Sila's Fortune

by Fabrice Humbert

  ‘You kiss like a cat,’ said Jane.

  Meaning a vague wet nuzzle, he supposed. He tried harder, she tried harder. The kiss continued, melted, lingered, Simon forgot to be afraid. Jane pulled away and smiled at him, a red mark on the corner of her lips.

  ‘You’ve never kissed a girl before?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  She stared at him like a clinical case.

  ‘Really very special,’ she murmured.

  She didn’t seem to dislike it. She went to get a glass of water, her high heels clacking across the floor. Her hips were narrow, her body slender. Every detail was etched on Simon’s memory. The sound of the fridge being opened. The clack of heels again. The mounting terror: what was he supposed to do now? What did she expect of him?

  Jane came back with two glasses of water. As soon as she sat down, he lunged at her, not feeling the least desire, almost out of a sense of duty. She looked shocked, but leaned towards him nonetheless. They kissed again, somewhat laboriously. Then she looked at him, stroked his hair. It felt like he was still a child. She opened the top button of his shirt. He felt a pain in his stomach. He took it as a sign. He placed a hand on her breast, as though opening a door. She looked at him in astonishment then took his hand. He stayed like this, motionless. Simon was wondering: what should I do? What would Matt do? Thinking of his friend troubled him even more. Matt would be in bed by now. But how did you get from sofa to bed? By what impossible journey? This was all so terrifying. He felt no desire, nothing but fear and a flicker of humiliation, sensing impending failure that would make another date impossible. She seemed so experienced to him. She had probably already had several serious relationships with handsome, intelligent young men like her friends. After all, she was a Hilland. His eyes widened in fear. Jane watched all this, guessed the agonies he was going through. Shaking her head sympathetically, she set Simon’s hand down again on the sofa and kissed him slowly, tenderly. This gentle pressure, this confusion of tongues, and of bodies since she was pressing herself against him, began to blind Simon. This dispelled the images, the fears, there was nothing now but the warm, pleasant contact which drew down an intimate darkness. Eyes closed, he gave himself up to the warmth. He wished it would last for ever.

  And then suddenly, Jane got to her feet, as though she had made a decision. She led him into a dark room and pulled him onto the bed and the kissing began again. Jane took off his shirt. He fumbled with buttons and by some miracle managed to take off her blouse and, fingers shaking, tackled her bra, failed. But with a patient smile, a faint outline in the darkness, her hands moved behind her back, unhooked the fractious clasp, releasing her breasts that he kissed and sucked, taking no pleasure in doing so but realising what he had to do. Jane’s breathing came faster now. She unhooked her skirt. He slipped it off her, aware of the rustle of her tights, of the warmth radiating from the centre of her body. Then he peeled off her panties, though it took several attempts to get them past her cold feet. She was naked. He did not feel close to this woman who worried him so much, who was nothing but a task he had to accomplish, who called into question everything in his life. He could barely see her in the darkness. This reassured him somewhat: she seemed less human, less conscious. He no longer wanted to escape, he wanted it to be over. So he entered her, feeling no pleasure, and was surprised to discover that it seemed to work. The young woman beneath him was moaning, he didn’t know whether she was doing it simply out of kindness but it was reassuring nonetheless, he felt better, in fact he felt more brave. Jane’s breath came faster now, this was a good sign, things were going well. Then her body tensed.

  How to describe the pride at having overcome a terrifying ordeal and to have done so with flying colours? The goldfish had been given everything: he was a gangster, he was part of Zadie Zale’s shock troops at Kelmann, he was dating a wonderful woman called Jane Hilland and living in a flat in Chelsea many people would have envied. It was no longer maths that saved him, but life itself, which he finally filled with his presence. He did what other people did. Everything he was supposed to do, all the things dimly understood from television programmes, from the things his schoolmates and even his teachers had talked about, he had done it all: getting into a prestigious university, finding a good job, earning money, and – finally – having a girl on his arm. He had ticked all the boxes.

