by León Melín
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In town that evening, following the same route as the day before, Lucas ate surprisingly well. Perhaps he arrived early, or late, or chose the right place although he had been pushed into a restaurant by the crowd. The menu was in English and the prices were in Euros, the card was well used. Unbelievably, on the week-end of the race, the restaurant served the same menu at the same price as the rest of the year. Lucas felt sure that there would be a law against charging more, proving that that was the usual thing.
The Mâitre d’ and the waiters insisted on performing as if nothing special was happening, lingering over the orders, bringing bread, water and wine, oil and vinegar, to the table in long, separate walks through the whole restaurant, while unsatisfied customers smoked at the bar - French, guessed Lucas – queued through the doorway – Anglo-Saxon – or just didn’t bother to come in at all – the Latins.
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For coffee, Lucas strolled around the Place de la République. Those unfortunates who garaged their cars in the underground Leonardo da Vinci car park were being forced to pay the penalty fines – squealing their tyres on the slippery paving stones of the pedestrianised area. Fifty kilo concrete bollards kept the machines and pedestrians apart in normal times but for these race days the hairy legs of motor sports tourists hid them from the pilots’ view, who had to guess the route by human density, aim their machines at the airiest space, gun the engine and drop the clutch, closing their eyes either before or after depending on taste. No-one was hurt. Of the thousands of drunk motor fans inches from, touching hot metal; the motorbikers doing two, three, sometimes four laps of the square, doughnuts in front of the Café Moderne; drivers in other cars coming up from the river, where the tarmac badly joins the paving, smooth tar with no aggregate providing the perfect, smoking drag race start; the families, father grimly determined to experience, to join in, Le Mans, from the inside in spite of his wife’s equal determination not to, not to enjoy, especially with their young family in the back of the rocking cars lost in the barrio; only the children were hurt, a reminder to all of their closeness to that state, spawning a moment of melancholy.
In the newer parts of the town centre, where the straight, wide roads and traffic lights made nature’s drag course, Italian super cars and German, well, German super cars, throttled down and did what they were supposed to do. The fire brigade remained on duty to extract anyone who came to grief, but the police, stationed centrally, visibly and in the perfect spot to see nothing, ignored events. Lucas walked past the crowd of burly, body-armoured and well-armed policemen, posing behind sunglasses next to an armoured jeep, whose open-door map-pocket displayed the latest issue of Marie Claire.
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Lucas had been a fool. A bloody fool. He had taken the job of following the English man, a professional recommendation, and what was he doing ? Not his job, here he was, a tourist in the fucking town, five miles from his target. What the hell was the matter with him, almost as if he was trying to cock it up, to fail his first job, the first job he’d had since he left the police. He needed every job he could get; he could survive with twenty days work a year; live well on a hundred, he’d already calculated, estimated, planned, and here he was, first day on the job and – where was the
target ? Lost. Lost in the middle of a hundred thousand English men, all wearing the same clothes, speaking the same foreign language, drinking the same beer; Lucas would never find him again. Even if he could report, truthfully, “I didn’t see him talk to any women” he would know it was a cheat, a lie, because he hadn’t done his job well; hadn’t done it at all.
All the way back to the race course, Lucas cursed himself; his lack of discipline, self-discipline; the driver, who insisted on obeying all the road traffic regulations; other drivers, for being there; the organisers, for not letting the bus drive straight onto the race track; all the people, still streaming out though well past midnight; and finally the English, those bastards, just as he knew, he knew it, he’d lost them, those English bastards had gone, left the bar they’d been in, with its view of the track; and they’d gone, and now he, Lucas, could go home too, because he’d never find them here.
Lucas could have cried, but he could feel no shame, no pain, no remorse, no negative feelings for the lost Englishmen. They could have died, he wouldn’t have cared. He hadn’t known them long enough to get to know them, like them, love them. Their absence was no loss; the income, lost income it perhaps represented, still made no impact.
