A Sun for the Dying

by Jean-Claude Izzo

  “Up so early?”

  She seemed less tired than the day before. Less nervous. More relaxed. Love calms you down, Rico thought.

  “It’s because of the kid, isn’t it? She hasn’t slept well all night . . . And you can hear everything in this place. The walls are paper-thin.”

  She looked at Rico, obviously wondering if he had heard them—and not just Maeva’s crying. Of course he’d heard them humping. In fact, that was what had woken him. Dédé’s long moans. Monique’s shorter ones. Their pleasure had been like an echo of his own distant pleasures.

  Rico shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I never sleep well.”

  They looked at each other again.

  “Dédé’s going to stay awhile, did you know that?”

  “Yes, he told me.”

  That’s how it was, Monique’s eyes seemed to say. It was all a matter of chance. It didn’t take away the weariness deep in her eyes, the sadness of her smiles. It wouldn’t change any of life’s absurdity. Her life was just as meaningless with Dédé as it had been with Jo. Except that it was more bearable when you were with someone. Whether that someone was Jo or Dédé.

  “I have Jo’s clothes, they’d fit you better than they’d fit Dédé. You can take them if you want to.”

  He had taken two of everything. Two pairs of pants, two shirts, two T-shirts, two pairs of socks. And a big navy blue sweater, sailor-style, with buttons on the left shoulder. He left the briefs, he preferred boxers. He put his dirty clothes in the garbage. Monique watched him.

  “Are you throwing them away?”

  It was a habit he had gotten into, thanks to Titi. At first, he had gone to the laundromat. Washing, spin-drying, tumble-drying. Twenty francs for twelve pounds. Plus powder. It worked out expensive, doing that every week. Especially as he never had enough for twelve pounds, but you still had to pay twenty francs. On top of everything else, you always had to have a spare set of clothes ready to change into. One day, at the laundromat on Rue de Montreuil, a young dropout had come in, stripped down to his briefs, started a machine, and sat down to wait.

  Some of the housewives there had been outraged by this striptease.

  “What?” he’d shouted at them. “You never saw the Levi’s commercial?”

  Of course they’d seen it. But it wasn’t as funny in real life as on TV.

  “On the street,” Titi had said, “staying clean is more difficult than finding something to eat. And if you’re not clean, you really go downhill. Because no one’s going to give you anything if you stink.”

  “How do you manage?”

  Titi had “his” bar. Every morning, he’d go there and have a quick wash. Forearms, hands and face. Clean his teeth. Have a shave. Once a week, he would go to the public baths on Rue Bouret in the 19th arrondissment. Six francs for a shower. With towel, wash cloth, shampoo and soap. And no one hurried you, no one came knocking at the door. Before that, he’d go to a cheap clothing store on Place de la République and buy a clean T-shirt, boxers and socks. Or a pair of jeans for fifty francs. “It’s nice to have new clothes on your body,” he would say. “Especially when you’re clean.”

  Rico had adopted the same system. The only clothes he got from the Salvation Army and the Catholic charities were coats, jackets, sweaters and shoes.

  “It’s easier,” he answered Monique.

  They hadn’t talked much the day before. But Rico didn’t know what to say to Monique. It had been a long time since he’d last had any contact with a woman. And hearing her orgasm last night made him all the more uncomfortable now. He had no pressing need to go, and yet he couldn’t wait to leave her and Dédé.

  Félix was waiting for Rico in the lobby of the building, sitting on a step. The lizard’s head seemed to be asleep. He had his ball in a big plastic bag with the words Go Sport on it.

  He stood up. “I’ll walk with you to the bus stop,” he said, and the lizard’s head quivered at the corner of his eye.

  “Where did you get to last night?”

  “I had to go over to the farm. Norbert has the flu, and Anne needed me. I like doing things for Anne. She’s cute, and she’s good to me.”

  It had snowed again, all night long. But Rico thought the temperature was milder than the day before. That might have been because of the hot shower he’d had, and the clean clothes he was wearing.