  When he went to a meeting with a Russian client looking for two hundred million dollars and everyone at the meeting panicked when the famous Zadie Zale began to tremble with an intensity his whole body rejected and desired; when he went to a restaurant with a group of intellectuals, artists and bankers he never in his life imagined he might meet; as he hugged to him a woman that every gold-digging man in London coveted, Simon was well aware that his previous identity was exploding. Sometimes, he would look at Jane in astonishment. Intelligent as she was, it was a look she did not understand, she did not know from where this timid, evanescent being was coming, from what darkness he was emerging. He couldn’t believe that, a creature of flesh and blood liked him. She might not be in love with him, he didn’t know – she was not one for declarations, perhaps she was too well brought up for such things – but at least she called him, she saw him, she spoke to him, she slept with him. This was the most incredible part, this contact between two bodies, for someone who had always found it difficult to touch others, who flinched at the slightest brush. His desire was astonishing. Desire was astonishing. She wanted him, he wanted her. Bodies existed, entwined, penetrated each other.

  Though in his shock he did not realise it, Simon Jude was completely happy.

  Matt’s path had taken the opposite course. He spent more and more time in his room. There were no more interviews, he had been made redundant by Saniak – there is a coherence to lies – and he went out less often because he found it difficult to shore up his fictions. A crack had opened up, a chink through which words leaked. He could no longer talk and, without words, he was reduced to nothing. His ability to seduce evaporated. He talked about going back to Paris, something that sounded like an admission of defeat, but Simon thought that finance was not really his world and that he could easily find a position in his previous work. In the meantime, Simon paid for everything. He didn’t even think about it. Matt was his friend, his only friend, and besides, he was the person who had transformed him. Matt had offered him a new life. In return, money was nothing.

  Of the former profusion of words, there remained only the spite machine. Matt loved Simon and hated his success, since Simon had achieved what he himself had wished for. Matt had wanted to mould him, to turn him into a copy of himself – inferior, of course – and the strength of their friendship rested on the power he had over him. But the statue had come to life, had outstripped him, had come to embody his dreams – dreams of money and success. Matt was not a base individual, but he was maddened by frustration, he needed to desire, he needed life to be gilded with a veneer of money and he could not bear the fact that Simon was living that life. Simon was the thorn in his side that reminded him of his failure, and he lived with him. He watched him go to work at the bank; watched him go out with his friends, friends he refused to have anything to do with, fearful his hatred, his jealousy would explode; he watched him go out on dates with the heir to the Hilland fortune.

  ‘Why don’t you ever come out with us?’ Simon asked one night.

  ‘I can’t stand those guys, loaded with money. And frankly, I can’t see what you see in that girl. She’s ugly and stuck-up.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I swear, you’re wrong. The two of you just got off on the wrong foot.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got a date with a Greek goddess.’

  This wasn’t true. There was no date, there were no more Greek goddesses. As in a children’s fairytale, from his mouth came bitter toads. Princesses were not attracted to croaking, muddy creatures. He no longer promised sunshine, love, pleasure. His persona was fractured, he no longer attracted women – neither princess, marchion
ess or baroness, neither commoner nor slattern.

  He was left only with toads.

  24

  ‘I’ve had cameras following me round since I was in high school!’

  As in a made-for-TV movie, everyone burst out laughing. Ruffle, the journalist, the two studio engineers and Dolores, the cleaning woman whose destiny he bragged about having changed, plus her three children. The weather was perfect, the light radiant as a spotlight. Against the sparkling backdrop of the day, the city gleamed like the silver screen and smiling people prepared to glide across the froth of the everyday.

  Ruffle was dressed in white like a Southern plantation owner. He had hesitated a long time over what colour to wear, initially favouring a dark financier suit. But then he decided that the dream would give him the upper hand. He wasn’t a financier, he was the architect of the American dream. He didn’t talk about money, he didn’t talk about investments, he talked about dreams. And dreams are immaculate.

  On this special day which was to make his reputation, everything about him was American. His suit was American, his shades were American and – though he favoured fast European cars – he had borrowed a cream coloured Cadillac. There could be no false notes. The name Mark Ruffle would be trumpeted throughout the state and he would become to Florida what Dario Fesali was to the United States.

