This led to a discussion between Lucien and Léon.
Did you notice that their socks went up to their knees? All you could see was their thighs!
Socks, in this weather!
Once I caught two of ’em copulating behind a bed of geraniums, asses bright red, I swear. What a gas!
Well, those are the Germans for you, or the Dutch, and maybe the Belgians, too.
Can you imagine? They walk all day long in the blistering heat—that’s what they save up for.
And at night, they don’t even sleep in a hotel, right? They prefer a tent. . . .
No accounting for tastes. . . .
Then, Léon abruptly asked me, as though one thought had prompted the next, Who was that guy at Simon’s, the one who came after the wedding was over?
He didn’t dare say the Black guy. Here, we laughed openly at Germans, because it was allowed—the war gave us that right. Same for the Dutch and the Belgians. We basically viewed them as an extension of the Germans. But we’d never had any Black people in Carmac.
I didn’t have time to answer because a group of three young boys noisily walked in. They mumbled hello and headed to the back of the bar. We knew all of them; we’d grown up with their parents. They sat near the foosball table and ordered hard lemonades.
One of the boys asked another, What the fuck were you doing at the chapel?
We could hear their conversation perfectly. They were convinced that we couldn’t, as though there were a soundproofed wall in the center of the bar separating our world from theirs, making us invisible and, most important, deaf in their eyes.
The other boy answered, talking a mile a minute, like he was afraid his friends wouldn’t let him finish his story: I was walking Mama 92’s dog she can’t get around no more since they put in her titanium knees she gives me twenty euros to take out her rat she says the chapel’s good for the mutt ’cause he likes to visit his dead dog buddies there’s plenty of ’em buried there he knows the place by heart but goddamn the fucking rat pisses everywhere and it freaks the fuck outta me but come on for twenty euros I ain’t gonna say nothin’ and get this when I brought her back her toilet bowl brush of a dog she kissed him right on the mouth “Come here baby come spoil your mama” it’s seriously fucked up and get this the little furball shit stuck its tongue in 92’s mouth the dog had just pissed and taken a crap and licked its own ass ugh and after that the old hag grabs my arm and doesn’t let go she tells me her boring-ass stories about her titanium knees seriously dudes if I’d had a gun I’d have popped the two of them the old bag and her shitsack dog. . . .
He shook his head, out of breath, like he’d just escaped some terrible accident. Then he joined the other two, who had moved to the foosball table.
As soon as the ball rebounded, Lucien, taking advantage of the noise produced by its dull roll, exclaimed, as if to himself, It’s true, we don’t see too many brutes like that around here!
I didn’t immediately understand what he was referring to. Visibly, neither did François. He looked at me, then at Lucien. His wide-open eyes seemed to be taking over from his ears, which, big as they were, couldn’t decode what the old man had said. Léon, who could figure out anything provided it came from his friend, responded immediately. The last ones we saw were in the Aurès, right? You remember, the Senegalese shooters!
How could I not?! They were tearing you apart by the looks of it. . . .
Then both men began to stare at the bottles behind the bar, consumed by the same wild terror. It was like their pupils were shrinking as the movie of their lives played in reverse, going so far back that their wrinkled faces slowly gave way to other, smooth faces baked by the Algerian sun on the steep slopes of a craggy mountain.
Their silence dug a breach into which the three young boys’ conversation quite naturally slipped back. Back at their table, sipping their hard lemonades, they said every sentence in a monotone, as though none of them had any meaning, or the opposite, as though they all meant the same thing.
Is it normal to have a dick that curves to the right?
Not normal. Kill yourself. It’s over.
You jerk off too much.
For real?
Totally. When you jerk off too much, it creates microfractures in your dick.
For real?
I’m completely for real.
Stick it in a door and swivel your hips to the left, that should do it.
Fuck off, asshats! Watch me fucking destroy you at foosball!
And with a roar of laughter, they got up and returned to their positions, exactly the same as before, to continue their game as if nothing had interrupted it.
Looking into Lucien’s and Léon’s eyes, you’d have thought that the lights had been abruptly turned back on. Nothing in particular seemed to have happened to have changed their mental state, but the terror in their eyes had ceded to a kind of suspicious curiosity. I picked up the conversation where we had left off. I told them that the unknown guest at Simon’s wedding was our future neighbor; that his name was Bakary Langlois; that he was going to build a chalet at the entrance to the village, not far from my house; that he had three children and that he ran a company. When I said ran a company, I noted that a nervous twitch betrayed some confusion in the two old-timers. In their minds inhabited by Senegalese ghosts, a Black man couldn’t be the head of a company. The Black man worked for the white man, not the reverse.
I told them about the plot where our future neighbor had decided to build his house. Land was precisely the thing that had occupied them their whole lives.
Do you know the history of that plot? Lucien asked me.
I answered that I didn’t.
Well, fifteen or so years ago, they were gonna build a big hotel, pool and everything, for the tourists. They brought in architects, contractors, workers, tons of folks. But it never got done. I dunno what happened really, it just never got done. Had to have been about money, am I right?
