A hundred metres farther on, Sila thought he saw the looming form of a giraffe lumbering slowly behind the houses, moving with the curious, easy indifference of wild animals. And then the vision disappeared. The City of Dreams. The City of Nowhere. A white world choked with sand and forgetfulness in which men moved as in a slow, repetitive dream, where forms gradually faded.
As he neared home, Falba, who was waiting for him in the next street, grabbed his arm.
‘You can’t go home,’ he said. ‘The Commander’s men are looking for you. They’re going to kill you. They say you humiliated him. You have to leave.’
In the City of Nowhere, life had no meaning. Bodies moved like deep underwater algae carried by ocean currents.
The alga that was Sila broke free. He stowed away on a cargo ship – one of those improbable hulks of rusted steel powered only by a miracle – without knowing where it was headed. There were one or two like this every week. No one really knew what cargo they carried. What was there for them to find in the City of Nowhere? Yet they existed, their sirens blared as they arrived and again as they weighed anchor. One more piece of cargo, Sila stowed away in the hold for a whole night and a whole day, but at the end of his first day he was discovered by a sailor. He was brought up on deck. The captain told him he would be thrown overboard. Sila knew the rules. Stowaways were shark food. Everyone knew the rules. He did not protest.
The cook intervened. He needed a ship’s boy and the lad was too young to die. His childhood had already been a living hell, surely now he had a chance to escape, they could hardly toss him into the deep.
‘If we let a stowaway live, it sends the wrong message to the others,’ said the captain.
‘There aren’t any others. He’s alone. I’ll take care of him.’
The cook’s name was Fos. Before now, he had been neither good nor evil. This was the day he earned his stripes as a good man. He probably did need a ship’s boy, he was probably tired of working alone in the galley, but the fact remains he saved Sila’s life, and to show his gratitude the boy worked as hard as he could. Never had the galley been so clean, never had the meals been served with such care. Remembering his Uncle, Sila wore white gloves to serve the captain – though it took a little imagination to think them really white. One evening, the captain admitted: ‘We did well to spare your life.’
Sila supplemented their everyday fare by fishing. Sometimes, he wanted to dive into the shimmering water. He longed for the light. To dive into the light. Into the sun reflected in the ocean. But the cargo ship was moving too quickly, the deck was too high, he would never catch it up.
Fos was a chatterbox. He talked endlessly to Sila, asked him about his life. Sila was reluctant to answer. He came from the City of Nowhere, from the city engulfed by sand. Perhaps it no longer existed now, perhaps it had vanished as the ship pulled away, breaking the spell.
‘Of course it doesn’t exist any more,’ said Fos during one of their talks, ‘in fact, it never existed, you’d do well to forget it. You’re a different man now, you’re no longer in that city out of time. The war is over.’
The cook asked who had raised him all these years. Sila told him about his cousin, about the Uncle.
‘What about your parents? Your mother, your father?’
‘They’re not there any more.’
The cook nodded.
‘They say the rebels killed half the population.’
Sila spent his free time aboard reading the only two books on the ship: an atlas and a cookery book. This is how he discovered the twin pillars of his destiny: cooking and travel.
With his finger, he travelled the world, stopping on every continent. Here were strange and fabulous names, some of which evoked vague memories. The Uncle had spoken of these continents – Europe, America – as magical places flowing with milk and gold.
One evening, Sila took from his pocket the scrap of newspaper he had kept.
‘This man is from America,’ he said.
Fos read the article, then opened the corresponding page of the atlas.
‘He lives in the United States, a country in North America. He lives in a city called New York.’
He pointed to a large red dot on the map.
‘A city by the sea, just like mine.’
Fos laughed.
‘That’s right, just like yours. You want to go to the United States? I should warn you we’re heading for Morocco and on from there to France, to Marseilles.’
France. The touchstone. The country whose language people spoke in the City of Nowhere.
‘It’s smaller than the United States,’ Fos added, ‘but it’s bigger than your city.’
