And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “Sure. I’m tired.”

  “You see?” he said, gesturing to his son.

  “I’m bushed, too,” said Anthony. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You’re going to eat first,” said his father. “When you work, you gotta eat.”

  There was no answering that. Anthony sat down at the table and his mother served them. The potatoes were mushy; the eggs viscous and too salty. Anthony gobbled the food at top speed. For his part, his father seemed in an excellent mood, as was often the case at day’s end. Or else he had something to feel guilty about that he preferred to forget. He began to talk about upcoming jobs. It was looking pretty good for the summer. A little more, and it would be full-time work. He caught himself almost thinking his business was booming. He asked his wife if there was still something left to drink. She served him a big glass of wine directly from the box.

  “Is this still the stuff from the barbecue?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s good, we should get some more.”

  “I’m not sure it’s worth buying five liters of wine at a time.”

  The father took a big swallow and sighed with pleasure. Anthony had finished his plate, and stood up.

  “Wait a moment,” said his father.

  Anthony froze. His mother was already putting the leftover potatoes into a Tupperware bowl. Even from the back, just looking at her moves, you could tell she was worried.

  “There’s a good movie on TV tonight.”

  Picking up the television guide to make sure, he added:

  “Kelly’s Heroes. Got a 3.7.”

  “No, I’m dead,” said Anthony. “I’m hitting the hay.”

  “Ah, these kids…”

  Once in his room, Anthony undressed quickly and got into bed without even taking a shower. He was hoping he’d fall asleep quickly and forget everything. He switched off the light and closed his eyes. From the end of the hallway he could hear his parents talking as they did the dishes. His old man must’ve drunk another glass; you could tell from the way he was talking, fast and a little whiny. His mother answered only with a yes or no. At one point, she must have told him off. Anthony heard, “Oh, not that shit again!” and nothing further. Then someone turned on the TV in the living room. Almost immediately he recognized his mother’s footsteps in the hallway. She came in without knocking.

  “So what’s all this about? What happened?”

  She was speaking very quietly. Anthony lay still without reacting, so she closed the door and came to sit on his bed.

  “What did you do with the motorcycle?”

  She shook him.

  “Anthony…”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How so? What do you mean?”

  It was too long and too complicated, her told her. He just wanted to sleep.

  That’s when she slapped him. She brought her palm down flat and hit her son’s face with all her might. In the small bedroom with the shutters closed, the slap sounded like a firecracker. Anthony sat up and grabbed his mother’s wrist before he got slapped again. His ear was ringing.

  “Hey, there! You’re completely nuts!”

  “Don’t you get it?” she said. “Don’t you even realize?”

  Her voice was barely audible. She was talking to herself. Or maybe to God.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” he moaned. “When we came out, it wasn’t there anymore.”

  “But how could that happen? What are we going to do?”

  They heard a sharp crack in the house, like a beam or a footstep. Hélène stiffened, jerking her head toward the door.

  “Mom…”

  He had to call out a second time to pull her from her daze. When she turned back to him, her eyes were large and moist, looking lost; her hands were shaking.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom.”

  She quickly wiped her cheeks, sniffed, and yanked the hem of her T-shirt down. She got to her feet.

  “What are we going to do?” asked Anthony.

  “I don’t know. We’re going to find it. We don’t have any choice.”

  And before leaving the bedroom, she said one last thing:

  “Otherwise, this family is done for.”

  7

  Anthony had been counting on his cousin to help him out. That was a mistake.

  He tried to call him all day Sunday, even stopped by his house, without success. On Monday, same thing. He was nowhere to be found.

  As Anthony thought about it, this was nothing new. His cousin wasn’t very reliable. But he was running out of time and he knew he couldn’t manage the situation by himself. Every time he went into the garage he looked at the empty space under the tarp and stood there, wondering whether he should run away or shoot himself.

  Fortunately, his mother had come across an old box of Xanax, which she took before going to bed. She would be in a stupor until noon the next day. At breakfast on Sunday morning, she stood in front of an open cupboard for five minutes, unable to decide whether she wanted bread or crackers. And on Monday she went off to work without her glasses, and even without her high heels. Patrick had noticed her semi-comatose state, but he had long since settled the issue of Hélène’s moods: she was complicated.

  The cousin finally surfaced on Tuesday. Anthony found him in the bathroom at his place, bare-chested and in his underwear. He had just stepped out of the shower and was putting gel on his hair.

  “Where were you? I’ve been looking for you for three days.”

  “I was busy.”

  Anthony couldn’t believe it. How could you possibly not give a fuck to that degree? His cousin calmly went about getting dressed. He brushed his teeth, put on a T-shirt. Finally they went upstairs. The bedroom seemed unusually neat. His cousin put on some music, as usual. It wasn’t noon yet, too soon to smoke anything. Anthony didn’t trust himself to sit down, so he waited, hands in his pockets.

  “Stop acting pissy,” said his cousin. “Sit down.”

  “I’m in such deep shit, I don’t know what to do.”

