And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “There’s never anyone around,” Bibi reassured him. “Honestly, what’s the point of going through the hassle of renting a garage?”

  It was true, there wasn’t a sound, not a car, not a customer for miles around. Tens of millions of francs’ worth of merchandise—leather sofas, TV sets, ice cream cones, Jacuzzis—sat in their metal containers, silently waiting for life to resume. Hacine was bothered by the feeling of death and abundance.

  It took them a few minutes to transfer the dope. It was packed in little one-kilo bricks, and there were a good forty of them, carefully shaped and wrapped in waterproof plastic. They stored them in rigged gasoline containers that opened like tin cans. When the containers were full, Bibi topped them up with gas. Hacine kept five bricks for himself.

  “What are you going to do with them?” asked Bibi.

  “What do you think?”

  Bibi took out a Marlboro and offered Hacine the pack.

  “You’re not smoking here,” said the latter.

  “The gas? There’s no danger.”

  “You’re not smoking, I said.”

  Bibi frowned but put the cigarettes away. Then he asked:

  “Why d’you come here in a wagon like that? I thought you were supposed to be a driver.”

  “I’m done with the speed thing.”

  Bibi pursed his lips dubiously. Every week, four-hundred-horsepower cars carrying tons of Moroccan hash raced across France, defying radars, the police, and common sense. Doing 120 miles per hour the whole way, the drivers were real crazies, winning the admiration of all the little people in the country who made their money reselling those supersonic cargos. In every city and housing project, there were a hundred guys who saw themselves as ace drivers and future millionaires, with Bibi in the lead. No way that was going to stop.

  “So where are you headed now?”

  “I’m going home,” said Hacine.

  “All right…”

  With nothing more to say, they shook hands. But before getting behind the wheel, there was something Bibi wanted to know.

  “What are you going to do with that club of yours?”

  “Make some room.”

  3

  Anthony’s mouth was bleeding when he left the sailing club. He’d practically fled, forgetting to take his helmet. Since then, he’d been riding on autopilot as fast as he could, not knowing where to go.

  He wasn’t the hothead he’d once been, though. For a long time he used to pull dangerous stunts on his bike for the hell of it: skirting sidewalks, doing wheelies, zigzagging between cars, riding in the left lane and only pulling over at the last moment. He was riding for a fall then, seeking contact, seeking the pavement. That period left him with a burn on his right leg that ran from ankle to hip, and a brown patch on his elbow. The asphalt set a limit, at least.

  Nowadays, when he saw kids doing stuff like that, he just didn’t get it. His screw-up period seemed to be behind him, the burglaries with Steve Mourette and the frenetic drinking, when he used to get bombed in the little park at the edge of the housing development. He occasionally ran into the kid from sixth grade whose arm he broke, which got him thrown out of school. The boy made it a point of pride not to look down when they met. Anthony was very sorry.

  These days, when he rode his Yamaha 125, he tried for invisibility. Every day, he repeated routes he had carefully chosen for their geometry, the rush of feelings they generated, the possibilities for momentum they offered, and the complicated maneuvers he loved. From his mother’s to the sailing club, from the school to his old man’s place. And there was another route, which ran from the Leclerc store through downtown up to the old power plant. That one combined the pleasures of right angles with a vanishing point. In riding those routes, Anthony aimed for perfection of gesture, early-morning fluidity, tapering to a pure, clean line. Aerodynamics reduced to disappearance, to joy.

  But that wasn’t happening right now. Anthony’s head was full and his mind was racing. He was unable to leave the lakeshore. He kept on riding through the forest and along the road, like a hamster in its wheel. Without realizing it, he was drawing an idiotic orbit around Steph’s presence. She was there, somewhere, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave her. Besides, it was starting to get chilly, and he was sorry he’d left without taking his sweatshirt. Everything had happened so fast. He had goose bumps and could feel nervous fatigue overtaking him.

  It was when he passed the Léo-Lagrange recreation center for the second time that an idea occurred to him. He slowed hesitantly, then stopped for a moment. He checked his face in the rearview mirror. He had some dried blood on his chin and tried to rub it off with spit. He wasn’t looking that great, but it would do.

  He left the motorbike half hidden in the forest and made his way to the little campground. For the past two years, the recreation center had offered a nature discovery program with hikes, classes on fauna and flora, fire rings, and tent camping. A kind of secular scouting, led by more or less hippie counselors. This innovation attracted an amazing variety of kids, from little tattooed dropouts to pony-loving girls in ankle socks. During the two-week sessions, they got to cook their meals, do dishes, shit in the woods, and carry a knife. At the end, the kids emerged exhausted but more mature, with a bag full of dirty laundry and memories to last a lifetime.

  When Anthony entered the clearing created for the camp, he could make out a dozen tents and a firepit where a few embers were still glowing. Down the slope, a huge black mass sucked in all of the night’s darkness: the lake. Anthony felt nervous. He stealthily walked forward and crouched near the smoldering fire to warm his hands. Sitting on his heels, he searched for landmarks in the dark. It was a moonless night, and this wasn’t easy. The camp stood between the wall of the forest and the depths of the lake. Everything was calm and still, not a leaf stirring. The rainstorm everyone had hoped for all evening had failed to materialize in the end. They would have to go on waiting. A diffuse tension remained in the air, a vague feeling of being caught in a trap.

