“Just tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s nothing at all,” Anthony repeated. “I gotta go.”
The light had turned red again. She frowned. He remembered her hand and the coolness of her fingers when she’d touched his cheek that other time.
“Anthony, just wait for a second.”
So she knew his first name. He cranked the gas and the scooter shot off with a long, rising whine, a heartbreak.
* * *
—
After that, everything happened in a headlong, one-way rush. Anthony steered by his heart, faster than fast, feeling the road’s slightest imperfection in his arms. On either side of his field of vision, the buildings were just a gray streak, and he enjoyed that panicky feeling of being nothing more than a moving point. When he drove, he stopped thinking, was content with being mobile, seeking the most extreme point of his thrust. He was discovering his machine’s limits. His willpower itself was turning into trajectory. At that point, falling became an illusion; an accident, virtually impossible. Anthony was riding.
Unfortunately, the ZUP projects were at the top of a very steep slope, and the scooter began to labor on the way up, getting louder as it slowed. To slough off the feeling of being bogged down, Anthony drove around at the foot of the towers for a bit, but something in his momentum was broken. He soon spotted the courtyard with the painted carousel and its heat-struck trees. A bunch of relaxed young guys were lounging under the shelter. Anthony put a foot down, watching them from a distance. Everything was calm, the scooter’s motor idling smoothly. He started up again slowly, his heels grazing the dusty ground.
* * *
—
For their part, the boys were half dozing, their heads in the clouds. That very morning Eliott had finally scored two 250-gram bars of Moroccan hash, cut to hell but smokable. After weeks of shortage, it was like Christmas in midsummer. So everyone had been smoking nonstop since ten in the morning, everyone was there, about a dozen guys, all seriously loaded and mellow. Eliott was in the process of assembling a six-sheet blunt, a joy.
“What’s that?”
Seb was the first to notice the odd little guy on the scooter, but he didn’t venture to leave the shade of the shelter. The guy was coming up slowly. Seb wanted to lick his lips. His mouth felt full of cardboard. His eyes narrowed to slits, he repeated his question:
“Hey…who’s that son of a bitch?”
“Your mother.”
“No, seriously.”
The little group gradually had to face the fact that the guy wasn’t there by accident.
“Hacine!”
“What?”
“The guy there…Come see.”
“What guy?”
The scooter was still approaching. Hacine stood up. With the sun, he couldn’t tell who was riding it. The guy didn’t have a helmet and was short, kind of stocky. Hacine was in a relaxed, friendly mood. He felt like going home to drink a Coke and quietly space out in front of his TV. It was so great to have dope again. Just thinking about it, his heart lightened a little. Meanwhile, his eyes gradually adjusted to the bright glare on the courtyard. The guy began to take shape. His face came into focus.
Shit.
“So who the hell is it?” asked Eliott.
“A nut job, seriously. Look at him. He’s a nut.”
Hacine left the shelter and walked straight toward Anthony. Soon there were just a few yards between them. Unable to stand it anymore, the gang started cursing in three languages. A couple of guys had already taken the initiative of leaving the shelter as well.
“You’ve got some nerve, coming here,” Hacine said flatly.
Anthony slid the strap on his backpack, opened it, and reached inside.
“Uh-oh!” someone said.
Anthony’s hand emerged holding the MAC 50. The boys all scattered back under the shelter.
“Who the fuck is that?” yelped Eliott, who suddenly felt in deep shit, being stuck in his wheelchair.
Anthony aimed the pistol straight ahead, his left eye closed.
“Don’t get excited,” said Hacine as calmly as he could.
He had the sun full in his face but could make out Anthony’s square head, his closed fist, and the gun’s muzzle perfectly. Around them, the buildings observed the scene with a plastic detachment. Hacine felt fear coming. It gave him bad advice, urging him to beg or to run. But ever since he was a kid, experience had taught him that in his world, the price of cowardice is higher than that of pain. Running away or ducking a punch condemned you to the pathetic fate of victim. It was still preferable to face the danger, even if you regretted it later. That lesson, learned a hundred times over, kept him standing there, facing the MAC 50.
Anthony cocked the hammer and felt the trigger acquire an almost sexual sensitivity. He remained calm, the scooter’s motor vibrating gently under his butt. Someone shouted from a window. Shooting at this distance, he couldn’t miss. A tiny pressure would be enough. This would produce a dull bang and the expulsion of an eight-gram metal slug that wouldn’t take even a thirtieth of a second before hitting Hacine’s skull. From that entry point, about ten millimeters across, the projectile would burn a not insignificant part of the gelatinous tissue that allowed Hacine to breathe, eat Big Macs, and fall in love. At the end of its trajectory, the nearly intact projectile would exit his head, leaving behind an irregular red gap, a mass of flesh and bone. This mechanical and anatomical sequence now shaped the relationship between the two boys. They couldn’t formulate it quite that precisely, but they both understood it. Anthony sighed. He was going to do it; he owed his father at least that much. A drop of sweat ran down his neck. Now was the time.