In the next bar, really the mirror of the first, sharing a serving area, but where the seats had no view of the race, just a juggernaut filled with refrigeration equipment and beer, Lucas found the energetic English men and he sat down for a beer.
Chapter 3 - Night
Drinking. Drinking beer. On his own. The machines voomed past, ten metres away and Lucas drank. He had had a small pitcher of wine with his dinner, an apéritif, a digestif, and a beer or two while walking around the town. Now there was nothing to do except his job, and that meant that he had to drink beer. Gassy, yellow, tasteless, cold beer from a plastic cup that flexed so it couldn’t be picked up. After midnight, there were no real queues.
He tried to forget about Tiphaine. Her laugh. Her lightning-crack laugh that still woke him sweating, and left him paralysed and insomniac. He now slept with a bottle of water by his bed to lubricate, cool himself. He could hear now, above the roar of engines, could hear clearly her k-lack, k-lack, k-lack as she walked about the reception in her cheap high heels that made her calf muscles stand out. And when she smiled, it split her face in two and he would just want to climb inside and lie down.
The last time he had seen her, privately, he had tried to explain how he felt about her. Maybe he didn’t explain it very well; how difficult is it to say “I love you” ?
“I love you. I love you. I love you” one can shout around the world, when it is clear the other will respond with the same words. Wasn’t that what marriage was all about ? A joint and public statement ? But the first time in a relationship, how often was “I love you” followed by “I like you, but…” and how many times was nothing ever said for fear of hearing it ?
“I like you, as a friend, a brother, a sister.”
Tiphaine had made it easy for Lucas. She replied with silence. Total silence, non-communication. Even her body language was mute. She gave no hint – of pain, of pleasure, of love – she wouldn’t explain why and she wouldn’t help understand what.
Outwardly confident with men in public, she could destroy them in private by pure self-control. Of course, it was always possible that inside there was nothing; that the fake blonde was an ice-hearted witch; that her inner conversation, her monologue, excluded interruptions in such a foreign language as love. In another year, another world, Lucas could have accepted her friendship, her germanity; but then and there he couldn’t control himself, he had to have her. Like the football crowd, he had roared and there was only one thing that could have satisfied him.
“I don’t think I can give you what you want” she said with her goodbye.
Perhaps he was that transparent, or maybe he’d said something, but Lucas felt the arrow of responsibility pierce him with her comment; so it was his fault, after all.
If Tiphaine had destroyed his belief in their future life together, her reticent behaviour had only inflamed his lust, his passion. She was so magnificent, it was worth dying for. Only Marianne saved him, raping him till he was too embarrassed to go back to the woman he loved, still lusting after her, but inadequate now, not worthy of her.
Marianne, he hadn’t seen for a few months, though they spoke every few weeks; both were ‘busy’. Even when he would be seventy he wouldn’t be able to resist her. Why could he not love her ? But he did, like a brother, a friend; for who could not caress her, cuddle her, help her enjoy herself; more sport than lust, or maybe if that was just lust then with Tiphaine it would be something more; love, unrequited lust; was that the sad formula ? He loved what h
e couldn’t have, and couldn’t love what he had.
Past the empty stands and over the Dunlop bridge once again to the fairground. The bridge would have been an ideal viewing gantry, perched a few feet above the track, with the monsters flying upwards, cat’s eyes first, or on the other side the flames and red hot metal blasting down the hill. But no, the bridge was totally enclosed; small holes drilled through the plywood, like in public toilets, fired dancing laser beams around the crowd. Only at the ends of the bridge could tall men – one at a time - snatch a view.
Even at night it was necessary for marshals to keep the crowds moving, or all traffic would halt to watch the race from these one or two places. The safety car was out now, howling like a wolf chased by a pack of hounds. The spectators, dangling huge cameras, tried to loose off a few glances at the cars as they wung their way round. Then they in turn were chased away.
