Jeff spent the whole evening mocking him, with that easygoing air of his. Xavier stuck it out. He listened to the intelligentsia of French cinema congratulate each other on the brilliance of their work, smirk about going to Cannes. Cannes, thought Xavier, is a game of hide the salami with a bunch of tarts in Louboutins. Everyone stuffing themselves with caviar, snorting coke, and congratulating themselves on giving a prize to a Romanian film. Lefty intellectuals love Romanians because they get to see them suffer without having to actually listen to them talk. Perfect victims. But the day one of them actually says something, the left-wing intellectuals will find some other silent victims. Bunch of wankers, Xavier thought, their great hero is Godard, a guy who only cares about money and speaks in riddles. Yet even from this low starting point, they managed to nosedive. That takes some doing.
Xavier got home sufficiently smashed that he did not feel too bad. He had a wank in the toilets thinking about Elsa, washed his hands and then went and collapsed next to his wife. It was something he hated doing, but he would not get to sleep otherwise. It was only the following morning that he realised how difficult the evening would be to stomach. Though he has had to stomach his fair share of humiliating evenings, he has had all he can take. He spent the morning unable to focus on the script he had to write, trotting out monologues in which he tried to convince himself that of course he wasn’t jealous of Jeff. Who would want to be in that joker’s shoes? He could not stop himself going over and over the imaginary conversation in which he explained to Elsa that directing a feature film that gets three rave reviews is bullshit. In hindsight, it pained him to think that Elsa might find that the comparison reflected badly on him. He came up with infinite variations in which he told her exactly what he thought of Jeff, how he did not feel remotely upset that Jeff was working on a new film. Not even remotely upset.
Now, here in Monoprix, he wishes he had brought a bazooka. The fat blonde flashing her ugly thighs in a pair of tight shorts who dresses like she’s a supermodel when actually she’s just a cow? Bullet in the head. The little ultra right-wing Catholic couple styled by Kooples, her with her retro glasses and her hair scraped back and him with his pretty-boy face and his Bluetooth headset making phone calls are wandering around the aisles picking out only the most expensive items, both of them wearing beige raincoats to show that they’re true conservatives? Bullet in the mouth. The fat piker staring at women’s arses while he picks out his halal meat? Bullet in the temple. The Yid in the fright wig with the repulsive tits that hang down to her bellybutton – he hates women with sagging breasts: bullet in the knee. Fire into the crowd, watch the survivors scatter like rats and scuttle under the shelves, the whole fucking rabble who come here to stuff their faces, with their tendencies to lie, to con, to cheat, to jump the queue, to bullshit. Blow the lot of them to kingdom come. But he is a papa, he is a married man, he is a grown-up so he keeps his mouth shut and fills his shopping trolley foaming at the mouth with rage and when he gets home he will have to put everything away otherwise Marie-Ange will sulk and it will be one more day when he gets nothing written. His jaws are aching from clenching his teeth.
There is a queue at the till because it is not enough for Monoprix to bleed its customers, it has to stint on cashiers. He picks the Indian girl because he knows her: she is fast. At least there is one person who knows how to do her job . . . she doesn’t waste time smiling as though she was here to suck everyone’s cock, she gets through things quickly, she does not need to spend five minutes inspecting something before running it over the barcode scanner. She keeps things moving. Xavier would dearly like to beat the shit out of the short-arse wanker standing directly in front of him, with his goatee beard, a waistcoat the colour of dysentery, his greasy hair and his weasely face, he loathes young guys with beards. A few years ago it was white guys wearing Peruvian caps over their filthy dreadlocks. The sort who think they’re smarter than everybody else, who look down their noses at everyone. Beardy little hipstellectual, probably stinks if you get too close, obviously never washes. Those manky tufts of straggly hair are bound to stink, probably full of food crumbs, just looking at him makes Vernon want to heave, a bullet in the back of the head, fucker, maybe that might teach you to wash and shave in the morning. Xavier smokes a pack of cigarettes a day, the last time he tried to give up, the stench of other people nearly drove him mad. As soon as they raise their arms, you can smell it, you don’t need to turn round, you can smell them coming. He was forced to take up smoking again.
Xavier fishes out his mobile and opens Facebook. He half-hopes that Elsa has left him a message, but at the same time he hopes that she hasn’t – what could he say to her? That it was lovely to see her? This is the sort of message they send each other. The sort that sound completely innocent but are laden with passionate insinuations. Elsa has not posted a message, but he is happy to see that Vernon has been in touch. Subutex. Now there’s a decent guy. God, they were so young . . . Vernon took off to Canada with some girl apparently, but he’s back in town and looking for somewhere to crash. Xavier replies immediately: Perfect timing, we’ve got a king-size sofa bed which cost an arm and a leg that never gets used and we’ve been looking for someone to mind the dog starting the day after tomorrow. You’re not allergic to pet hair, are you?
