And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “This is about a girl, isn’t it?”

  Anthony didn’t answer. She smiled again, then turned on her heel to head back to the patio, walking straight at last. She was tall and very slender. In the development, they called her the slut.

  When Anthony was a safe distance away, he kick-started the YZ. High-pitched firing exploded in the darkness, and he raced off into the shattered evening. He rode fast, without a helmet, the wind bellying his oversized polo shirt. The weather was still fine. Very quickly he stopped thinking about anything and just rode.

  4

  Anthony’s cousin climbed on behind him, and they headed for highway D953. He revved the engine, putting his leg out in the turns and speeding up in the straight sections. The speed drew tears from their eyes and filled their chests with pride. They were racing across a land in darkness, bareheaded, incapable of accidents, too fast, too young, insufficiently mortal. Just the same, Anthony’s cousin asked him to slow down at one point.

  Drimblois was a little model village, with a church, a few farms along the departmental highway, some newer houses, and an old dental-office building with a wrought-iron grill. It only took them twenty minutes to get there. When they arrived, they rode around for a while before identifying the house where the famous party was taking place. It was a handsome modern building with a lot of glass. Lights were on in all the rooms, the lawn was as rolling as a golf course, and the swimming pool in the back glowed a bright turquoise. After a brief hesitation, the YZ came to a stop next to the other two-wheelers. Anthony put his foot down.

  “Here we are.”

  “Yep,” said his cousin.

  The air was fragrant with the smell of woodsmoke, grilling meat, and new-mown grass. Music was playing: reggae, maybe “Natural Mystic.”

  “Looks cool.”

  “I forgot the antitheft lock,” said Anthony.

  His cousin had gotten off the bike and was looking the place over.

  “There’s no risk, anyway,” he said. “Just stash it over there.”

  He was pointing to a long farm building with closed shutters. Cords of wood were stacked nearby, awaiting winter. Anthony hid the motorcycle behind them, but he felt uneasy about it.

  His cousin pulled a small bottle of rum from his jacket and took a long swig before handing it to Anthony. Then he took a can of beer out of his backpack and did the same. They drank like that, taking turns, then threw the empty can onto the freshly cut lawn. That made them laugh, and they headed in.

  On the patio on the other side, a crowd of young people was milling around a big table set with salad, chips, bread, and bottles of wine. There was also quite a bit of liquor, with bottles stuck into a tub of ice. Tall, sharply dressed guys were manning the barbecue while drinking Sol beer. They belonged to the swim club, as you could tell from their shoulders, their self-satisfied air, and, especially, the names on their tank tops. These were the coolest guys in the valley: athletes, indoor surfers. They got all the girls, and nobody could stand them. A whiny rock ’n’ roll piece that sounded like R.E.M. had replaced the reggae.

  “Do you know anyone here?”

  “Not a soul,” answered the cousin.

  At that, he rolled a joint.

  The guests all seemed happy to be there, in any case. Anthony spotted a couple of girls he could fall in love with on the spot. Tall chicks with ponytails and little, light-colored tops. They had white teeth, clear foreheads, and tiny little asses. Boys were chatting with them as if it were no big deal. It was going so smoothly, Anthony could hardly stand it. Off in a corner, two guys in old deck chairs were sharing a box of rosé. Their T-shirts and long hair suggested they were serious Iron Maiden fans.

  “C’mon, let’s leave,” said Anthony.

  “Now that we’re here? You’ve got to be kidding!”

  They found beers in the kitchen and started to drink while strolling around the place. Nobody knew them, so people stared a bit, but without any particular animosity. The house really was beautiful. There was even a foosball table on the mezzanine. The two cousins made regular trips to the fridge to resupply. Gradually, faces began to look familiar, and as the liquor took hold they became friendlier with lots of people.

  “Hey, there you are!”

  Alex the jock had grabbed them in a friendly way.

  “It’s cool that you came.”

  “Yeah,” said the cousin.

  “It’s not bad here, is it?”

  “Whose place is it?”

  “Thomas’s. His father is a radiologist.”

  The boys received this news coolly. Alex turned to the cousin and asked:

  “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Anthony found himself alone. Stéphanie and her friend Clémence hadn’t arrived yet, so he got another beer to pass the time. It was his fifth, and his head was starting to spin quite a bit. He needed to piss, too. Rather than go looking for the bathroom, he walked down to the swimming pool and found a quiet spot nearby. Very high above him, the unthinking moon was shining. Anthony was feeling good, and free. There wasn’t any school tomorrow, or for weeks to come. He filled his lungs, breathing in the night. Life wasn’t so bad, when you got right down to it.

  “Hi, there!”

  Anthony barely had time to button his fly. Steph and Clémence were walking straight toward him.

  “Have you seen Alex, by any chance?” asked Clem.

  “Yeah. He’s with my cousin.”

  Steph was wearing tight jeans, leather Grecian sandals, and a white tank top. Clémence was dressed the same way, in a different assortment of colors, with gold bangles on her right wrist. The two of them were really gorgeous together, even better than separately. Still, there was something special about Steph. Anthony tried to think of something to say. All he could come up with was:

  “Want to smoke a blunt?”