There was a battle going on, and Lucas couldn’t see it. The noises in his head and the actions of other people were the only evidence that he had. It didn’t seem possible to witness it directly. It didn’t matter how much Lucas moved around, from whatever angle he viewed it, the battle continued and he was in it, but who was winning ? What was going to happen ? What could he do to help his side ? Which one was his side ? Tomorrow, it would perhaps be in the papers – ‘Suicide cop in 24 Hours Tragedy – Audi wins record third time’ or ‘Spectator sees race – police shoot him dead’.
Lucas wandered over to the crêperie, past the hundred people sitting watching the race on the big screen. Now at last he could see the race, the pit lane drama, the overtaking, all the accidents were there. The Englishman and his friends joined the queue for crêpes. These were made fresh, one at a time; and they took their time. Not like Paris, where you could buy them ready-made or the street vendors had them, thick and rubbery, and cold, made up in advance. The queue shuffled forward.
The crêpes and the giant screen attracted a peculiar kind of English racegoer. They were all English, now, at this time of the night, and they stared. Morose was the word. Individuals and small groups staked out parcels of land and occupied them – a thousand tiny islands under the big trees. Like prisoners of war, they had given up; given up the battle, they wanted to watch it until the end without taking part. They had given up trying to see the race, the real race; given up trying to make friends, given up giving. Now they were going to eat and drink and sit.
“Crêpe with Grand Marnier.” The English group ahead had no need of the calories or the alcohol; the red-dressed girl pointed out the large plastic bottle of Grand Marnier, which they squeezed onto their plates. There hardly seemed to be enough left for Lucas.
“Great race.”
“Yeah, innit.”
“Did you see . . .”
“What’s amazing . . .”
Lucas helped himself to the liqueur, momentarily frightened himself when, having turned, he couldn’t see them, and then headed off down the hill, dripping hot fat and alcohol on his chin.
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During the day, the tunnels under the race track had been skid-black, and those with a kink – like the one by the main entrance – dangerously dark as the surface was broken and covered with the broken surface bits. Now at night they were well-lit, and Lucas crossed under the track to approach the empty pit lane stands.
The noise was deafening each time a car passed through, the air pressure and engine sound a double torture. He walked painfully up to the centre of the pit lanes, where the cars’ bow wave had built up and bowled along with maximum intensity before being released. Lucas sat down and tried to ignore the battle going on in his head.
Why didn’t she love him ? Tiphaine ? Why didn’t she at least like him ? Accept him ? Sleep with him ? All over the world girls slept with men, and for much less than a night out; a decent meal, a film, a few drinks, a walk in the park, that was all that was needed. She didn’t have to make a lifelong commitment, not even long-term; just a kiss would have been enough, a single kiss, to show something, an emotion, that she was human, that she felt for him, some empathy that recognised his insanely strong feelings for her.
A kiss, but no, a kiss would be too much; even sex would never be enough. He would have to fuck her, over and over again, a million times to trash her, spunking up inside and outside her, smearing her with his dirt till she was worthless, till he was exhausted, empty of emotion for her, free of her, free to go, free to be himself, Lucas.
“Fucking queer” from a stumbling English man who had chosen Lucas’ step to walk on but hadn’t seen him.
How could she prefer being alone ? To return to her flat, empty; not even a cat, that cheap man-substitute. Empty, no-one to talk with, do with, sleep with, lie in a bed with. Nobody. How bad was Lucas if he was worse than nobody ? Was he really that hopeless ? That a provincial girl should pass up the chance, his chance ?
Nobody was better than Lucas.
No body was better than Lucas.
Nobody was better than Lucas.
The childish game made him feel better, and now he’d got a second wind. Feeling wide awake in spite of the beer, the amorphous race situation, the confused spectation. Some machines were entering for service, beeping their horns as they turned into the pit lane. Others continued the battle. At least he could see the competitors.