  Fortunately, the tents were there, containing living, unwashed teenagers wrapped in their sleeping bags and divided by sex. Anthony came closer. He’d better not make a mistake, or it would be a scandal. He finally recognized the tent he was looking for; it was a bit smaller and off to one side. He knelt in front of it and scratched the fabric with his finger.

  “Pssst!”

  He repeated:

  “Hey…pssst! Are you in there?”

  He scratched harder, and a faint female cry came from within.

  “Shhh! It’s me,” he said.

  “Who is that?” asked a not very reassuring voice.

  Though he was out of doors, Anthony felt trapped. Behind him loomed the forest’s pale green presence. He turned around: nothing. Yet he wouldn’t have dared stretch out his arm. It was getting darker and darker. The trees were an oblique, dense presence, the forest a blackness of humus, a swarming that was ancient and indifferent. He shivered.

  “It’s me,” he said again in a low voice. “Open up!”

  The zipper tab ran down, and the tent flaps parted.

  “Don’t talk so loud.”

  Anthony crawled forward and disappeared inside the tent.

  “What are you doing here?” said the voice. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Anthony felt his way, unable to see a thing. His fingers encountered something soft.

  “Hey!”

  “I can’t see anything,” he said.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Anthony’s hand continued its exploration. He touched the girl’s cheek. She felt all warm, pulled from sleep like bread from an oven.

  “You feel soft.”

  “You’re a jerk,” Vanessa answered. “I already told you not to come here.”

  She had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in so she could zip the tent
closed behind him. Anthony found himself sheltered in a tiny space that smelled pleasantly of something like cotton candy, with a warm, less distinct smell behind it, of clothes and sleepy skin. His hand was resting on Vanessa’s naked thigh. She didn’t object.

  “Let me see,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You. I dunno, show yourself a little.”

  When she turned her back to him to rummage in a corner, he took advantage of it to stroke her ass. He could feel the outline of her panties through the baggy shorts she slept in. He wanted to slip a hand between her thighs.

  “Stop it,” she muttered.

  A thin beam of light shot from a small flashlight, and Anthony could see that Vanessa was in a bad mood.

  “Is there a problem?”

  Instead of answering, she showed him the time on her watch.

  “What?”

  “You’re such a pain. It’s past one o’clock. I’m gonna be completely wasted tomorrow.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  She liked that, in spite of herself.

  “I’m working, you know. Besides, if they catch you here, I’ll be in deep shit.”

  She was kneeling now, facing him, looking worried and sulky. Her hair, which had been pinned up in a neat bun, now fell across her shoulder. You could see the almost square nipples of her bare breasts through her Snoopy T-shirt. Suddenly her expression changed.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  Aiming the flashlight at his battered face, she touched his brow, his nose, and his split lip. The examination was also a caress. Anthony closed his eyes.

  “Shit. Who did that to you?”

  “It’s nothing. I got into a fight at work.”

  “Who with?”

  “The other asshole. The Rotier kid.”

  “Man, he really did a number on you.”

  “It’s nothing, I said,” snapped Anthony irritably.

  She flexed the cartilage of his nose to see if it was broken, examined his teeth, felt his scalp, inspecting him like a mother checking for lice. He submitted with bad grace.

  “It’s nothing, for chrissakes. Stop it.”

  “So why’d he do this to you?”

  Anthony was evasive in his explanations. He was especially careful not to tell Vanessa about taking the time to write a little note at the bar before leaving the sailing club. His face had been bloody and his hands shaking, so he’d had to do it twice. When he was finished, the paper was a mess and his writing almost illegible. Then he had to walk alone and stiff necked through what was left of the party. When he handed Steph the note, she turned beet red. Everyone was watching them. The club president and his wife couldn’t believe their eyes. It was a scandal and an apotheosis. “What the hell are you still doing here?” Cyril snapped. But Anthony had delivered his little piece of paper, and the rest didn’t matter. Two days later he would be waiting for Steph behind the old power plant. That’s what the two lines written in blue ink said. Maybe she would come. Finally, he had climbed onto his motorbike and, without looking back, roared off in third gear, making as much noise as he could. As an exit, it wasn’t too shabby.

  “What about your job?” asked Vanessa.

  “It’s history.”

  “He fired you?”

  “Well, duh.”

  “Heavy.”

  Anthony had stretched out and wanted her to lie next to him.

  “Wait a minute,” she said.

  She switched off the flashlight, then lay down beside him.

  “I can’t see a damned thing.”

  “I don’t want some kid catching us.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing. Take your hand away.”

  He obeyed, but she caught the hand in midair and laced her fingers between his. They were whispering now.

  “Your hands are freezing,” said Anthony.

  “Shh! What are you going to do about your job? Think you’re gonna get in trouble?”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t give a damn.”

  “Cut that out,” she said.