Then the scooter stalled.
Oddly enough, that insignificant change made Anthony’s gesture unthinkable. He felt his arm relaxing. He was drenched from head to foot. But he couldn’t leave it at that. Hacine was still standing in front of him, aflame, ashamed, very close to pissing himself. Anthony did the only thing he could think of: he spat in Hacine’s face.
He had to use his screwdriver to get out of there, which made for some awkward fiddling. Hacine didn’t dare wipe himself off. He could feel the saliva on his nose and mouth. Anthony finally fled. It was all so unforgivable.
TWO
1994
you could be mine
1
Anthony found Sonia in the storeroom. He should have guessed she would be there; it was the worst place to hide. She was in a bubble: she had her headphones on, listening to rock ’n’ roll while staring at her chewed-up fingernails. She didn’t even hear him come in.
“What the heck have you been up to? I’ve been looking for you for half an hour.”
Since she didn’t respond, he snapped his fingers under her nose.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Sonia deigned to glance up. Ordinarily she didn’t look all that great, but this time she was a real mess: puffy, red eyes, makeup shot.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Has Cyril been giving you a hard time?”
“No.”
Sonia didn’t have a childcare or lifeguard certificate; she didn’t have her baccalauréat or a driver’s license. At fourteen, she wasn’t even legally old enough to work. In other words, she wasn’t much use and had no business being there. It was her father who insisted that she be given a job. He was the sailing club association’s treasurer, so Cyril, the manager, didn’t have any choice. Sonia helped out, washed a few dishes at the bar, delivered messages, and generally dragged her funereal mood from one end of the beach to the other, while listening nonstop to stuff like Barbara or Depeche Mode to cheer herself up.
She’d apparently had a difficult year, involving a lot of problems with math and repeated heartbreaks. Her parents were worried, especially about the mat
h. Anthony liked Sonia. She was smart, quite funny, super-pretty despite her best efforts, with steel-gray eyes and full lips. She was also fun to talk with. But for the last couple of days she’d seemed completely out of it, hiding in corners while waiting for her shift to be over, unable to smile, even paler than usual, and scary thin.
“Is it a guy? Is that it?”
She shook her head no. But what else could it be? Anthony was especially worried that she might be in love with Cyril. The manager was a nitwit, but he had style and might impress some girls with his salt-and-pepper look and his Breitling. He was just the kind of sleazy guy who screwed teenyboppers to make up for going bald. Just thinking about it drove Anthony crazy. She was only fourteen, for chrissakes.
“Come on, don’t stay there. There’s gonna be a lot of people coming through today.”
She took the hand he’d extended and followed him to the bar, dragging her feet. She did take the trouble to lower the volume on her Walkman, and Anthony appreciated the effort.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Nothing.”
“Just drop the bullshit, okay? You’re not about to slit your wrists, so stop it.”
The girl shrugged. She would slit her wrists if she felt like it.
He took a Schweppes from the fridge, poured her a glass, and drank from the bottle. It had been open for a while and didn’t have many bubbles left, but at least it was cold.
Anthony had been on the run ever since that morning. It was one of those sweltering days. Everything was heavy and stagnant, and the overcast was low. The few stirrings of air brought only a stench of mud, succulents, and gasoline.
“You can’t pull a major meltdown on us now,” he said. “Cyril is hyper stressed. With tonight’s party, you’d think he was catering the Parc des Princes.”
Sonia was staring at the little “License IV” sign above the percolator. Something flitted across her face that might have been a smile. No, her eyes were starting to well up.
Anthony suddenly felt very sorry. He tried to think of some way to help.
“Listen, just go hang out in one of the bungalows. No one’ll look for you there.”
After a moment, he tried again:
“Are you in love?”
The young girl’s face abruptly changed. The question so shocked her, she forgot she was unhappy.
“You really are a loser sometimes,” she snapped contemptuously. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Oh, forget it,” said Anthony as he put the Schweppes bottle and her untouched glass away. “I really don’t give a damn.”
“But do you have friends? Do you talk to people? You did go to school, at least, right?”
Anthony gave her the finger and a smile. Sonia was about to go on, but Cyril suddenly burst in.
“Hey, you there!”
He was hurrying in from outside, wearing tan jeans and Sebago shoes, with Romain Rotier on his heels. Sonia’s face immediately fell.
“What are you doing there, playing tourist?”
“Nothing. We’re just taking a break.”
Cyril then launched into one of those management speeches he was so good at. He gave them often and almost therapeutically, thereby relieving his basic impotence. Cyril didn’t really know how to do anything, so he was forever dependent on work done by other people, who were less well paid than he was. But he was their leader, and that was the cross he bore, his enviable burden. He was sure it would give him an ulcer one of these days. This time his topic was challenge and personal investment. Sonia and the two boys endured the talk in silence. They were used to it.