Thanks to the recipe book, astonishing names tripped from Sila’s lips: eggs fino de Boffet, painter’s palette, sand roses, poached chicken with creamed lentils, spider crab Atlantide, rice pudding with kumquats, tournedos Rossini. The recipes all began the same way: Cooking Time, Ingredients. Then came elegant, carefully chosen words: ‘Remove the peduncle and blanch thoroughly.’ ‘Singe and draw the chicken, and cut it into eight pieces.’ ‘Finely chop the shallots and sweat them in butter.’ ‘Blanch the spinach, refresh in cold water and squeeze to remove the excess.’ Can you imagine the poetry of such words to a boy from the City of Nowhere? ‘In a heavy-bottomed pan sweat the mirepoix of carrots and onions over a low flame. Add the fresh tomatoes and the tomato concentrate, the celery stick, parsley stalks and the fond brun.’
‘I read the words but I never see the dish,’ Sila protested one day. ‘It’s annoying.’
‘You hardly think I’m going to cook things like that on a ship?’
At fifty-one, Fos was one of those unfinished creatures who have accumulated lives: a down-and-out in Liberia, he had been an artist in Paris, a student and an unemployed person in Germany, a construction worker in Brazil and a cook in a school cafeteria in the United States before taking a job on this freighter. He spoke several languages badly, knew everything and nothing, had walked the length and breadth of every major city in the world.
He loved Sila like a son because he found the boy mysterious. The boy’s silence, a sort of perpetual remoteness, made him a creature apart. And the young man’s beauty filled Fos with pride as though he were the cause. Sila’s face radiated a strength and vitality, his eyes had an astonishing darkness, his joyful smile was infectious. As for his body, it was absolutely unique: though not as broad as a grown man, Sila was slim and muscular, sculpted like a statue. That such grace existed was thanks to him, Fos, who had saved the young man’s life.
The freighter docked in Morocco. It stayed barely a day, just long enough to unload its wares and load others. The sailors worked tirelessly with the help of a few porters chosen from the crowd that thronged around the port looking for any work on offer. One of these day labourers had such astonishing strength that the others said he was a werewolf. When the moon was full, he slit the throats of women and children. Sila thought him rather a nice fellow for a werewolf.
Then the freighter set off again.
Fos had bought some spices in a Moroccan market to satisfy the captain. And so Sila became a commis chef. To monkfish, which he carefully cut into medallions and cooked for ten minutes under Fos’s watchful eye, he added a coconut coulis that would for ever be remembered on this rusty, rotting hulk. The monkfish was served, needless to say, with white gloves.
Finally, the boat reached its destination.
2
One was called Simon Judal, which meant he was sometimes called Jude or Judas, a nickname that could hardly have been more ill-suited; the other had been christened Matthieu Brunel but had no intention of remaining so: the surname was much too common. These were the two young men who had reacted so differently at the restaurant.
Now they were walking down a side street off the Champs-Élysées, buoyed up by a sort of elation attributable to the meal, to the lightness of Simon’s wallet, having treated his best friend to celebrate his new job, to their youth and to the
warm June evening. The air-conditioning in the restaurant had been a little chilly and they were glad to stroll in the warm night. The world was their oyster.
‘I have to say, if I’d been that waiter, I’d have smashed the guy’s face in,’ said Matthieu.
‘You can hardly punch a customer when you’re a waiter at the finest restaurant in the world,’ said Simon.
‘So that’s the finest restaurant in the world?’
‘It’s the only place I could take you. There was no choice.’
‘I’d still have smashed his face in!’
They emerged onto the Champs-Élysées. In the summer evening, the streetlights gave off a purple glow, forming haloes against the sky. The trees along the avenue glimmered. Light streamed from the cars, curiously silent somehow, waiting patiently for the long river of metal which stretched back to the Place de la Concorde to begin flowing.