He feels awkward committing himself without consulting Marie-Ange. She doesn’t like people being in the apartment when they are not there. But this is different, Vernon is an old friend. He’s practically family. And besides, they need someone to be there to take care of the dog. Otherwise, they’ll have to cancel the weekend to Rome and Marie-Ange will go into a strop because they never do anything fun together anymore. He sends her a cheerful text message, telling her he has just solved the problem and asking what she thinks. She doesn’t reply immediately, and Xavier relaxes – he can tell her he needed to act fast and that’s why he didn’t wait for her reply.
He is happy at the prospect of seeing Vernon again. Vernon is mad about music. Guys like Xavier owe him a lot, Vernon was the one who introduced them to so many bands. And he’s one of those rare people you can count on to leave you more cheerful than when you met. They share a lot of treasured memories, they are gradually becoming the only ones left who remember. Parties, gigs, festivals, and bad times too. A time in his life when people didn’t sweat every little thing, when a problem could be solved with a slap in the face. Vernon was a part of that life, he is witness to the fact that, when he was younger, Xavier was a stand-up guy: anyone who dared to look crosswise at him lost a couple of teeth. Afterwards, a beer at the bar was all it took to wipe the slate clean and everyone was happy. It was a different time, a different milieu. That’s all behind him now.
XAVIER PULLS VERNON INTO A VIRILE AFFECTIONATE MAN-HUG, then steps aside and ushers him in, patting his paunch.
“See how much weight I’ve put on?”
“You’re tall, it suits you – makes you look like a colossus.”
In the living room, a little girl with pigtails is pedalling like a lunatic, zooming around the table on a tricycle. Her little face is ugly, but funny. It is hard to imagine that one day she might have her father’s nose. Vernon smiles and gives Xavier a wink. He couldn’t care less about other people’s children, but he knows he should pretend to be interested. Then he crouches down and holds out his hand as the dog pads over to sniff it. He couldn’t care less about other people’s dogs either, but it is thanks to this bitch that he gets to stay here this weekend. And everything in the living room exudes the luxe, calme et volupté so dear to Baudelaire. He has landed on his feet, no question.
“Papa, can I play my video game?”
Xavier bends down and shows her that when the big hand gets to here, she will have to turn off the machine and get ready for her bath. She nods gravely, concentrating on what he is saying about the clock, then races to her bedroom so as not to waste a second.
“She’s already playing video games?”
“Of course, board games a
re a little passé these days. But obviously we don’t allow her to go on the internet on her own . . .”
“Because of the porn?”
“No, because of the games. You should see the stuff they come up with for girls – it’s fucking sinister. My worst fear is not that sending my kid to school will mean them filling her head with stuff. To a parent, the internet is like having your child taken away before they can even read. You haven’t got kids, have you?”
“Not yet. There’s still time . . .”
“It’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“Never met the right woman.”
People who have kids are constantly boring the shit out of people who haven’t. But they can’t stand it if you tell them the truth – when I look at your life it makes me want to do anything but. It’s not the children that bore Vernon rigid, it’s everything they come with: the babysick, Christmas presents, nursery school, watching the same D.V.D. ten times in a row, toys, snacks, measles, vegetables, family holidays . . . and being a parent. His friends launched themselves into the hellish world of adulthood with a certain enthusiasm. Vernon cannot count the number of mates he’s seen rock up with a flower-print bag slung over their shoulder, a bottle-warmer between their teeth and a thousand-euro baby-buggy, guys who, from one day to the next, start telling you that even tough guys play horsey. It’s bullshit. A guy with a baby is a guy with no future. If it was possible to raise them without their mothers, there might be some way to be a father and still be a man. You could bring the kids up in a shack deep in the forest, teach them to make fire and observe the migratory patterns of birds. You could chuck them into freezing rivers and order them to catch fish with their bare hands. There would be no hugging. Only a look that meant “Next time, maybe you’ll be a bit more careful, son”.
But the way things are, the only sensible strategy is to steer clear. Either you were wrong to listen to Slayer when you were twenty. Or you’re living the wrong life now. And please, for pity’s sake, give it a rest with the “everyone is a mass of contradictions”. In the end, it’s about making choices. Though it has to be said, that a kid would be pretty useful right now. Especially a grown-up kid with an apartment and a job, someone to call him dear old dad and make up the spare room.
