And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “Yes, that is good.”

  It was all very well for the old man to lecture him, but when Hacine filled the refrigerator, the sermons stopped. The boy stood up, saying he was going out.

  “To go where?”

  “I don’t know. Nowhere.”

  “How so, nowhere?”

  “I won’t be home late.”

  “You always come home late.”

  Hacine had already left the room. In the hallway, he quickly put on his shoes and jacket but was unable to avoid a final word of advice.

  “If you do stupid things, watch out.”

  Hacine promised, and went off to join his pals in the courtyard. Kader was in a grumpy mood, and Hacine teased him just enough to make it up to him. Then they went back to hanging out, watching the bumper-car ballet. Eliott, who had practically nothing left, rolled a needle joint. With six guys, it was pretty tight. And instead of relaxing them, it made everybody uptight.

  “So what do we do?” asked Saïd.

  It was the ritual question, the same one asked ten times a day.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let’s move.”

  “Move where?”

  “Just move, we’ll see.”

  “C’mon there, don’t go to sleep on us.”

  Each of them tried to drag on the joint as hard as possible. Mouss was the unlucky last one. He just stubbed out the tiny butt in the dirt.

  Soon the carnival women switched the electricity off, and the last customers disappeared into the darkness. Then the two women left in turn with the cash box, waving goodbye to the boys. The buildings now composed a landscape of straight lines spangled with glowing points of blue light. The project’s age dissolved in the night. All that was left were masses, edges, illuminated windows, and more boredom.

  “Man, it’s depressing.”

  “Motherfuck, what do we do?”

  “C’mon, who cares? We’ll do something.”

  “Roll another joint, at least.”

  “No can do, I’m almost out.”

  “It’s okay, you’ll score tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll see tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be a dick, it’s no biggie.”

  “Tomorrow, that’s all.”

  The day was ending. On Monday Hacine would see about selling the motorcycle. He knew a scrap dealer. He was sure to get at least five hundred francs for it.

  6

  The morning was already well along when the cousins finally reached Anthony’s house. They were dirty and defeated. Patrick Casati was behind the wheel of his truck, waiting for them. Luc Grandemange was there, too, in shorts and Birkenstocks, holding a steaming mug of coffee. He burst out laughing when he saw the boys coming, but it was more to lighten the mood than anything else. On the truck radio, a nasal voice was repeating the name of the call-in show, Stop ou encore.

  “Where have you two clowns been?” asked Anthony’s father.

  Through his Vuarnets, he was looking above their heads, as if telling time by the course of the sun. The boys stopped a safe distance away, their arms hanging down.

  “Pair of fine feathered friends you have there,” said Grandemange.

  Patrick cleared his throat and grabbed the bottle of water near him on the seat. He swallowed about half of it before putting it down. He wasn’t in that great shape either, apparently. He cleared his throat again and coughed.

  “I’ve been waiting for you for hours. Where’ve you been?”

  “It’s Saturday,” said Anthony.

  “So what? Does that make it okay for you to stay out all night?”

  The boys had walked a long way back from Drimblois, sticking a thumb out each time a car passed. They hadn’t said a hundred words to each other during the whole trip. Anthony was starting to feel sick to his stomach.

  “They’re just kids,” said Grandemange genially. “It’s no big deal.”

  “Yeah. But I think I’ll take care of my own business, if you don’t mind.”

  Grandemange got the message.

  Anthony’s father jumped down from the Iveco cabin. He was wearing steel-toe boots, denim Bermuda shorts, and a tank top that showed his bare arms. As he rummaged in his pockets for his cigarettes, the boys could see the knotty delts and tendons under his tanned skin.

  “I guess I’ll be going,” said Grandemange.

  Patrick pretended not to hear. After lighting a cigarette, he turned back to Anthony.

  “So? Do you have an explanation?”

  “Okay, I’ll leave you to it,” said Grandemange again, trying to keep smiling. He raised his hand with the missing fingers to wave goodbye.

  “All right, say hello to Évelyne for me,” said Patrick.

  He’d be sure to do that, he promised. He walked off, dragging his feet. The size of his calves was shocking. He’d once had a blood test and learned that his cholesterol level was off the charts. That kept him awake for three nights worrying, but didn’t make him cut back on the cold cuts. He figured we’ve all got to die, anyway. Anthony’s father picked a shred of tobacco from his tongue. Anthony could see himself in his sunglasses, looking deformed and none too sharp.

  “Well?”

  “We were with some friends and got a little drunk, so we thought we’d better sleep there.”

  Anthony’s father’s lips curled in an ambiguous smile. To the cousin he said:

  “I think they’re expecting you at home.”

  The two boys quickly high-fived each other, and the cousin took off in turn. Anthony found himself alone with his hangover, under the sun and his father’s eyes.

  “What was that monkey business? You guys shake hands like camel jockeys now?”

  Anthony didn’t say a word. He was thinking of the empty space in the back of the garage.

