I said.

  Then I retched again. It felt as if I was taking the punches one more time. Behind me, Pérol was waiting for me to explain. He wouldn’t budge until I did.

  “OK, let’s deal with the asshole, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “That’s fine with me. But let me handle Mourrabed.”

  All I had to do now was find a story that was more convincing than the one about the ulcer.

  Mourrabed watched me coming, with a sardonic smile. Pérol slapped him, then sat down opposite him, astride the chair.

  Mourrabed turned to me. “What do you want, man?”

  “To send you down,” I said.

  “That’s cool. I can play soccer inside.” He shrugged. “All I did was hit a guy. The judge is gonna take some convincing. My lawyer will eat you for breakfast.”

  “We have a closet with ten bodies in it,” Pérol said. “I’m sure we can stick one of them on you. And see what your crap lawyer makes of that.”

  “Hey, I never killed a guy.”

  “You almost killed him. In my book, that makes you a kind of murderer.”

  “I told you, I was plastered. Shit, I only punched the guy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “OK. I’m coming out of the bar, and I see this guy. Looks like a girl from a distance, with his long hair. I ask him for a smoke. Guy says he doesn’t have any. He’s jerking me around, you know. So I say to him, If you don’t have any, suck my dick! And you know what he does, he starts laughing! So I punch him. That’s all I did, man. That’s the truth. He takes off like a rabbit. He was just a fag.”

  “Except you weren’t alone,” Pérol said. “You had your buddies with you. You all ran after him. Stop me if I’m getting this wrong. He ran into the Miramar. You dragged him out. And you really made a mess of him. Might have killed him, if we hadn’t gotten there. And you’re really out of luck, because in L’Estaque you’re a star, and everyone knows your face.”

  “That fag is going to withdraw his fucking complaint.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.” Pérol looked at Mourrabed, letting his gaze linger on his shorts. “Nice shorts. The kind a fag would wear, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, I’m no fag. I got a girlfriend.”

  “Let’s talk about that. Was she the one we found in bed with you?”

  I’d stopped listening. Pérol knew what he was doing. He was just as disgusted by Mourrabed as I was. Mourrabed was beyond hope. He was on a downward spiral. He’d stop at nothing, not even murder. Perfect fodder for gangsters. In two or three years, he’d be taken out by someone tougher than he was. Maybe the best thing that could happen to him would be to go inside for twenty years. But I knew that wasn’t the answer. The fact was, for someone like Mourrabed, there was no answer.

  The telephone made me jump. I must have dozed off.

  “Can you take it?”

  It was Cerutti. “We couldn’t find a thing. Nothing. Not even a gram of marijuana.”

  “How about the girl?”

  “A runaway. Saint-Denis, Paris region. Her father wants to send her back to Algeria to get married, and...”

  “I get the picture. Bring her here. We’ll take her statement. You stay there with two guys and check if it’s Mourrabed who rents the apartment. If he doesn’t, find out who does. I need to know as soon as possible.” I hung up.

  Mourrabed watched us coming back. “Anything wrong?” he said, smiling.

  Pérol slapped him again, more violently than the first time. Mourrabed rubbed his cheek.

  “My lawyer won’t like it when I tell him about this.”

  “So is she your girlfriend?” Pérol asked, as if he hadn’t heard.

  I put on my jacket. I had to go. I had an appointment with Sanchez, the taxi driver, and I didn’t want to miss him. If the strong-arm men last night hadn’t been sent by Batisti, maybe they were connected to the taxi driver. And to Leila. That was a whole other story. But could I believe Batisti?

  “I’ll see you at the station.”

  “Wait,” Pérol said. He turned to Mourrabed. “About your girlfriend. You have a choice. Say yes, and I’ll introduce you to her father and brothers. In a closed cell. Seeing as how you weren’t part of their plans, you may have a hard time convincing them. Say no, and you’re looking at corruption of a minor. Think it over. I’ll be back.”

  The sky was filling with heavy black clouds. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet, but the air was humid and sticky. Pérol joined me outside.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Fabio.”

  “Don’t worry. I have an appointment. I’m hoping for a tip-off. About Leila. The third man.”

  He shook his head. Then he pointed at my stomach. “And that?”

  “A fight, last night. Over a girl. I’m out of training, so I didn’t do too well.” I smiled at him with that seductive smile of mine, the one that women like.

  “Fabio, we know each other pretty well by now. So give it a rest.” He looked at me, waiting for me to react but I didn’t. “I know you have your own troubles. I’m starting to get an idea what they are. But you don’t owe me anything. You can keep it all to yourself. Stick it up your ass if you want, that’s your business. But if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you. OK?”

  It was the most he’d ever spoken. I was touched by his sincerity. If there was anyone I could still count on in this town, it was Pérol, even though I didn’t know anything about him. I couldn’t imagine him as a family man. I couldn’t even imagine what his wife was like. It had never bothered me. I’d never even wondered if he was happy or not. We were partners, but strangers. We trusted and respected each other. That was all that mattered. To both of us. Why was it so difficult to make new friends once you were past forty? Was it because we didn’t have dreams anymore, only regrets?

  “That’s just it. I don’t want to talk about it.” He turned his back on me. I caught him by the arm, before he could step away. “I’ve been thinking it over. It might be better if you and your wife came to my place for lunch on Sunday. I’ll cook.”

  We looked at each other. I walked to my car. The first raindr
ops started falling. I saw him go back into the station, looking determined. Mourrabed would have to behave himself. I sat down, put in a Ruben Blades tape, and started the car.

  I drove through the centre of L’Estaque on the way back. L’Estaque was trying to stay faithful to its old image. A little harbor town, a village really. It was only a few minutes from Marseilles, but people said: I live in L’Estaque. Not Marseilles. But the little harbor was surrounded and dominated by housing projects full of immigrants who’d been chased out of downtown Marseilles.

  It’s always best to say what’s on your mind. Of course it is. But although I was a good listener, I’d never been very good at confiding in anyone. At the last moment, I always clammed up. I was always ready to lie, rather than talk about what was wrong. I guess my life could have been different. I’d never dared tell my father about the things I got up to with Manu and Ugo. I’d had a really rough time in the Colonial Army, but I hadn’t learned my lesson. With women, there was an even worse lack of communication, and then I suffered when they left me. Muriel, Carmen, Rosa. By the time I reached out my hand, by the time I finally opened my mouth to explain myself, it was too late.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t have the courage. I just didn’t trust anyone. Not enough, anyhow, to put my life and my feelings in another person’s hands. And I knocked myself out trying to solve everything on my own. The vanity of a loser. I had to face it, I’d lost everything in my life. Manu and Ugo for starters.

  I’d often told myself I shouldn’t have run away that night, after that botched holdup. I should have confronted them, told them what I’d been thinking for months: that what we were doing was getting us nowhere, that we could do something better with our lives. And it was true, we had our lives ahead of us. The world was waiting to be discovered. It would have been great, to go around the world together. I was convinced of that. Maybe we’d have quarreled. Maybe they’d have carried on without me. Maybe. But maybe they’d also be here today. Alive.

  I took the coast road past the harbor and the sea wall. My favorite route into Marseilles, with a glimpse of the various basins. Bassin Mirabeau, Bassin de la Pinède, Bassin National, Bassin d’Arenc. The future of Marseilles was here. I still wanted to believe it.