Léon said that the mayor must be relieved to have sold it. He didn’t know what the hell to do with that land after that. . . .
I added that construction on the chalet would start in a few weeks and that based on what Mr. Langlois had told me, they would move in as soon as possible.
Léon was visibly struggling to understand why people like them would deliberately choose to live in a village like ours. He asked me, mistrustfully, why they’d come here.
I’m not sure. He told me he needed a little authenticity. That’s what he said—authenticity.
Authenticity, repeated Léon, like he was expecting me to explain what it meant. But I didn’t say anything else.
François said, Living in peace . . . now that’s authenticity.
Staring at his glass of Suze, Lucien muttered under his breath, Well, we’d like to live in peace, too.
No one seemed to have heard. Léon nodded, that was all.
Then we stopped talking.
The foosball rolled in one direction, then another, in a frantic rhythm. In the background, Johnny, always.
The two old men’s telephones began ringing in their pants pockets a few seconds apart. They were expected for lunch.
C’mon, our ladies have rung the Angelus. See ya tomorrow, François. Later, sweetheart!
They walked out, shoulder to shoulder. As soon as they set foot on the burning asphalt, their two bodies separated, sagging beneath the direct sunlight, like the sky was crushing them with all its weight.
We watched them disappear, their hesitant steps scrunching on the gravel. I heard a final complaint.
Goddamn heat! So this is the hill I choose to fry on!
And to think that then winter’s so cold that we freeze our Algiers off!
François gave me a sympathetic look, and before I could respond in kind, two conspiratorial cackles rang out beneath the sun’s white rays, unde
rscoring the silence.
There’s one thing I fail to understand, Mr. Guillot, said the judge, crossing his arms.
Your head was lowered, like someone walking into a strong wind.
Would you be kind enough to sit up straight and look at us when you’re being spoken to? he asked in a calm voice. Have the courage to face us.
You sat up and your lips quivered.
Thank you, Mr. Guillot.
You managed to stammer out a Sorry that got lost in your throat, then you lifted your head, biting your lips.
Someone in the room coughed, an endless, dry cough that exasperated the judge. Articulate, please, Mr. Guillot. From the start we haven’t understood a word you’ve said!
You looked at him, more lost than ever. In your confusion, you finally let out a timid Beg your pardon? that disconcerted everyone, including me, who in sixteen years of communal living had never heard that expression come out of your mouth.
The judge opened his eyes wide and with a half-smile asked, Are you mocking me?
You shook your head no, and despite your best efforts, you teared up.
The judge took a short breath, then slowly formulated his question as though he was addressing a child or a stranger who didn’t speak his language. Mr. Guillot, why, after washing your hands in the frozen river, did you return to the house to steal objects belonging to members of the Langlois family?
He pulled a sheet of paper from his file and read: “Young Marion’s cellphone, a half-empty bottle of perfume, four CDs, two DVDs, two children’s books, a digital camera, a computer mouse, and a box of cigars.”
He looked up at you and said, Something for everyone. He clicked his tongue, then added, You murdered, then you went back to help yourself. Do you have an explanation for me?
Met with silence, he continued, These are things that you could have bought for yourself. Your salary plus what your wife was getting for her parental leave allowed for some indulgences. So I’ll ask my question again: Why did you steal these ordinary objects?
You shook your head idiotically.
Were you consumed by jealousy, desire, greed? The judge went on: Did you wish you had Mr. Langlois’s nice cars?
You answered yes, with a bizarre moan, that you thought they were nice, but that was it.
And his chalet, did you want that, too?
Yes, you answered flatly. I mean yeah, everyone thought it was great, but . . . Your throat constricted, preventing you from continuing.
At that, the judge said in an incredibly gentle voice, I’m not interested in “everyone.” We need to hear what you think, you, here in this courtroom.
You shriveled up in your chair. All we could see were your shoulders.
Please sit up, Mr. Guillot.
I glimpsed a sort of damp terror in your eyes.
The judge swallowed, then said, You had a serious accident a few years ago, isn’t that right?
You nodded.
He continued, You were destined for a high-level athletic career, but an unfortunate fall squashed those hopes. That must have been very painful for you.
You knew exactly where he was going. That’s why you said nothing.
Undeterred, the judge continued, You certainly must have fantasized about the wonderful life you could have had, didn’t you? Did Mr. Langlois’s success upset you? According to the experts, your jealousy of Mr. Langlois’s life was all-consuming, to the point of making you forget what you already had. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Guillot?
You said nothing.
The judge shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck, closing his eyes. Then, leaning over his file: I’ll cite the expert once again. “To become as desirable as Mr. Langlois. That’s what Constant Guillot yearned for with all his being. But when the object of his longing expanded to ‘immaterial attributes,’ meaning the Langloises’ rock-solid marriage, the warmth of their home, the carefreeness of their children, and so on, and he became aware that he could never attain such success, there was no other resort but the use of violence. He went so far as to hold Mr. Langlois responsible for his failures.”