  The TV crew had called him two weeks earlier. Ruffle had immediately felt himself almost bursting with joy. A documentary about him! On the biggest local station. He had long since prepared his speech and repeated it to anyone who would listen. But not until now had he had the opportunity to broadcast it on such a scale. Mark Ruffle, his life and work. Publicly, he gave the impression that he attached little importance to the programme. Privately, he talked about nothing else.

  The big Cadillac glided through the streets of Miami, through Brickell financial district, its skyscrapers glittering in the sun, this hub of power and money that thrilled Ruffle and in which, he felt, he was an important player. He was one of these creators of the new world, the peninsula, the headland of affluence welcoming poor Latinos, Cubans, Haitians. The gateway to America. Builders, men like him, had built these skyscrapers which brought new wealth to this city. Their entrepreneurial spirit had built the Four Seasons Hotel Miami, the Wachovia Financial Center, this towering grandeur full of arrogance and defiance. All this was the advantage property tycoons like him had over others, this ability to incarnate their work in stone, in steel, in concrete, protected against the winds of fortune. Gazing up at the city, his heavy hand over his mouth, Ruffle had felt himself glorified by this district, these towers.

  And then abruptly, without anyone understanding why, the glittering façade disappeared. The driver turned the corner and another city suddenly appeared, squat yellow-brick houses like a Mexican village. This was where Dolores had once lived. A dozen men sprawling on the ground watched the car as it passed. One of them spat.

  ‘Fucking ghetto,’ grumbled Ruffle.

  These people were tarnishing his day. He needed them, it would make Dolores’s rise from rags to riches all the more magnificent. But he had forgotten they were so poor. It put all the brokers off. You couldn’t get a contract signed here. Everything was paid for in crack and cocaine. The Cadillac jolted, there were potholes everywhere. Weeds grew through cracks on the sidewalk and as the car drove on, neglected sandlots stretched away into wasteland. On an abandoned lot lay the rusting hulk of a car. The place was desolate, the leprous face of poverty. On the corner of the street, a pair of bare legs stuck out of a foam mattress.

  ‘He’s found his home,’ Ruffle commented. ‘The pigs round here are happy to live in shit. There’s another contract we’ll never get.’

  The driver bared carnivorous teeth.

  The car had pulled up next to the TV crew at 10.02 am. Ruffle had been expecting more people. He climbed out of the car. The reporter proffered his hand. He was a short, unshaven man with stooped shoulders. The technical team could also have made more of an effort. But the camera glittered in the sun and that was all that mattered. Standing a little further off were Dolores, looking intimidated, and her three children. She had arrived in a Mercedes, a small maroon Mercedes now parked on the opposite kerb which she kept an anxious eye on, like a devoted mother. Ruffle rushed over to her, his face a mask of joy, and threw his arms around her – something he had never done. She looked like a panic-stricken bird.

  He turned back to the camera. It wasn’t rolling; he felt terribly disappointed, though he didn’t let it show.

  It was at this point that he said, in a plaintive, ironic tone: ‘I’ve had cameras following me round since I was in high school!’

  And everyone burst out laughing. Suddenly, Ruffle felt better. The day was dazzling. And this was only the beginning. He told them that once upon a time he’d been a promising quarterback and that he often watched films of his old matches. When this was greeted by an embarrassed silence, he remembered he had to be modest.

  ‘I mean my old man had a Super 8, you know with the shaky picture and all.’

  They nodded.

  ‘So this is where it was,’ said the reporter, looking down the desolate street.

  Ruffle adopted a serious tone.

  ‘Right here. In this godforsaken hole. This crime-ridden wasteland. Yes, this is where the family lived when they first arrived from Mexico.’

  Dolores nodded. The children watched the scene, vaguely bewildered. The reporter walked over to the trailer.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ he asked Dolores.

  ‘My cousins, they live here,’ she said with a thick accent.

  The reporter looked quizzical.