  “Cool,” said Steph.

  Anthony took out his rolling papers. He was about to crouch down to roll the joints, but Clémence stopped him.

  “Wait! We’re not gonna sit there. It’s where you just peed.”

  Anthony blushed, but it was too dark for the girls to notice. They walked a little closer to the pool and sat in a circle, quickly smoking a joint of Moroccan without saying anything. The music was pounding now. Anthony was concerned about the neighbors. If this went on, they might well call the cops. He pointed this out to the girls, who didn’t seem especially worried. They were preoccupied by more serious problems. Someone who was supposed to be there apparently hadn’t shown up yet. This was a problem, especially for Steph.

  “Do you go to Fourrier?” asked Anthony.

  They turned to him, seeming almost surprised to find him still there.

  “Yeah.”

  “What about you?”

  Stéphanie had asked the question.

  “I’ll be at Clément-Hader when school starts,” he said.

  That was a lie. Anthony had barely squeaked into ninth grade. He didn’t quite know what to say, so he spit between his teeth. The girls exchanged a knowing look, and Anthony wished he could dig a hole to hide in. They soon ditched him and headed for the patio. He watched them walking away, with their narrow shoulders, butts molded by their jeans, slender ankles, and those bouncing ponytails, graceful and haughty. He was very drunk now and starting to feel bad. Dizziness and melancholy had replaced his earlier exaltation. As he stood up in turn, thinking maybe he would go sit on a chair for a while, his cousin ran over, grinning broadly.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Nowhere. I was smoking with the girls.”

  “They’re here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So?”

  “So nothing.”

  Anthony’s cousin studied him for a moment.

  “When we go home, I’m gonna dri
ve.”

  “What did the guy want?”

  “It’s crazy. Everybody inside wants something to smoke. I sold them bars of hash for six hundred francs.”

  “Seriously?”

  The cousin showed him the money, and Anthony immediately cheered up. To the point of feeling thirsty again.

  “Just the same, take it easy,” said his cousin.

  Two more beers later, Anthony decided to brave the living room. It was full of couples draped on sofas and clumped on the floor, kissing and making out. The girls put up no resistance, and hands were roaming under their T-shirts. Tangles of arms and legs could be seen, along with bare skin and light-colored jeans. Nail polish added splashes of color.

  Steph and Clémence were there too, in the back, leaning against the French doors, with three boys that Anthony didn’t recognize. They were on the floor close together, knees touching, looking mellow. The tallest of the three was even lying down. But the boy next to him was the one who caught your eye: leather jacket, dirty hair, really cute, an over-the-top Bob Dylan type, both laid-back and pretentious. Plus, “Let It Be” was playing—depression city. Anthony took a few steps in their direction. He would have loved to join the little group, but of course that was impossible.

  Then Leather Jacket pulled a little vial from his pocket and unplugged it. He raised it to his nose and took a big sniff, then handed it to Steph. They took turns snorting, which was followed by long peals of sick laughter. The effect seemed almost instantaneous, but it dissipated within a minute, and they quickly lapsed back into the same languorous torpor. Steph and the cute guy were exchanging glances, discreetly hooking up. It must have been eighty-five degrees in the room. How could that little jerk wear a leather jacket in this heat? When the vial was about to go around a second time, Anthony made his move.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  Five pairs of eyes turned to him.

  “Who’s that?” asked the tallest boy, the one lying down.

  Steph and Clémence clearly no longer had the slightest idea. The tall guy sat up and snapped his fingers. Even when seated, you could tell he was really husky. With his pastel T-shirt and bare feet in Vans, he looked like a dumb California surfer.

  “Hey, you there. What do you want?”

  Clémence had just taken a hit and was giggling nervously as she fiddled with her ponytail. Steph took a turn and inhaled deeply.

  “Wow! It feels like having Mister Freeze in my head.”

  The others found that an excellent comparison, exactly right on. When the vial got back to the guy in leather, he asked Anthony:

  “Want to try it?”

  Looking blearily at Anthony, they all waited to see what would happen next.

  “What is it?”

  “Try it, you’ll see.”

  Without knowing quite why, Anthony thought they all looked like a family. It wasn’t anything special, just details in their clothing, their attitude, their general ease. He couldn’t say exactly why, but it gave him an odd feeling of lacking, inadequacy, and smallness. He wanted to put on a good show. He took the vial.

  “Go ahead,” urged Leather Jacket, miming a sniff in the air.

  “Leave him alone, Simon,” said Clémence.

  The Californian joined in:

  “Hey, you okay? Think you can handle it?”

  He said this with his right eye closed, imitating Anthony’s asymmetrical face. Anthony clenched his fists, which was even sillier than the rest.

  “Cut it out, you’re being stupid!” said Clémence, prodding the imitator with her foot.

  Irritated now, she turned to Anthony:

  “So what do you want? Hurry up!”

  But Anthony could no longer make a move. Gripped by a kind of vertigo, he was staring at the big hunk. Steph, who was watching all this with bovine indifference, decided it was time for a change of scene.