Anthony couldn’t help wondering what could possibly be going on between Cyril and the girl. The way he ignored her, given how gloomy she looked when she was around him, it made you wonder. Anthony hoped there was nothing to it. He liked this job and had no desire to make waves. For one thing, he didn’t start until ten in the morning, which was a major plus. And he spent most of his time hauling boats out of the sheds. It was physical and badly paid, but he met lots of well-mannered people who gave surprising tips. The rest of the time, he loafed on the beach, flirted with rich girls with Romain, and drank beer in the storeroom while waiting for the day to end. Besides, he and Romain got along like gangbusters.
That had turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Anthony remembered Romain as a real jerk, arrogant and menacing. But he was pretty cool when you got to know him. He had grown in the last two years and now stood six feet tall. He was a major goof-off, but when he put his mind to it, he couldn’t be beat. Anthony had seen him drag six-hundred-pound boats up the slope to the boathouse by himself; it was pretty amazing. Besides that, he was generous, always in a good mood, spent money freely, and knew everybody. Anthony loved driving around town in his dad’s Audi Quattro, showing off big-time, totally Guns N’ Roses. With the car windows open, they were kings.
* * *
—
His lecture finished, Cyril said he hoped he’d made himself clear. Anthony said, “Yeah”; Romain, “No worries.” Sonia spoke up:
“I’d like to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Just five minutes.”
“I don’t have the time now.”
“It’s important.”
Remembering who Sonia’s father was, Cyril turned to the boys and said:
“I want you two to set up the chairs, the trestles, and the tables. And make sure the florists do exactly what I said. I asked for bougainvilleas to decorate the refreshment area, and they brought clematises.”
“Anyway, it’s gonna rain,” said Romain.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Cyril gestured to Sonia to follow him into his office, and closed the door. Anthony stood there for a moment, staring at it. A sign at eye level read, “Private.”
* * *
—
The boys got to work in spite of the heat, and soon had everything ready. They set up tables for the buffet and ten rows of plastic chairs on the lawn between the beach and the clubhouse. The refreshment area would double as a bar. Since there were no bougainvilleas and the clematises wouldn’t do, palm fronds were used. They looked fine.
Later, two vans arrived to deliver the food. Cyril had naturally turned to Bellinger, the best caterer in the valley, who had an outlet in Heillange and another in Étange and hoped to expand into Luxembourg. His impeccably white-clad assistants, who looked as if they’d been dusted with talcum powder, came and went unloading trays of shellfish, crudités, charcuterie, fresh fruit, party loaves, and all sorts of delicacies to be spooned out of little glass cups. There was enough to feed a regiment, and Monsieur Bellinger himself had come along. The association’s new president was being inaugurated that evening, and a classy crowd was expected, since the sailing club membership included the town’s lawyers and judges, doctors, businessmen, and influential civil servants. So the caterer was keeping a watchful eye on proceedings. This would be the wrong day for the food to spoil.
For their part, Anthony and Romain unloaded the beverages with dollies. For champagne, ten cases of Mumm had been ordered. There was also a white Moselle drunk very cold, Bordeaux, Sancerre, mineral water, Cokes, and fruit juice. Everything was ready by four, so the boys treated themselves to a smoke break in the shade of the pine trees. Sonia hadn’t reappeared, and heavy clouds were now scudding across the surface of the lake. The air prickled. People felt damp, itchy, restless. Even the catering assistants were starting to look wilted.
“It’s gonna come down,” said Anthony, figuring it would rain.
“Oh, by the way, I talked about you last night.”
“Who with?”
But Anthony knew perfectly well who, and his pulse briefly quickened.
“Steph. I saw her at Algarde yesterday. She was eating with her parents.”
Anthony gazed at the sky while chewing on a blade of grass. He was propped up on his elbows with his legs crossed. He smelled of sweat and enjoyed the pleasant feeling of relaxing after hard work. It was so overcast it almost looked like night.
“So, what?”
“So, nothing. I’m sure she’ll come by this evening.”
“Cool.”
Romain chuckled.
“Yeah, cool. She remembers you very well.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. She asked me how you were doing.”
“Seriously?”
“Of course not, moron.”
“You’re a jerk.”
After a moment, Anthony asked:
“You sure she’s coming?”
“I think so. Her father seemed to be counting on it, anyway.”
“Oh, yeah, her father. That’s right.”
Anthony had almost forgotten. Steph’s father was none other than Pierre Chaussoy, the new president of the association that ran the club. He’d been a candidate in the municipal elections the year before and had taken a serious licking in the first round. After that, he managed to get a seat on the municipal council, in the opposition. He’d since been trying to work his way into the fabric of the local community organizations.
Anthony felt he needed a hot shower.
“I’m going to wash up. I stink of sweat.”
“Wait, we still have to bring in the 420s.”
Romain pointed to two almost motionless boats in the middle of the lake.
“We’ll take the Zodiac. They’ll never be able to get back by themselves. There’s no wind at all.”
“Yeah,” said Romain. “I’ll drive.”
“That would surprise me,” said Anthony.
They raced each other down to the beach, bumping shoulders and elbows. Anthony wound up in the water. Romain took the tiller.
* * *
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