  ‘Her cousins took over the trailer when she moved out,’ Ruffle explained. ‘More people chasing the American dream. I’ll help them sort themselves out. Give it a bit of time and they’ll be moving into a beautiful house too. I mean, hey, this is America, right?’

  The reporter turned to the cameraman.

  ‘Get some shots of all this, the surroundings and the interiors.’

  They all squeezed into the trailer. Ruffle wondered how the four of them could ever have lived in such a hovel. The cousins had washed and scoured the whole place but the meagreness, the yellowish taint of poverty could not be erased.

  ‘Jesus,’ thought Ruffle, ‘and I get people accusing me of exploiting the poor. Anything’s got to be better than living here.’

  ‘Señor Ruffle is our benefactor,’ said Dolores suddenly.

  And, in chorus, like a poorly learned recitation piece, the three children chimed in: ‘Yes, señor Ruffle is our benefactor.’

  ‘If he no help, we still live in this trailer,’ she went on. ‘The beautiful house, thanks to him.’

  It occurred to Ruffle that he should have sent her for English lessons. But it didn’t matter … this way, she was all the more convincing. How did she manage to keep such a terrible accent?

  The reporter did not seem particularly gripped by this protestation of gratitude. He glanced at the Mexican family. The cameraman was finishing up the interior shots. They all trooped out and some shots were taken in front of the trailer. Dolores repeated her line and this time the declaration was captured on film. Ruffle adopted the unassuming air he thought would suit the occasion. Once again he hugged the panic-stricken bird in his arms and once again the cameraman regarded this touching scene without the slightest interest. It didn’t matter. All this asshole had to do was film Dolores’s new house. The comparison between the two would glorify Mark Ruffle and if there was a single solvent family left in the area, they’d be rushing to the RUB offices the minute this thing was broadcast.

  Ruffle suggested riding along with the reporter, who rudely declined his offer and, with the rest of the crew, clambered into a small clapped-out black van that looked like it might not start. Dolores, of course, with a care that demonstrated her love for the car, got behind the wheel of her Mercedes.

  It took barely fifteen minutes for them to reac
h a suburb with a dozen houses all bought thanks to RUB financing. And Dolores quivered with pleasure standing in the driveway of a little house which, compared to the trailer, looked like something out of the Arabian nights. This was something even the reporter – probably a lefty like most intellectuals – would understand. And if he didn’t, the image would speak for itself. Sometimes cameras understand things better than moronic minds.

  A magnificent shot framed the Echeveria family in front of their new home, standing next to the entrepreneur who had made it possible for them to achieve their dream. It was all good. The camera moved inside, put the finishing touches to the positive comparison before Mark Ruffle himself explained his project: ‘What I wanted was to make it possible for anyone to achieve the American dream.’

  Hearing the phrase for the fifteenth time, the reporter gave an exasperated scowl which Mark did not like.

  ‘Dolores Echeveria had nothing,’ the businessman continued, ‘now she has everything. She had some tough times when she came here, fleeing the poverty of Mexico. But she worked hard, she had faith in herself, in the future. At RUB, we helped her get financing for this house. Now, she and her family have a roof over their heads, she’s got a beautiful car to drive to work. She’s integrated into the community. Her kids go to school, they’ll go on to college and become citizens she can be proud of. I’m happy I was able to help her, but obviously I am not important here,’ he went on, ‘it’s all down to her.’

  Big smile, thumbs up.

  ‘Señor Ruffle is our benefactor,’ chorused the kids.

  ‘Her achievement is all the more impressive when you consider that Dolores here owns another house that she rents out and makes an income from.’

  The reporter was surprised.

  ‘A cleaning woman with a second house? When she’s already got a mortgage on this house and a loan on her car? You don’t think that’s a bit over the top?’

  ‘No sir,’ said Mark patronisingly, ‘it’s the miracle of the modern economy. There’s no risk here. Worst case scenario, she just sells off the house and makes a fat profit. But she won’t need to do that. This is just the beginning for her happiness, take my word for it.’