  “Okay, then…”

  She had gotten to her feet and was stretching like a big cat. The California hunk stood as well; he was easily a head taller than Anthony.

  “C’mon, we’re just kidding around,” said the third boy.

  “Besides, he can hardly stand up.”

  “You gonna puke?”

  “He’s definitely gonna puke.”

  “He’s all white.”

  “Hey!”

  Anthony didn’t know where he was anymore. He put the vial to his nostril and took a big sniff, more to have something to do than anything else. His brain immediately felt like it was caught in a draft, and he started to laugh. Leather Jacket retrieved his vial. The others took off, leaving Anthony alone, seated cross-legged, head down, completely out of it.

  * * *

  —

  When he got his wits back, he was lying on a staircase, outside. His hair was wet and his cousin was trying to get him to drink some water. Clémence was there, too.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out.”

  Anthony lay there for a moment, not understanding. He heard music and the two others’ voices, and struggled to keep his eyes open. Clémence left, and he again asked what had happened.

  “You were drinking like a fish. You fell down, that’s all.”

  “I snorted something, too.”

  “Yeah, Clem told me.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She’s the one who came to get me when you collapsed.”

  “She’s cool, too.”

  “Yeah, heavy.”

  His cousin explained about the two guys, Hunk and Leather Jacket. Anthony recognized their names. They were the Rotier brothers, a pair of spoiled troublemakers who thought they were the lords of the valley. As it happens, their uncle had been the mayor for thirty years before pancreatic cancer made him step aside. Even when he was very sick, he was often seen walking around Heillange, his town, scowling, a swollen belly under his very high belt. His yellowish face was especially striking. It looked sucked in on itself, with the hooded eye of a bird of prey rolling around. He died without ever resigning, a town councillor to the grave. The other Rotiers pretty much all made their mark as politicians, pharmacists, engineers, successful businessmen, and doctors. You could find them as far away as Paris and Toulouse. They held responsible positions in training and management both here and there, and exercised necessary, licensed professions. Which didn’t prevent some of their offspring from having difficult adolescences. This was clearly the case with Simon and his brother.

  “I don’t know what I snorted,” said Anthony.

  “TCE or poppers. Those guys are nuts, they’ll take anything.”

  “Your girlfriend did some too.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you have a lot to talk about?”

  “A bit.”

  When Anthony got his bearings, they walked around the house twice. He was feeling really wasted and wanted to go home.

  “Let’s go now, okay? I’m beat.”

  “It isn’t even midnight yet.”

  “I’m feeling too crappy. I want to hit the sack.”

  “There’s lots of bedrooms upstairs. Just go rest for an hour or two.”

  Anthony didn’t have a chance to argue. As they were walking toward the patio, the guests’ cheerful racket abruptly stopped, leaving only the voice of Cyndi Lauper singing “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” In the sudden silence, it seemed completely incongruous.

  The cousins went to see what was going on. Everybody was standing in a circle around two intruders. They had track suit jackets, hair shaved on the sides, and no sign of asses in their pants. They were looking both vindictive and lost, so it was hard to tell if they were about to attack or had just been jumped. The smaller of the pair had a signet ring and a gold chain over the collar of his Tacchini jacket. The other one’s name was Hacine Bouali.

  Anthony kne
w that kid, at least; they went to the same school. Hacine spent most of his education zoned out under the scooter shelter, spitting on the ground. When you passed him in the hallway, you usually looked down. He had a reputation of being dangerous, crashing parties so he could drink for free, steal stuff, and cause chaos. Then he would split at the last minute, just before the cops arrived. He obviously wasn’t welcome here: fifty people’s silence was making that clear. Finally, a very small guy stepped out of the crowd to resolve the crisis. He was so well proportioned, so cute with his bowl haircut, you could mistake him for a Playmobil figure.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” he said. “You can’t stay here.”

  “You can go fuck yourself,” said Hacine.

  “We came peaceful like,” added his pal. “Why are you giving us shit?”

  “You weren’t invited,” explained Playmobil. “So you can’t stay.”

  “Come on, we don’t want any trouble,” said one of the swimmers.

  He had pulled up his sweatshirt hood and was advancing, palms upward.

  “Now get out of here,” he added.

  “Don’t be so cheap,” began Hacine’s pal. “We’ll just have a quick brew, and then we’ll split.”

  The swimmer took another step toward them, spreading his arms as a sign of peace. He was wearing flip-flops, which kind of argued in favor of his goodwill.

  “Come on, you guys. Grab a beer and make tracks. We don’t want any hassles.”

  After a momentary silence, Hacine spread his arms in turn.

  “I fuck all your mothers,” he announced.

  In the silence, fat hissed as it dripped onto the barbecue coals. The impassive stars shone steadily. No one dared contradict him.

  “C’mon, guys, this isn’t worth getting into a fight over. Let’s drop it.”

  “You’re starting to get on my nerves, man,” said Hacine.

  His acolyte chimed in again:

  “Hey there, it’s all good. We’re not doing anything wrong. We just want to have a drink, quiet like.”