  His cousin stood at the open window, clipping his nails. Birds were singing, very close by. The weather guy had announced record heat, but a little breeze stirred the curtains, and the temperature was still quite bearable. Anthony collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  “Your bike’s never going to turn up,” said his cousin after a moment.

  “What do you mean?”

  “By now, it’s long gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  With an elliptical wave, his cousin suggested distant countries. There were routes that went through Marseille to Algeria and even beyond. He had seen that on a Le Droit de savoir broadcast. Guys could dismantle your Peugeot in nothing flat, and the spare parts would show up as far away as Bamako. Anthony was willing to believe that was true, but it had nothing to do with his father’s Yamaha.

  “So what do you want to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll just have to go see Le Grand.”

  His cousin blew the little pile of nail parings off the windowsill then turned to face Anthony. He hadn’t looked him in the eye once since he’d come over.

  “It won’t do any good. You just have to tell your old man, that’s all.”

  For Anthony, that was unimaginable.

  Once, when his father was passing a truck on the highway, he was honked at by a big black German sedan coming up behind him. The guy must’ve been doing 125 miles per hour and had flashed his headlights from very far away to get Patrick to pull over. Hélène and the boy had turned around to see. It was a prodigious, purring black car, sleek as an artillery shell. Probably a Mercedes; Anthony couldn’t remember. But instead of pulling over, his father had eased up on the gas so as to stay even with the truck. Not a muscle in his face moved. He kept it up for at least five minutes, which is a long time
in a Lancia with a V-6 sitting on your ass.

  “Patrick, stop it,” his mother had said.

  “Shut up.”

  The tension in the car got so high, they had to crack the windows to defog them. The episode ruined the start of their vacation. On the way home, the family took an alternate route.

  Anthony now started nagging his cousin, insisting that it was their only chance. At last, he finally gave in. They would go see Le Grand.

  * * *

  —

  Around two that afternoon the boys found themselves in front of L’Usine. The wind had died and the valley was as hot as a frying pan. The air seemed thick, the asphalt like glue. Everything felt sticky. Just before they got to the bar, the cousin laid down the law.

  “I’m letting you know now: we’re gonna be in and out, fast. I don’t want to spend all day there.”

  “Okay.”

  “We go into the bar, then we leave.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And I do the talking.”

  L’Usine stood right across from H4, the blast furnace that had survived the longest. It was on a very straight two-way street leading to the cemetery. The cousin went in first. Inside, the temperature was around ninety-five degrees, and the guys at the bar seem to have melted into the decor. There were five of them. Anthony knew all their first names. The door closed behind them, as if snuffing out a candle.

  “Morning, young men,” said Cathy, the owner.

  The boys returned her greeting as their eyes adjusted to the darkness. With a soporific whirring, three fans stirred the air. The drunks were perched on stools drinking beer, except for Rudi, who preferred the faux-leather banquette in the back—an odd choice, considering he was wearing shorts.

  The boys walked over to the bar, feeling a bit intimidated. Heavy-lidded eyes turned toward them. Someone sniffed. Others tried to wave, to be polite. The overall ambience was that of a wax museum.

  “So what’s new?” Cathy asked.

  “Nothing special.”

  The cousin put his elbow on the bar and leaned over to give her a kiss. Anthony was a step behind him. He felt ill at ease, and eventually realized that Rudi was staring at him from his banquette. The man was breathing fast, his mouth half open, looking dazed, as usual. A cowlick rising from his skull accentuated his look of dullness. On this day Rudi was wearing a brand-new magnetic blue Castorama T-shirt.

  “It’s hot!” he suddenly shouted.

  “Hey!” said Cathy sharply.

  Startled, Rudi took a sip of his beer. He was now staring off into space, still panting. It was said he’d had meningitis when he was little.

  “Pay no attention to him,” she advised.

  Turning to Anthony, she asked him if he was being standoffish. No, no, the boy answered, before coming over to kiss her in turn.

  “And how’s your father? We don’t see him around anymore.”

  “He’s pretty busy.”

  “Say hello to him for me.”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell him we’d enjoy seeing him again.”

  Considering the unpaid tab Patrick had left behind, that wasn’t likely to happen.

  “All right, gents, what can I serve you?”

  “We just came to see Le Grand. Is he here?”

  “Manu? He’s probably in back shooting pool.”

  She shouted “Manu!” With her accent, it sounded like “Manoo!” Cathy was from Schiltigheim originally. The customers didn’t react. They just took another sip of beer and returned to their economical, sluggish thoughts.

  After a second shout, Le Grand finally appeared, holding a pool cue.

  “You’ve got visitors,” said the owner.

  But Manu had already spotted the boys and hurried forward to shake hands.

  “Hey, what do you know?” he said, revealing a row of shiny-white teeth, all fake. “So it’s you!”

  “Yeah,” said the cousin.

  “I thought you were dead. What’re you up to these days?”

  “Nothing special. It’s vacation time, that’s all.”

  “Oh, really?”