  Vanessa didn’t like it when Anthony started acting like a stubborn child. She planted a kiss on his cheekbone, his nose, his lips. He stuck his tongue out and she took it tenderly in her mouth, a gesture that turned into a kiss. Saliva flowed, soft, voluptuous, and heady. She laid her palm on his cock. It was getting hard.

  “You taste like licorice,” Anthony said.

  She chuckled; it was the flavor of her toothpaste. She bit him on the neck, searched for his mouth and chin as she felt his hands slip under her T-shirt and squeeze her breasts hard. Without warning, she sat up and turned her back to him, wedging her ass in his lap. He grabbed her by the throat. She couldn’t keep from moaning.

  “Shh!”

  This time, he was the one demanding silence. She played along for a moment. Within the tent’s narrow space, they were cruising in the void, isolated, self-sufficient. The nearness of the other tents, the risk of the darkness, and the forest all heightened their pleasure. They moved their joined hips in tandem, each feeling desire rising in the other. Anthony held Vanessa by the throat and belly. She softened in his arms, moaning and sweating. “Harder,” she said, and he tightened his grip. A mewling sound rose from her chest. Then she couldn’t stand it anymore. She turned around and their mouths immediately met. They gave each other languorous kisses that opened like beignets full of jam. Their tongues were soft, their saliva warm and abundant. Anthony felt a tingling in his balls, and his cock swelled further as he listened to Vanessa’s quickened, excited panting. She was now breathing with pleasure, through her nose. She turned her face to him, rubbing cheeks, nose, and forehead, then the kisses started again. Very quickly they began to give each other deep, technical, intrusive kisses. They were filling each other. It felt so good.

  At a sudden noise, they stopped.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I am,” said Anthony.

  He wanted to get going again very quickly, he was ready. Actually, he was afraid of losing his hard-on.

  “I’m scared all the time here,” explained Vanessa. “I was so freaked out the other night, I went to sleep with the girls.”

  “Was that cool?”

  “They’re twelve years old, you dork!”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “The forest. It makes noises. And the inbreds, too.”

  “They don’t come over this far.”

  “Are you kidding? We found dead hedgehogs hanging in the branches the other morning.”

  “So what?”

  “Hedgehogs are their thing. They eat them, I think.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  While they were whispering, Anthony ran his hand down her back. He counted her vertebrae, stroked her ribs and hips. His fingers encountered some pooled sweat in the small of her back. Vanessa was moist and undulating, her words a muffled rustling in the tent’s overheated air as fear further sharpened their excitement. Anthony brought his sweat-damp fingers to his mouth. He wasn’t worried about his erection anymore. He wanted to press his belly against Vanessa’s, to mix their perspiration. He mopped his sweaty brow.

  “Aren’t you too hot?” he asked. “We’re dying in here.”

  Instead of answering, she slipped her hand down between them, unzipped Anthony’s jeans, and started to rub his cock through his underpants. She was doing it well, for herself. Anthony groaned.

  “Be quiet!”

  He looked for the flashlight and switched it back on.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just for a second. I’d like to see you. Please.”

  She let him, and Vanessa’s serious face appeared very close, velvety and
brown. Anthony drew back, the better to see her. She was busy jerking him off. He tried to slip his hand into her panties, but she pulled away.

  “Let me do it,” she said.

  She started tugging his jeans down, and he helped her. His underpants immediately followed. Then she really grabbed hold of his cock, spitting in her hand to make it slippery. For Anthony, a sharp, indescribably fluid sensation rose from his ass up to the back of his neck.

  “Shit, that feels good…”

  She wasn’t listening. Eyes riveted on his cock, she continued stroking it, occasionally slipping her hand under his balls, a crazy person thing. She watched him with the detachment of a statue, a maniacal opacity.

  “You are going to fuck me,” she announced.

  Anthony closed his eyes. He could have come. He could have come, just like that.

  “Do you have any condoms?”

  “Yeah.”

  She straightened up and crawled to the other end of the tent. She had her back turned to him as she rummaged in a purse spilled open on the tent floor.

  “Where the hell did I put them?”

  As he played with himself, Anthony watched her, then said:

  “Don’t move.”

  “What?”

  She gave him a curious glance over her shoulder.

  “Don’t move, I said.”

  “You’re a sick puppy, you know that?”

  But she was wearing a mocking smile, and the game went on. He brought the flashlight closer.

  “Arch your back a little, so I can see.”

  “Come on, stop your bullshit.”

  “Shut up, or I’ll call for help.”

  She stifled a giggle and arched her back. He came closer. She was still on all fours. He pressed down on her lower back to make her ass jut out. Then he roughly grabbed her by the back of her neck. This was their thing. She spread her legs a little to make herself comfortable, and laid her cheek on her arms, which were crossed on the tent floor. Holding her tight, he ran a hand inside her thigh. Vanessa’s eyelids closed. He slid his hand up to her pussy, pressed on it, ran his open palm over the fabric of her shorts. She tried to arch her back more, breathing hard, her sighs now coming from her chest, Anthony slipped the shorts down, revealing her white panties. He pressed against her thigh, rubbing himself.