  “Careful you don’t slip!” Félix said.

  “You could have come up and had a coffee . . .”

  Félix shrugged. “You know, Jo asked me to keep an eye on Monique and the kid while he was away.”

  He was talking like Monique now. The same intonations.

  “If it wasn’t for that, I’d go with you to Marseilles. I’d have liked that. Great soccer team there. They’re really good.”

  “Dédé’s here now.”

  “Yeah, but he won’t stay long. Anyway, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  13.

  DAYS WITH AND DAYS WITHOUT,

  THE FUTURE STOPS HERE

  Rico had been wandering for fifteen minutes around the lobby of the Part-Dieu station in Lyons. Things should have been simple, of course. No different than for any other traveller. He’d looked at the indicator board at Chalon station and seen that there was a train leaving at 11:55 that would get him to Lyons at 1:12 P.M. From there, a high speed train would be leaving at 1:36 for Marseilles, where it would arrive at 4:18.

  Rico could already see himself in Marseilles.

  But when he got on the train at Lyons—Car No. 5, a smoking car—he came face to face with a ticket inspector, who immediately sensed who he was dealing with. He must have been trained to spot down-and-outs. Like those dogs who are trained to sniff out drugs in baggage when you cross a border. Because, washed and shaved, and dressed in clean clothes under his nice black parka, Rico looked like any other traveler you might pass on the platform. Admittedly, his faded blue rucksack, dirty and covered in stains, rather gave the game away. But not everyone traveled with Louis Vuitton baggage.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Marseilles.”

  “Can I see your ticket?”

  Rico shrugged, with feigned weariness.

  “You have to buy a ticket.”

  “I don’t have any money, monsieur,” Rico said, in as pitiful a voice as he could muster.

  Sometimes the best thing to do was act humble. It made people feel sorry for you. It was a method he’d tried during his journeys from Paris to Rennes. They’d ask him for his papers, be about to fine him. What did he have to lose?

  The ticket inspector looked him up and down. They were the same age, more or less. Two men from the same generation. But one had a job, a salary, and a little bit of power, and the other had nothing anymore, just a few things in a dirty rucksack. A tough nut, Rico thought, keeping his head down. He could feel the anger rising in him, as always happened when he came up against one of these people. What would it cost this guy to let him on the train? What difference would it make to the railroad company? To the economy of the country? The future of Europe? Why should it even bother him, dammit?

  This ticket controller had an answer to Rico’s questions. He probably had an answer to every question.

  “It’s not our job to transport every beggar in the world. Now get off the train.”

  He didn’t say it harshly. But he did say it firmly. With all the authority conferred on him by the cap he was wearing. People were getting on. In a hurry, worried they wouldn’t find a seat, or might even miss the train . . . Families. Old people. Men on their own. Women on their own. Young people. People with fair hair, dark hair. Africans. Arabs. Japanese. Each time, the ticket inspector smiled and moved back to let them pass.

  “Excuse me,” a young woman said to him, breathlessly. “I haven’t had time to punch my ticket.”

  “It doesn’t matter, madame. Take a seat and I’ll be along in a moment.”

  His tone was affable and reassuring. In the spirit of the railroad company’s adv
ertising. You won’t regret choosing to go by train.

  “Get off the train,” the ticket inspector said again. “Can’t you see you’re in everyone’s way?”

  It was true. Thanks to his rucksack, he was blocking access to the seats. Some people were giving him angry looks. Others pushed him to get past. Shoved by a particularly corpulent man, Rico almost lost his balance and had to grab hold of the ticket inspector’s arm.

  “Please, just as far as Valence,” Rico said, cracking a smile.

  “I said, get off the train,” the ticket inspector replied, pulling the sleeve of his jacket free of Rico’s hand.

  Suddenly, Rico had had enough of being humble. Enough of begging. He looked the ticket inspector in the eyes. Clear eyes, in which there was no emotion. Only indifference. And the coldness of regulations. Laws. Order.

  “Fucking dickhead!”