The two friends walked down the Champs-Élysées and, when they came to the Place de la Concorde, hailed a taxi. They rolled down the windows and, silent now, allowed themselves to be lulled by the movement of the car.
It pulled up outside a large brick building in the 11th arrondissement and they took the elevator to the top – the ninth floor. Simon slipped his key into the lock. They stepped into the apartment. A hallway with a polished parquet floor led to a living room and, beyond, a covered terrace furnished in the oriental style which overhung the void. They sat down.
‘That guy who hit …’
‘Not again!’ Simon interrupted.
‘Well, it’s not normal, is it? You don’t deck a guy for taking your kid by the arm.’
‘It’s normal if you’re a dickhead.’
‘You’d have to be a very particular type of dickhead.’
‘Probably,’ Simon yawned.
‘One with an obsession for power and property. He’s my kid and nobody touches him.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’
‘Do you have that obsession?’ asked Matthieu.
‘No.’
‘Me neither, but we might be better off if we did. That absolute need to assert yourself. To mark your territory.’
‘Like an animal, you mean?’
‘Yeah, like an animal. To be less human and more animal. I sometimes wonder if that’s not the secret to life. Allowing yourself to be guided by your instincts, your urges.’
‘So you’re saying we should be predators? Nice idea. Reverse the whole history of mankind and go back to being wild animals.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing, that particular dickhead is at war. And I think people who are constantly waging war have an advantage over everyone else.’
Simon nodded.
‘Maybe. But it’s also because they’ve already lost. To me a man who’s always at war is a man already reconciled to loss. The loss of everything that makes us human, but also the defeat of happiness.’
Somewhat surprised to have said something so perceptive, and fearful of a better riposte, Simon headed off to bed. Matthieu stayed for a moment, lost in thought, then he too went to his room.
They had been sharing this apartment for a year. They had met at a ball, had hit it off, though on the face of it they had nothing in common, and six months later Matthieu moved in and became Simon’s flatmate. It was a three-room apartment. With the curious obstinacy he sometimes had, Simon had been determined to find an apartment with terraces. Plural. ‘Which area are you looking to live in?’ ‘I don’t care about the area. I want two terraces.’ ‘What’s your budget?’ ‘I don’t have a budget, I have a requirement: terraces.’ This, at least, was his account of the conversation. And at the time he was far from being a wealthy man. He was working as a researcher in a maths laboratory.
Simon had scurried into the apartment on the heels of the estate agent. There was a terrace off the kitchen, and a second terrace leading off from the living room. With each new terrace Simon’s excitement grew and when they came to the third terrace, he signed the deal. The third terrace, a short flight of steps up from the largest bedroom, was bordered by withered shrubs. It could hardly be called luxurious, but then neither could the apartment or the building itself, located as they were in the outskirts of the 11th arrondissement in a tangle of winding charmless streets. But this was what he wanted: it overlooked all of Paris. Though there was nothing lavish about it, it was an exceptional space, perched high up, like the crow’s nest on a ship, as though isolated from the humdrum routine of the city.
‘You have access to the roof if you like. It’s a flat roof, it would be like a fourth terrace. You’ll have the only key, you have sole access.’
Simon moved in. In winter, grey leached into the apartment from all around. The grey of the clouds, of the city. A congenially melancholy atmosphere, though sometimes a little cold. In summer, the sun illuminated the far-flung corners of every room. Simon would retreat to the roof terrace wearing only boxer shorts, and there patiently track the sun’s course from morning to night, which accentuated his dark complexion. He was perfectly at home there. Alone, at peace, just how he liked it.
And yet the idea of sharing the flat had been Simon’s. Perhaps because the permanently empty second bedroom troubled his sense of logic. But his decision had also been the result of the bombshell that had been his meeting with Matthieu.