The judge looked up at you. It was you or him. You chose yourself, Mr. Guillot. The insignificant objects that you stole after wiping out an entire family were no doubt more symbolic than functional. Possessions filled with meaning, with a prestige to which you aspired, don’t you think?
You didn’t say a word.
The judge added, before he stopped talking, What matters is what you say—you, not what I read.
Your lawyer hadn’t said anything as you were being questioned. He could have intervened to save you from drowning, but he was outmatched.
The judge leaned back in his chair, furtively glancing at his watch, then said the trial was adjourned until that afternoon. You shook your head, like you were trying to swat away a fly.
* * *
• • •
When the trial resumed, the prosecutor asked you if you were racist.
You squinted, as if you were trying to see in bright sunlight. All you could think to say was a long-drawn-out Wait . . . , which everyone in the audience took for an admission.
The question, visibly too direct, had completely disconcerted you. The prosecutor looked at the jurors, delighting in the impact of your disastrous hesitation, then said, You did realize that Mr. Langlois was Black, right?
An outburst of laughter. And you laughed, too, sending your lawyer into a rage. He glared at you. You went pale and immediately shut your mouth.
I’m glad to see that all this amuses you, Mr. Guillot, said the prosecutor, smiling like a cat that had gotten the cream.
I didn’t understand what was happening to you. You were acting like a dumb schoolboy caught up in something, with no awareness of the catastrophic repercussions that such a feckless attitude could bring about. Everything was compounding the negative image you were projecting: your puzzling behavior, your suicidal refusal to cooperate, the prosecutor’s insistence on making you out to be a monster by distinguishing you from the rest of society. You were sinking miserably without even putting up a fight.
The prosecutor resumed: Is it true that you called him the “big darkie”?
You said nothing, chewing on the inside of your cheeks.
He continued, Numerous accounts mention verbal and racial abuse: “the darkie,” “the African upstart,” and even “the ape swimming in cash.” Is that right, Mr. Guillot?
You reluctantly said that maybe, yes, once or twice, but that you didn’t think it at all.
What is it that you didn’t think, Mr. Guillot, that Mr. Langlois was a “darkie” or that he was “an African upstart”?
You shook your head, then angrily mumbled, Okay, yeah, sometimes, between us, we’d say “the big darkie” . . . but it’s . . . it’s not an insult. . . . It’s got nothing to do with racism, they’re words, they’re just words. . . .
Your lawyer disappeared inside his robe. The prosecutor gave you a long stare, then said, Mr. Guillot, at the risk of being repetitive, are you racist, yes or no?
You looked at your lawyer, his face deformed by a bitter fake smile.
After a long silence you said, slightly breathless, No, I’m not racist.
But you called him an “ape”!
I just said it to say it!
To say it?
Yes, because I was angry!
Elaborate, please.
I spoke without thinking.
Did his presence upset you?
No, but I couldn’t stand to be scammed by someone not from this country. . . .
The prosecutor opened his eyes wide. He finally had you. Mr. Langlois was “from this country,” as you put it! He was French, the same as you or me!
That’s not what I meant at all! I’m not racist. You’re twisting my words. It’s not because of the co
lor of his skin. He swindled us. He humiliated me. And it’s like that doesn’t matter!
The prosecutor took a deep breath. Okay, let’s look at the situation another way, if you don’t mind. Let’s imagine that the person who moved in across from you one day had the same lifestyle as Mr. Langlois, had swindled you in the same way, but was white. Would you have acted in the same way?
Your lawyer intervened, Objection!
The judge immediately overruled him and asked you to answer.
This is ridiculous, you said. Skin color has nothing to do with it! He cheated us, remember!
The prosecutor’s regrettably sensationalist question didn’t merit a response. But the judge had decided otherwise. Your lawyer was shooting daggers at you. The prosecutor continued, That’s clearly an obsession of yours! Does that justify killing him and his entire family? How much did he swindle you out of? Eight thousand euros? Eight thousand euros! You killed five people for eight thousand euros! Not much at all!
You touched your neck, then your lips, like you were going to throw up. You said, Yes, that’s true, but in the moment, I didn’t think about that. It was my parents’ money, all their savings, what was I going to tell them? Eight thousand euros is still a lot of money. . . .
The prosecutor interrupted you immediately, appalled at how hollow your words sounded. And Mr. Langlois’s children? Did they swindle you, too? What about their mother? What did that poor woman do to you to merit being riddled with bullets? There’s no evidence that she was aware of her husband’s scams. None. Do you really believe that their deaths were worth eight thousand euros? One thousand six hundred euros per person, Mr. Guillot. You don’t think that’s a measly sum in relation to the gravity of your actions?
Before sitting back down, he spat out, We live in a sick world! Then he indicated to the judge that he had nothing more to add.
The judge asked you if you had anything to say. You answered that your mind was all muddled, that you were sick of people twisting your words, and that from now on, you’d prefer to keep quiet.
People Like Them Page 3