  “Come on, get in,” said his father. “There’s work to do.”

  “Can I take a shower first?”

  “Get in, I said.”

  He obeyed. His father took the wheel. The truck started up and Anthony leaned by the window to get some air.

  “Put your seat belt on. I don’t want to get another damn ticket.”

  Leaving the development, Patrick was already in fourth gear and doing nearly fifty miles an hour. He hardly took his foot off the gas going over the speed bumps before the primary school next to the firehouse. Anthony could feel his stomach churning and thought he was going to puke. They would have to stop for a minute at least, to get some fresh air. He turned to his father, but Patrick was staring at the highway, his square hands locked on the steering wheel, a cigarette between his index and middle fingers. The sky drifted endlessly across his sunglasses. They left the town behind, and it took Anthony another ten minutes to screw up his courage to speak.

  “You gotta stop.”

  His father looked at him.

  “Not feeling well?”

  “No.”

  In fact, the boy was white as a sheet. With a hydraulic groan, the truck came to a stop on the shoulder. Anthony jumped out of the cabin and hadn’t taken three steps before heaving up everything in his stomach. When he straightened, he was drenched with sweat. He wiped his face and mouth with his polo shirt. The bandage on his right hand was filthy. In front of him, the departmental highway to Étange, Lameck, Thionille, and eventually Luxembourg stretched out of sight. A Fiat Panda roared by, followed by a little old man on a motorbike towing a trailer. The nasal putt-putt rose, and the man passed them with his eyes on the horizon and an open-face helmet on his head, looking imperial. As Anthony’s gaze followed him, it lit on the truck’s rearview mirror. In it he could see his father’s jaw, his heavily muscled shoulder, and the first graying hairs on the back of his neck. Anthony spat, to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth, and climbed back into the truck.

  “Feeling better?”
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  “Yeah.”

  “Here.”

  Anthony accepted the water bottle and took a long drink. The truck started up again. Heat was already raising blurry reflections on the asphalt. Oddly enough, they never saw the little old man on his motorbike again. It was as if he had completely evaporated.

  On the radio, the announcer was wishing a nice break to the people vacationing in August, and good luck to the July people who would be back at work on Monday. Then the first notes of “J’aime regarder les filles” could be heard in the cabin.

  “You don’t happen to know what your mother’s up to, do you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Patrick took off his glasses and rubbed his face and the back of his neck. Then he briefly let go of the steering wheel to stretch. The truck was now speeding through meadows and fields of rapeseed that no longer displayed their harsh pre-harvest yellow. High-tension lines periodically scratched across the gently rolling landscape.

  “She started in on it again this morning. On you, too, Mister Shit-storm, for not coming home last night.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing,” said his father tersely. Then after a silence he added:

  “Anyway, if she wants to leave, I won’t be the one to stop her.”

  They continued on their way. At home, fights could break out over anything—a man’s glance, the TV program, the wrong word. Hélène knew which buttons to push. His father didn’t have the words. Anthony told himself that if he ever raised his hand to her, he would kill him. He was almost strong enough now. He felt like a wet rag, and a little like crying. And the motorcycle, fuck.

  * * *

  —

  Forty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a big house in a hamlet called La Grange. You had to wonder what it was doing out in the middle of nowhere, with its symmetrical facade, slate roof, sundial, and ring of white gravel paths. Hereabouts there were just long, mostly abandoned farm buildings, woods, vestiges of little businesses, and junked agricultural vehicles.

  “Whose place is this?” asked Anthony.

  “I don’t know. A real estate company called me. We have to mow the lawn, trim the hedges, make everything ship-shape. They’re going to sell it.”

  The sign hanging on the fence contradicted him; it read “Sold.” For some time now, little deserted settlements near the border had been coming back to life. This was thanks to Luxembourg, which had long suffered from a shortage of manpower and naturally turned to its neighbors to attract the arms and heads it lacked. Lots of people were now hitting the road every day to go to foreign jobs. Over there, the pay was good but social services meager, so people’s lives straddled the frontier, working on one side while living on the other. As a result, these transborder infusions were reviving moribund areas. A school would be saved; a bakery would open next to a shuttered church; houses would suddenly pop up in the countryside like mushrooms. An entire world was rising from the earth, as if by magic. And every morning and evening, throngs of commuting workers with bags under their eyes would crowd the trains and jam the highways, seeking the means of their subsistence abroad. Underground, the economy had found new ways to develop.

  * * *

  —

  Anthony mowed the lawn while his father trimmed the hedges. Lulled by the drone of the mower, he forgot his worries. When the sun was high enough, he took off his polo shirt and shoes. Leaves of grass stuck to his sweaty chest and face. They itched, but if he started to scratch, he would never be able to stop. He pushed and pulled the heavy, whirring machine, circling the trees without thinking of anything. Glancing at his bare feet in the dry grass from time to time, it occurred to him how easily he could stumble. After all, it was hot and he was tired; that’s how accidents happened. His feet would slip right under the blade, which would go on turning at three thousand rpm without slowing. Strangely enough, that cheered him up. Blood often struck him as a means of escape.