They go out onto the balcony for a cigarette – this hell’s angel doesn’t smoke in the house, and Vernon would happily bet that when he hasn’t got guests, he wears slippers so as not to muddy the parquet.
The front door slams and Marie-Ange tosses her bag onto the sofa, strokes the dog who goes over to welcome her, directs a curt nod towards Vernon that is chilly enough to make him feel quite uncomfortable, then disappears into her daughter’s room. She is not pretty. She is thin, her face is harsh, her lips too thin. She dresses like shit. She looks as though she had been rummaging in some old lady’s dustbin and dug out three ancient tattered jumpers that she wears in layers over a pair of pleated trousers cut too short at the ankles. Vernon knows it’s a look favoured by rich women. He had a friend like this, damaged but endearing. She used to wear khaki dresses that looked like they had been cut from burlap sacks with a Stanley knife – and baggy brown cardigans with gaping buttonholes. He had often seen her naked, so he knew she was well stacked. But seeing her with her clothes on, you would never have guessed. From a good family, she had been a ballet dancer, tense and wiry with feet that were completely deformed.
One day when they were talking, Vernon realised that she spent a fortune on her clothes. It wasn’t at all like he had imagined, she wasn’t a depressive or the victim of a sexual assault so traumatic that she felt the need to hide her body, she didn’t cut up curtains for the pleasure of making ghastly clothes. On the contrary, these were eye-wateringly expensive outfits chosen with care and worn with pride in the belief that she was championing the art of living. This is the problem, when women start talking amongst themselves, they come up with conclusions that defy all reason, and let’s not pretend that, deep down, it doesn’t stem from a profound hostility towards the masculine libido.
Xavier turns the T.V. to one of the news channels, he talks at the screen as though Elisabeth Lévy were in the room with them, and without listening to a word she is saying, he launches in:
“If you don’t like it in France, just pack your bags and fuck off back home you bitch. They really piss me off, these Zionists, they’re everywhere these days. This is a Christian country, last time I checked. I’ve never been anti-Semitic, but if you want my opinion, we should napalm the whole region, Palestine, Lebanon, Israel, Iran, Iraq, same deal: napalm. Use the land to build golf courses and Formula 1 racing circuits. I could sort the problem in no time, let me tell you . . . But it’s a pain in the arse to have to listen to some half-wog Jew talking about France like this is her country.”
*
Xavier has always been a right-wing cunt. He has not changed, it is simply that the world is now aligned with his obsessions. Vernon does not rise to the bait. Personally, he likes Elisabeth Lévy. You can tell she’s a woman who enjoys sex. And coke – which is an added bonus. He decides to change the subject:
“You saw the news? About Alex? Bloody shame, he wasn’t even that old . . .”
“Yeah. But he always was a stupid shit, it’s a relief, really, knowing we won’t have to see his middle-class M.O.R. face any longer . . . don’t you think? Were you still in touch?”
“From time to time.”
“I won’t miss him . . . though at least he didn’t play hip-hop.”
*
Marie-Ange reappears carrying a glass of whisky, she looks more relaxed. Xavier is banging on about rap, a form of non-music controlled by Jewish lobbies in an attempt to lobotomise the African immigrant population. Marie-Ange listens to him and smiles as if to say, I love it when you come out with this shit, it makes me laugh, and suddenly Vernon gets an inkling of what makes her attractive. Her eyes, an indefinable emerald green, lend a compelling tranquillity to her face – the prerogative of the rich. There is an elegance about her wrists, the way she holds her head, a power that you sense can be brittle. Guys like him can’t help wanting to screw girls like her.
She greets Vernon politely, “So you’re Monsieur Revolver?” as though he has been playing with train sets until the age of forty. Then she pours herself another whisky, and holds out her mobile phone in its mother-of-pearl case to show them a photo she took of a homeless guy with a puppy. She is concerned about what happened to the pups, she wonders what happens when they grow up. Do they eat them? “They” means the homeless immigrants, the roumis, who are famous for their obscure dietary regime. The photo shows a man in the Marais, sitting with his back against the façade of a fashionable clothes shop, he is leaning against a huge billboard, a photoshopped image of a woman, a brunette, gorgeous. Someone has stuck a Star of David over one eye. Must have taken some doing, since it is three metres up. Either that guy was wandering around with a stepladder, or a friend gave him a leg up so he could play his prank.
It is impossible to put an age to the man sitting on the ground who seems to be sleeping in the cold. He is somewhere between thirty and seventy. Marie-Ange is not interested in the man, she is focused on the dog, she zooms in so that it fills the screen. It looks like a fox cub with long pointed ears, it really is quite cute. Vernon tries to think of something empathetic he can mumble about this puppy she is so cut up about.