He hadn’t heard from Thérèse, or about. He hadn’t thought about her, not once, till now; five months ? The last time they had met Lucas had taken her out for lunch. She had accepted nervously, as if she expected him to complain about the service. Lucas found her company enjoyable, she talked about food, her job, about living in the town, what she wanted to do; it wasn’t much of a life, but she enjoyed it. She was tactile, without her uniform, but at the end of the evening, when he had asked her if he could kiss her, she had said “Non”.
Lucas couldn’t remember why he had asked. He was too embarrassed ? He had kissed her on the cheeks when they had met. “How’s your hand ?” she had gushed, but he had had to find out. “Non”, she was not interested. Lucas could offer a free kiss, but she didn’t want it, didn’t need it. Lucas, who was desperate for a kiss, from anyone, from anything, the dog, for God’s sake, why had they put it down ? Lucas failed to close the deal with a girl who was nothing, who had nothing, who wanted nothing.
Nothing was better than Lucas.
Chapter 4 - Dawn
The crowd moved in a constant drizzle of darkness and silence. The cars’ headlights just robbed the watchers of their night vision; the deafening engines their hearing. Dazed, spectators filled the paths at four in the morning as they had filled them at four in the afternoon. The city had returned them to their home.
Lucas wandered aimlessly. He had honestly followed his charges for miles until, in a mad scramble up the blind side of the Porsche curves, he had lost them. The floodlighting made it impossible to see anyone, or even the cars, and the multiple exits made it hopeless to wait. He had tried, like so many others, to slip into a good viewing position near the track. Twice, race marshals had stopped him; every viewing point had been roped off to ensure that only ticket holders could watch from official viewing points.
The queues of people wandered aimlessly in all directions. Individuals followed the ones in front, along a path, pavement, verge, gravel, barricade, ditch, campsite. Only around tents did the virtual path develop parameters. The campsites were all alike: caravans, tents, straw and cars heaped untidily together. Small, national enclaves appeared, defending gazebos with a stockade of cars or motorbikes – Belgians, Spaniards or Italians.
The best organised seemed to be the Danes, who preferred juggernauts, and whose massive beer tent contained both a disco and a 50-seat cinema. If Lucas’ swarthy looks attracted the blonde ladies, they also attracted a number of aggressive, blond males, and so after a couple of yellow, gassy beers, he moved on.
Only the Germans, with a ruthlessness and insensitivity that the Danes could only dream of, managed to keep Lucas and other hopeless drunks o
ut. Their campsite was fenced, locked and patrolled by security guards.
In the dark, it was hopeless to find his tent, his car, his campsite. Even in daylight, he had three times failed to find it, eventually being led there by a marshal, who said it was badly marked, “mais, c’est comme ça”. Part of the problem, then, had been the overzealous but undertrained staff manning the control point at the campsite entrance, who refused entry to all, even those with the right ticket. Now, after twelve racing hours, the staff were oblivious, letting cars and people roam at will. Indeed, their own hanging about area and brazier had been taken over by the gypsy-like growth on the entire verge of the Chemin des Boeufs. Spanish, Italian and French campers who knew that nobody would interfere before daybreak, could relax, and use the toilet facilities and tomorrow get stuck in the monster traffic jams to exit the race.
Lucas spotted the Englishman’s car and tent before he spotted his own. He had spent so much time staring at their car, through binoculars, camera that he could identify it immediately. His own was an identity-less Dubuffet-car, an indeterminate colour. Now, in the dark, he couldn’t be sure whether it was blue or green.
A white car was parked between them, three Spanish men who had spent the night farting in their little tent. Now there was silence, and their car was empty, so they were probably watching the race. Even before the race, they had arrived listening to the race soundtrack; indeed, the car seemed to be built just for that, with massive speakers jutting into the passenger space, in front and back, and on the parcel shelf. These guys were serious.
Beyond the silent tent of the Spaniards, the English had beaten Lucas back to camp, and were quietly winding down. Lucas was glad to get out of his suit, which had become uncomfortable from his attempts to disguise it. Tomorrow, he would leave it behind.