  Rico hadn’t raised his voice. There was no hatred in it, or anger. Just contempt. A lot of contempt. The ticket inspector reacted as if Rico had spat in his face—which, in a way, he had.

  “Get off the train!”

  It was an order now.

  Rico obeyed. The ticket inspector joined him on the platform. He wasn’t smiling.

  “If I see you trying to get on again, I won’t let the train leave. Have you got that? Now get out of here, asshole!”

  They weren’t two men from the same generation anymore, they were men from two different worlds, with nothing in common.

  Rico glared back at him defiantly. He imagined him at the depot in Marseilles, having a well-deserved cold beer with his colleagues and telling them the story. “There are centers for these people . . . They just have to stay in them, right? Instead of tramping the roads, especially in this cold . . .” Who would be offended by his lack of humanity? Who would say anything against a work colleague? A fellow union member? Then they’d have a few more beers, just as cold and just as well deserved, and talk about the thirty-five-hour week, family allowances, increased bonuses . . . At dinner that night, his wife might make a comment. “All the same, those poor people . . .” she would say. Even so, she’d end up siding with her husband. Because it was obvious: just like on the street, you couldn’t give to everyone, you couldn’t help the whole world.

  “Stupid bastard,” Rico muttered.

  Then he turned his back on the ticket inspector, and set off back to the main lobby.

  There was another train at 2:03 P.M., Rico noted. To Valence. From there, he could catch a high speed train at 3.44, which would take him to Marseilles. He set off in search of a bench. But they were all occupied. Or half occupied, like the one where a young couple was sitting comfortably, having a pleasant snack. He decided against disturbing them. The incident with the ticket inspector was enough for today. He ­couldn’t take on the whole world. He didn’t have the strength.

  His sleepless night was starting to catch up with him. The pain in his back was flaring up again. It was a bad sign. He put down his rucksack against the window of a snack bar, sat down on the ground and opened a can of beer. He took a couple of Dolipran with the first mouthful. He’d taken the precaution of buying them that morning in Chalon.

  Rico thought again about Dédé. In the middle of this lousy winter, he’d found a haven. A roof over his head, and a woman. It didn’t matter how long it lasted, as Dédé had said, saying goodbye in the doorway. It was a victory over hardship. Then he thought about Félix, who had chosen to flee towns and people. To live in a cabin, in the middle of the countryside. With Sophie Marceau’s smile to watch over him like a Madonna. Lizard’s head, lizard’s tail, Rico had murmured to himself, watching Félix, as motionless as if standing to attention, as the bus pulled away.

  He was leaving him behind. And Dédé and Monique. It was a farewell. He’d never be back. Marseilles would be the end of the journey. The end of his wandering. The end of that disgust with life that had overwhelmed him since Titi’s death. His self-disgust. Rico’s eyes were closing. He remembered Julien looking at him through the rear window of Sophie’s car. He tried to detect a gleam of hope, however tiny, in that look, didn’t find one, and told himself that he was thinking too much, that it didn’t help, that in any case there was nothing and nobody anymore. Nothing. Not anymore.

  Someone shook him violently. Rico opened his eyes. Cops. There were two of them, as usual. A West Indian guy and a young woman. Shit! he moaned. Since the Homeless Persons Squad had taken him in once, he’d always managed to avoid the cops. He wondered if they had a hostel in Lyons like the Nanterre Center in Paris, where they stuck everyone they’d rounded up during the day.

  “No sleeping in the station,” the West Indian said.

  Rico got heavily to his feet, still groggy with sleep. He looked at the station clock. Five past four. He had slept for two hours and missed the train to Marseilles. Others too, probably.

  “Clear up that mess!” the cop ordered him, pointing to the can of beer.

  Rico grabbed the empty can, slipped it into the pocket of his parka, and picked up his rucksack.

  “Do you have your papers?” the lady cop asked.

  Rico handed her his identity card folded in two. She un­folded it gingerly, glanced at the old photo, then stared at him.

  “And do you have money?”