  After trading a few more barbed remarks with hidden undertones, Le Grand ordered three beers. He and the cousin had done a lot of dealing for a while, but things had gradually gotten strained. The cousin, especially, began to keep his distance, because Manu was bizarre. He was dangerous and possessive, and almost always high on coke. You sensed they’d had a series of complicated interactions. When Manu was done teasing him, he turned to Anthony and asked about his father.

  “He’s okay. Taking it easy.”

  “Has he found work?”

  “He went into business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “He’s a landscape gardener now.”

  Manu was glad to hear the news. Cathy set three opened Kronenbourgs on the counter. Drops glinted on the cans, as if they were in full sunshine. Anthony could feel his mouth watering. Le Grand paid and passed the beers around. They drank to Patrick’s success. The chill of the beer went right through them. It was alive, fresh; you’d think it was springtime.

  “Nothing better,” said Manu.

  His can was almost empty already.

  “We wanted to talk to you,” said the cousin.

  “Oh, really?”

  Le Grand started to chuckle in that funny way he had. You would’ve thought he was yelping, with his perfect teeth in his sweaty face.

  “Can we step outside?” asked the cousin.

  “We’re fine right here.”

  Manu had long ago made L’Usine his home base. He lived nearby and spent his life here, playing pool and throwing darts, sitting on his ass, drinking and hanging out with friends. He felt so at home that he’d offered to help Cathy fix up the place. She turned him down, even though the joint had been stewing in its juices for nearly a decade without fresh paint or air-conditioning, or even much housekeeping.

  The place was historic. The regulars called it L’Usine; other people stayed away. People drank in silence until five o’clock, and more energetically afterward. Depending on their temperament, they then got sick, funny, or mean. Cathy ran her world with a firm hand. The cops didn’t bother coming by, because she knew how to deal with drunks. From time to time when she was in the mood, she would put on a CD of Joe Dassin songs, and you could glimpse, under her layers of makeup, the young girl she’d once been.

  “I’d still rather we stepped outside,” insisted the cousin.

  “Oh, all right.”

  They finished their beers before leaving.

  “See you later,” said Manu.

  Rudi, who hadn’t missed anything of the scene, grew suddenly agitated, tugging at his collar and waving his hands.

  “Where you going?”

  As before, he spoke too loudly, and Cathy suggested he calm down, otherwise he would have to do his drinking somewhere else.

  “Nowhere,” answered Manu. “We’ll be right back.”

  “Can I come?” asked Rudi worriedly.

  “Don’t budge. We’ll be back, like I said.”

  “Wait…”

  Rudi had begun extracting himself from the banquette, which was no easy task.

  “I told you to stay put,” said Le Grand. “I’ll be back, there’s no reason to panic.”

  The regulars enjoyed the spectacle, but without hoping for much from it. Manu was standing near the door. He did look sort of odd, with his tight jeans and his Doc Martens. His tattered Jack Daniel’s T-shirt was darker at the armpits. But what was most unusual was his soccer player haircut: long on the back of his neck, and almost nothing at the temples. It would be hard to guess his age.

  Cathy promised to keep an eye on Rudi, who had settled down.

  * * *

  —

  Outs
ide, Manu and the boys were dazzled by the sunlight. Le Grand squinted so hard, you couldn’t see his eyes.

  “So what’s this little secret of yours?”

  The cousin was about to blurt it out, but Le Grand raised his hand.

  “You hear that?”

  The empty street in front of them was lined with unremarkable brick houses. The few windows were whitewashed. On the other side, the echoing carcass of the blast furnace rose in the shimmering heat. All around it lay a rusty jungle, a tangle of piping, bricks, bolting, and steel mesh, a mass of stairs and railings, pipes and ladders, empty warehouses and sheds.

  “Hear that?” Le Grand repeated.

  In the distance, you could hear a clatter of dings and clangs.

  “What is it?”

  “Kids playing with slingshots. Completely out of their minds. They shoot ball bearings at each other. The place is a real sieve. It’ll all come crashing down one of these days.”

  “Can’t anybody stop them?” asked the cousin.

  “Why bother?”

  For a century, the Heillange blast furnaces had sucked all the life out of the region, gulping down people, time, and raw materials all at once. On one side, carts on tracks trundled in fuel and mineral ores. On the other, metal ingots left by train before taking rivers and streams to slowly make their way across Europe.

  Located at the crossroads, the mill’s insatiable body had lasted as long as it could, fed by roads and exhaustion, nourished by a whole network of channels, which, once everything was deposited and sold by weight, had cruelly bled parts of the town dry. Those ghostly absences stirred memories, as did the overgrown train tracks, fading billboards, and bullet-riddled street signs.

  Anthony knew this history well. He’d been told it his whole childhood. From the firebox stoking hatch, ore turned to cast iron at three thousand degrees, in a burst of heat whose tenders were either proud or dead. The mill had hissed, moaned, and roared for six generations, even at night. Since interrupting it would cost a fortune, it was better to tear men from their beds and their wives. And in the end, all that was left were reddish shapes behind a fence with a small padlock. Someone held an art opening there last year. A legislative candidate suggested turning it into a theme park. Now kids were destroying it with slingshots.