Marie-Ange looks at her watch and decrees that it is almost Clara’s bath time, she cuts short the conversation, lays a hand on Xavier’s shoulder, “Maybe the two of you want to go out for a drink? I can put Clara to bed, then I’ve got a Skype call with L.A., so I wouldn’t see much of you . . . But maybe you’d be happier all boys together, yeah?”
Xavier does not waste a second, he is like a kid who has just been given a day off school, he grabs his keys and his credit card. In the lift, as he buttons his expensive fur-lined jacket, he is babbling nineteen to the dozen:
“When we first moved i
n, the bar across the street was a complete dive full of regulars, I had such a laugh there. Marie-Ange used to come down and drag me out when she got pissed off I wasn’t home, I was there every day. Now it’s been taken over by a couple of queers who’ve turned it into a hipster joint, but I suppose we all have to move with the times, no?”
“It’s such a pleasure seeing you and Marie-Ange, you seem to make a great couple.”
“Long-term relationships are no picnic. It takes a lot of effort to keep things sweet. I really want things to work with Marie-Ange. She does too. You don’t go round having a daughter if you’re planning to split up. A child is a responsibility. But you’ve got to learn to adjust. So, say, when your other half is launched into motherhood, she changes. Once the hormonal whirl is over, you find yourself staring at a complete stranger. I understand now why a lot of guys get kicked to the kerb when the first kid shows up: women are really cold-blooded, up to that moment, they’re desperate to please you, but once they’ve had the kid, you’re surplus to requirements. You end up with a walk-on part. You don’t know what to do, it’s not your department: piss off. And when it comes to money they’ve got you by the balls, and don’t they fucking know it? They know they’ll get custody and child support. And by God you’ll pay it. When Marie-Ange wanted to restrict access to our daughter’s room, I didn’t just roll over. Are you kidding? I know how to change a nappy, the right temperature for a baby’s bottle. This is where the battle of the sexes is played out, and if you’re not careful you find yourself on the ropes. Kids, that’s the battleground. The moment I first saw Clara, I knew I would be a good dad. You take this little thing in your arms, and the sheer vulnerability is devastating, you’re a different man. So I laid down the law. Every day, I’m waiting at the school gates – I’ll still be there when she’s in her final year. Marie-Ange wants another one. She wants a boy. But we’re in no hurry. I’m a human being for fuck’s sake, not a sperm bank. In the beginning, the sex . . . I won’t give you a blow by blow, but, well, it was awesome. And I was a fucking idiot, I made sure she came, that way I could be sure she was mine. But to have a girl related to a baroness sucking my cock – hey, it was the greatest thing that ever happened to me, bro. You should see her family – every one of them down to the youngest daughter used to hate my guts, but now, they see everyone getting divorced and we’re still together and that’s earned me a lot of brownie points. I wore them down. Her folks have never worked a day in their lives, can you believe that? People of ‘independent means’ still exist in this day and age. Never lifted a finger, either of them. Papa managed the family fortune and maman helped out. They’re as tight-arsed as they are loaded, they count every centime . . . But you should hear the way they talk about people on minimum wage. Now, I’m liberal and pragmatic as the next guy, you know me, I’m not some crypto-Bolshevik fantasist. But you’d have to hear them to believe them. How people with ordinary jobs are lucky. Because they don’t have the same responsibilities for a start. Never done a tap of work, my father-in-law, but as far as he’s concerned the unemployed are feckless wasters afraid of good hard graft. And it’s sincere – they think everything is based on merit. Logically, those who have less deserve to have less. They’re convinced that if they ended up unemployed tomorrow, with their neatly combed hair and their positive attitude, they’d find a job straight away and since they’d work hard and be deserving, they would climb the greasy pole. The rich are still banging on about merit. It’s wild. Just between us, I’ll tell you that things are pretty tight sometimes – as a screenwriter I’m not exactly earning what I expected to . . . when you add it all up at the end of the year, it doesn’t come to much more than minimum wage. That why we got landed with the shittiest apartment in the parents’ property portfolio: they reckon Marie-Ange could have made the effort to marry well. Her old man is always telling her ‘For a woman, there is nothing worse than to marry beneath her station’, and he’s surprised that I get angry when I hear him say stuff like this. It’s hard work, you know, being a scriptwriter. I got lucky when I was starting out, and because I was just starting out, I assumed that’s how things would always be. I didn’t realise that by twenty-five, I would already be past it. . . . But having a daughter gives me structure, I fight, I keep going.”
Vernon Subutex One Page 6