  Rico showed her a hundred francs. An identity card and a hundred francs would normally have been enough. But from the way the two of them looked at him, he realized they weren’t done with him. This really wasn’t his day.

  “Where are you going?” the lady cop asked.

  “Marseilles.”

  “The ticket costs more than a hundred francs.”

  “I know.”

  “So?”

  Rico shrugged. “I’ll work out something with the ticket inspector.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  The two cops looked at each other.

  “Follow us!”

  Shit, Rico moaned again. He was angry with himself. He shouldn’t have let himself fall asleep. He’d have seen them coming.

  “My train . . .” he stammered.

  “Just follow us!”

  They escorted him to the police office at the station. There, they left him waiting on a bench.

  “Taking us in is neither legal nor illegal,” Titi had explained to Rico, when they had released him from Nanterre in the morning. “They take us in against our will, but of course they tell you it’s for your own good. Legally, it’s a mess, and it’ll be a long time before it’s cleared up . . .”

  He remembered Nanterre with horror. Everyone naked. Carrying a bar of soap and a towel. On their way to take a compulsory shower. Under the eagle eye of a supervisor whose job was to make sure nobody refused. Then another corridor, everyone still naked. Trooping to a window where you were issued a dirty brown, stained, threadbare pair of pajamas for the night. Nanterre . . .

  Cops came in, others went out. In the room they used as an office, he could hear them joking and laughing. One of them made a joke about North Africans in Marseilles, and they all roared with laughter.

  Time passed. At six o’clock, the West Indian and the lady cop came for Rico.

  “You, follow us.”

  Rico was at the end of his tether. He stopped complaining, even in his head, and let himself be led. He was resigned. His mind still full of images of Nanterre. Everyone in single file. Forced to tramp around the yard, waiting for dinner. One behind the other, silently. Like a procession of ghosts.

  They left the station, and made Rico get into a white Renault 21. They drove through Lyons. A city Rico didn’t know well. He’d only ever been there three times in his life. And he had never felt comfortable there. In the distance, on his right, he glimpsed the hill of Fourvière. He was starting to get worried.

  “Where are we going?” he asked timidly.

  They didn’t say a word to him until they had left the city center and come to Pierre-Bénite, on the banks of the Rhône. Then they asked him to get out of the car. They were o
n the highway access ramp. Through the window, the lady cop handed him his identity card and laughed.

  “We’ve put you in the right direction. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of here as quickly as possible. According to the weather report, there’s going to be a lot of snow. Have a nice journey!”

  The car drove off. Abandoning him at the point where the ramp curved. No one would stop to pick him up here, even if they wanted to.

  Rico felt the cold descend on him. He took his hat from his pocket and pulled it down over his ears, then raised the hood of the parka over his head and tied the cord beneath his chin. Automatic gestures. Survival mechanisms. He walked a few yards down the road and started trying to thumb a ride.

  Since the cops had picked him up, his head had been running on empty. Of the hundred or so down-and-outs who must have been hanging around Part-Dieu station, they’d picked on him. Why? No reason. They just did, period. There were days with and days without, Titi used to say. The days with were like the future. So were the days without.

  Cars and trucks sped past. Flashing lights. Honking of horns. The assholes were always amused to see some poor bastard at the side of the road.

  A red Renault 5 moved very cautiously onto the ramp and slowed down as it passed him. The right indicator light came on. A little farther on, the car stopped. Rico waited before making a move. He’d fallen for that trick too many times. You walked to the car, and it pulled away just as you got to it. But this car was slowly reversing. Rico picked up his rucksack and went to meet it.

  The door opened. There was an old guy at the wheel. The interior smelled of dogs.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, starting the car.

  “Marseilles.”

  The man laughed. “I’m only going as far as Vienne. Marguerite would be worried if I didn’t come back.”

  “Your wife?”

  “My dog. A Labrador. My wife’s name was Louise . . . She preferred to go before me. She wouldn’t be able to face being alone, she always said. Now here I am . . . and I can’t die . . .”