I thought of Tom and Jerry.
And I was Tom.
“Boo!” I yelled.
The rat still didn’t move.
“Rico, please!”
Rico.
Rico wasn’t there anymore.
That was when I pulled myself together. And it all made sense in my head. The way he’d stroked my hair. Kissed me on the forehead. Put the teddy bear in my arms.
He’d been saying goodbye.
“Rico!” I screamed. “No!”
I struck a match. The rat bolted toward the door and disappeared. I lit one of the candles. The flickering light played over the room.
The bike.
I threw aside the bags Rico had started piling up in front of the wheels. I pushed the bike as far as the door. I picked up a long piece of string that was lying on the floor and tied the teddy bear to my stomach.
“Let’s go, Zineb. That O.K. with you?”
It was O.K. with him.
We couldn’t leave Rico like that. Alone. No, we couldn’t abandon him.
The end of the road. The lighthouse.
That’s where he’ll be, isn’t it, Zineb?
The mistral had risen. It was cold. A gust of wind hit me in the face. The icy air lingered on my scars. They started smarting. I pulled my sweater up over my nose, and got on the bike.
“Are you ready, Zineb?”
I hurried along Rue François-Moisson, as far as Place de la Joliette. There, I turned onto the boulevard, under the highway bridge, between the wharves and the docks.
Pressing down on the pedals.
That damned bike may not have moved fast, but it moved. For every three times I pressed down on the pedals, the wheel turned once. And if there was a gust of wind, I’d have to press down another three times. The derailleur was squeaking, but I was making progress.
I had to go at least half a mile before I saw the bridge over the harbour that led from the wharves to the sea wall. Once on the other side, all I had to do was go the same distance, but in the other direction.
As far as the lighthouse.
Don’t think.
Just pedal.
Rico. Wait for me.
Wait.
Gate 4.
No security guard in sight. He must be having coffee. It was coffee time. I had no idea what time it was. But it had to be coffee time. Day was just breaking. The more I pedalled, the bluer the sky turned. And the colder.
The mistral was behind me now. I felt as if I had wings. Each time I pressed down on the pedal, the wheel turned three times.
Don’t think, Abdou.
Keep pedaling.
The last stretch.
The yellow jersey at the end. The podium.
The lighthouse.
Rico. Wait.
Don’t go like this.
I passed freighters. Ready to set sail for other places. Africa. Asia. America.
On the road again.
How were those other places? Were they any better?
The end of the sea wall. The end of the road.
I threw the bike to the ground. I climbed the lighthouse steps four at a time until I got to the platform. The icy mistral hit me in the face.
Rico was there.
Sitting on the ground. His body propped against the white stone. His eyes open. Staring out to sea. To the islands. To the horizon.
The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The thing Rico wanted to see.
A wave broke at the foot of the lighthouse and rose straight up into the sky.
The sun was putting on a firework display.
For Rico.
“Rico!”
It was no use.
Rico was smiling. His eyes were open.
I didn’t dare look at him anymore.
I sat down next to him, untied Zineb, and held it between my legs.
What now?
I rested my head against Rico’s shoulder, closed my eyes, and softly sang the song my father used to sing when times were bad:
I try so hard to remember
But my youth has slipped away
I’ve worn down the soles of my shoes
And I’m tired at the end of the day
My troubles are so many
That I can’t remember any
I can’t even remember my home
My luck has all gone away
My tears started flowing. Gently.
“Don’t cry, Zineb. Don’t cry.”
*
A boat’s siren echoed across the harbor.
Now the sun was high in the sky.
A white sun. A cold sun.
A sun for the dying, I thought.
A sun for the dying.
I slipped my hand into Rico’s. Entwining my fingers with his. And waited.
I waited, you see.
Because, I told myself, life couldn’t go on like this.
It can’t go on.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jean-Claude Izzo was born in Marseilles, France, in 1945. He achieved astounding success with his Marseilles Trilogy (Total Chaos, Chourmo, Solea). In addition to the books in this trilogy, his two novels The Lost Sailors and A Sun for the Dying and one collection of short stories have also enjoyed great success with both critics and the public. Izzo died in 2000, at the age of fifty-five.
A Sun for the Dying Page 19