Simon was a shy, diffident creature. After his parents’ death in a car crash, he had been raised by an aunt, his mother’s older sister. At the age of six, he had suddenly found himself an orphan, the result of a twist of fate he could not understand but nonetheless accepted. Just as he had been born, so his parents had died. It was a fact of life about which there was no point speculating. He did not cry, he was not sad, but he found himself now in a world from which all colour had drained, in a goldfish bowl devoid of life. For the most part, he did nothing; he was indifferent to books, to television, cut off from his classmates, who saw him as stand-offish and sickly, and his regular illnesses further set him apart. In this reclusive existence, through some mysterious circuitry in his brain, he developed an extraordinary memory. This inexplicable phenomenon made him a sort of memory genius and, had he displayed the least intellectual curiosity, he would have been exceptionally intelligent. But goldfish in their bowls exhibit no curiosity. Simon would lie on his bed thinking, reliving the events of his day – the pointless inanities of his life. A pear he had peeled at the dinner table, a pen he had dropped in class, a dog that had crossed the street in front of him. The polo neck of a boy in class, the frill of a dress, the texture of skin.
At the provincial school he attended, Simon had been a good pupil. He hadn’t needed to study, since he remembered everything down to the smallest detail. In fact it was his prodigious memory that marked him out in his first year in secondary school. Before that, he had not been much liked. His frailness was unsettling. Other boys could not get him to play games of any kind. They could not fight with him, even a harsh word was enough to leave him distraught and tearful. Given this fact, it was surprising that he was not victimised but was left to himself, a fact that can only be explained because the school was in an affluent part of town with pupils who were not particularly cruel and who were kept on a tight leash by parents who all knew each another. The word had clearly gone out not to bother Simon but to leave him alone; this often meant him spending playtime in the classroom, extending the goldfish bowl of his bedroom, of his existence.
In his first year at secondary school, where a battery of teachers were tasked with teaching the various subjects his old schoolteacher Madame André, had taught all by herself, Simon spent his first term petrified. The different classrooms and teachers completely bewildered him and upset his routine. You had to pack up your books, leave one classroom, dash to the stairs and run to a different classroom on a different floor, careful not to get the wrong door, say ‘Good Morning’ to another new teacher … It was a puzzle. But however strange he was, Simon was not without resources and managed to adapt, thoug
h he was invariably the last to leave the class, still clumsily packing his things away while the teacher waited impatiently to close the classroom.
In the second term, in French class, they studied poetry. First, the rules of versification, then individual texts. At the end of one class, the teacher asked how many of them could remember what they had been studying for the previous hour. The poem was Victor Hugo’s ‘Tomorrow, At Dawn’. Everyone in the class protested. Except Simon who, as usual, did not say a word.
On a sudden whim the French teacher, a man they all found intimidating, called on Simon. Paralysed, the boy said nothing. Then, closing his eyes, he began to speak, and he recited the whole poem.
‘Did you know it already?’ the teacher asked.
‘No,’ Simon answered shyly.
‘Good. So you remembered it.’
Then the teacher set another poem for the class to learn. It was ‘The Sleeper in the Valley’ by Rimbaud. Simon read the poem. Knew it. He leaned back in his chair.
‘Simon, learn the poem!’ said the teacher. ‘Don’t rest on your laurels.’
Simon blushed. He pored over the text again, but what could he do? He already knew it by heart. He stared into space.
Irritated, the teacher shouted at him: ‘Recite as much as you’ve learned.’
And Simon recited the whole poem, without a single mistake or hesitation.
‘Did you know that one already?’
The boy blushed again.
‘No.’
‘You’re not going to tell me that you learned it by heart in the past two minutes!’
Simon shrugged helplessly.
‘It’s not my fault.’
The teacher leafed through his book and gave it to Simon open at Rimbaud’s long poem ‘The Drunken Boat’.
‘Try and learn that while the rest of the class works on the other poem.’
Simon read the text. In his humdrum universe, the dazzling images amazed and astonished him.
Some minutes later, the teacher began asking for volunteers to recite ‘The Sleeper in the Valley’. No one could recite the whole poem.
Sila's Fortune Page 2