  Around three o’clock, his father called him to eat. Anthony was almost finished, and he walked up to the terrace with a pleasant feeling of accomplishment, sweaty and covered with bits of grass. His father came over, gestured for him to wait, then said:

  “Follow me.”

  They walked around the house to the garage, where his father screwed a garden hose to a faucet on the wall. After a few hiccups, the water spurted onto the ground in a strong, steady stream.

  “Get undressed,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Get undressed, I said. You’re not going to eat like that.”

  “I’m not getting naked.”

  “Don’t argue. Just pretend I’m not here.”

  The boy took off his jeans and underpants, covering his crotch with his hands.

  “You think I give a fuck about your little thingy?”

  Anthony’s father started to hose him off. He put his thumb on the hose fitting to increase the pressure, and the water shot out, stinging and alive. At first it was unpleasant and even kind of humiliating, but then Anthony gradually got used to it, and the cool water did its work. His father sprayed the back of his neck and his head, to help clear his thinking.

  “So?”

  “What?”

  “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  His father turned off the water and rolled up the hose.

  “All right. We’ll have a quick bite, and then you can help me finish the hedges.”

  They walked back to the terrace, where Patrick handed him a butter and sausage sandwich. The cooler he’d brought was half full of beers.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “Sure.”

  His father handed him a can, and they sat down on the lawn in the shade of a cherry tree. The smell of cut grass was delicious. The sunlight played through the branches above their heads. They drank their beers, exchanging a few words. Patrick drank a second one before eating his lunch. He was happy with the way the work was going.

  “Nothing beats a lazy man once he puts his mind to it.”

  Anthony smiled. All in all, he was pretty pleased with himself. He was enjoying the calm of the countryside. The food was good and so was his fatigue. He liked working in the open air, and he liked it when his father was satisfied. It didn’t happen that often.

  “I shouldn’t have told you what I said earlier.”

  His dad was sitting right there, very calm. He touched his unshaven cheek and it made a good male sound, reassuring and gentle. He talked about his problems with Hélène. He must’ve really fucked up, and was already feeling bad about it.

  “It’ll all work out, anyway.”

  He cleared his throat and started searching for his cigarettes. That would be it for today. Then he stood up, grabbed his gloves, and stuck a cigarette between his lips.

  “All right. When you gotta do it…”

  Anthony watched as he went back to work, gloves on his hands and smoke coming from his nostrils. At times like that, he almost forgot what his father was capable of.

  It took them another three solid hours to finish the hedges. Before leaving, they took the time to smoke a last cigarette and contemplate the result of their efforts. It was good work: the house was clean; everything was neat and tidy. Anthony would have been happy to stay there, enjoying the silence and his father’s quiet presence. But they still had a ways to go to get home. They packed up their gear and locked the fence. Anthony had almost forgotten the whole earlier business. The Drimblois party seemed very far in the past. Funny, how easily you forget things when you’re busy. The drama had been diluted in work and sweat. He almost didn’t feel guilty anymore. Then he thought of his mother. She’d had all day to brood about this. He couldn’t imagine what state she must be in.

  Anthony fell asleep on the ride home, his head against the gently vibrating window.
When he awoke, they were almost there. His father decided to clear the air while they were still alone.

  “So what did you get up to last night?”

  “I told you, we were at a party.”

  “So?”

  “So nothing. It was just a party.”

  “Where was it?”

  Drimblois was too far away. If he told the truth, his father would want to know how they’d gotten there, and who had brought them back.

  “In town,” said Anthony.

  “At whose house?”

  “I’m not really sure, some rich kids’ place.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “Through the cousin.”

  After a silence, his father asked if there had been girls there.

  “Yeah.”

  Nearly a minute passed before his father spoke again.

  “Anyway, this is the last time you’re staying out like that. Your mother was half crazy this morning. If you ever pull another stunt like this, I’ll kick your butt.”

  Anthony looked at his dad. He had the face of a tired man who drank too much and slept badly. It was as deceptive as the sea. A face he loved.

  * * *

  —

  They found Hélène sitting in the kitchen under the neon light fixture, leafing through the television listings and smoking a cigarette.

  “Smells good,” said Patrick, pulling up a chair to sit down. “What are we eating?”

  Hélène tapped her cigarette’s ash, then stubbed it out. She was smoking Winstons. There must’ve been like twenty-five butts in the ashtray. Anthony didn’t even dare look at her. She was wearing her reading glasses, never a good sign.

  “Potatoes,” she said. “With eggs and a salad.”

  “Perfect,” said his father. Then, turning to Anthony: “Isn’t there something you need to say?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  His father continued.

  “He puked on the drive there, you know that?”

  “In any case, you aren’t going out anymore,” said his mother. She had wanted to say this crisply, but her voice broke halfway through. Patrick asked if she was all right.