And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “You see, everything is ready,” said his father.

  The boy smiled to see his salmon-colored sheets, the flowered quilt, the tattered old rug. There were still Body Count and Terminator posters on the wall, his weights in the corner, and his bottle of Jean-Claude Gaultier cologne on the little white sideboard. He had only worn it on special occasions, and the bottle was still three-quarters full.

  They watched a little television before dinner. The soup was delicious. For the rest, it was the usual, instant potatoes and defrosted chopped steak. His father’s constant chatter proved very useful. It avoided questions and serious topics. Hacine’s brother, for example, was never mentioned again. Dinner lasted a long time, and it was already nine when his father offered to make coffee. Hacine accepted. It was Nescafé, and vile. His father had gotten up to go piss three times during the meal. Hacine hadn’t taken his eyes off the clock, and stood up as soon as he finished his coffee.

  “I have to get going.”

  “All right. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I need you to give me a ride tomorrow. I no longer like to drive anymore.”

  His father showed him his eyes. The pupils had turned a milky color. He could no longer see very well.

  “What time would you like me to come get you?”

  “In the late afternoon, around five o’clock.”

  “Isn’t that a bit late? Are you going shopping?”

  “No, I have to go to a funeral. You will drop me off over by Beauregard, near the cemetery. Can you come to pick me up afterward?”

  “Yes, of course, no problem.”

  “Good.”

  His father walked him to the door. In the hallway, he set his hand on his son’s back. He wasn’t hurrying him. It was an affectionate gesture, gently consented to, just before leaving.

  “You will come back soon?”

  “Yes. I’m gonna stick around now.”

  “Ah, that is good.”

  “I already told you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Suddenly his father seemed in a hurry, and worried. In any case, he had stopped listening to him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  They hugged again and Bouali hustled his son out without further explanation, then closed the door behind him. Feeling intrigued, Hacine stood motionless on the doormat for a moment. There was no noise in the stairwell, not a murmur. He turned the handle, and the door opened. Everything was quiet in the apartment. Some light from the kitchen spilled into the hallway. The boy felt like a burglar, a tomb robber. He stood on the threshold, not daring to go farther, feeling almost ashamed. Suddenly he heard a sharp, watery sound, interspersed with groans. His father was pissing again, and lamenting his fate. Hacine silently closed the door, leaving the man to the monotonous secrets of his old age.

  * * *

  —

  Out in the courtyard, Seb was the first to spot him. He was sitting on the low wall, busy throwing small stones at a bigger one. He had gotten pretty good at his little game. It was already almost dark, and there were five of them in all, hanging out, same as always. A nearby streetlight cast its pale light on the ground. For the first time, the carnival women hadn’t come this year. But the boys were there anyway, contemplating the empty space framed by the towers. They were smoking, talking smack, and passing around a bottle of white rum that Steve had brought back from la Réunion. Seb had traded his 49ers cap for a navy blue-and-white Detroit model, the same one that Magnum wore in the old TV series. He had just hit the big stone with a smaller one again when he saw a shadow appear at the foot of the Picasso tower.

  “Hey…”

  They all looked. The shadow came closer. It was Hacine, holding his ax handle. They’d already known for a few hours that he was back and had been making fun of him all afternoon. Mostly, they wondered what had brought him back to the hood, since he was leading the life of a mogul in Morocco and Spain. Curiosity was stimulating their minds. Steve was the first to notice something odd.

  “What the hell’s he doing with a cane?”

  “That’s not a cane,” said Eliott.

  With a low hum, his wheelchair drove away from the little group. Eliott’s back was soaked, his hands damp. For the last few days, a persistent heaviness had hung in the air, an abscess of wind and lightning, and the crippled boy had been stewing in his shorts. In the morning, his mother had to dust him with talcum powder. Every so often the wind would start to blow, raising hopes for a break, rain showers, the relief the whole valley was waiting for. But each time, it was a false alarm. Everything started up again in the same swollen, sexual immobility, that almost painful suspension. Eliott forced himself to smile.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  The others came closer. They were now within the white circle cast by the streetlamp. The faces looked the way they were remembered, but were no longer the same. Months had passed.

  “How’re ya doin’, big guy?”

  “You good, or what?”

  Hacine said hello to all of them, casually slapping their hands, ending with Eliott.

  “You been back long?”

  “You’re sure suntanned, man.”

  “It’s nice to see you.”

  “You staying long?”

  They were all nodding, attentive, patting him on the back, but weren’t really convincing. You could sense their awkwardness.

  “What’s that stick of yours?” asked Djamel.

  Hacine held the handle in front of him, gripping it hard, his wrist firm.

  “It’s nothing. It was for my father.”

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  “What was it like over there? Talk about it.”

  “Yeah, c’mon, tell us.”

  “Did you bring any dope back?”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “You got something to smoke, man?”

  Hacine answered each of them with a terse word, two at most, and his coldness gradually spread to the little group. Eliott was looking at his friend, unable to recognize him. And yet it was him. When Hacine pulled out a big ten-gram bar of hash from his pocket, something like cheerfulness revived the troops. Everybody started rolling blunts. Ten minutes later, the gang was back on the low wall, smoking and chatting. Only Hacine remained standing, leaning on his club. He asked how the business was going.

  “What business?” It had all turned to shit, his pals said.

  They explained to him that the traffic was now in the hands of younger kids, fourteen or fifteen years old. That generation’s boldness was frightening. They didn’t respect anything, thought only of raking it in. They were seen crisscrossing the ZUP on scooters, picking fights, ambitious, constantly stoned. They used even younger kids as lookouts. Families who didn’t want to be involved wound up hiding 250-gram “soap bars” under the kids’ bed or in Grandma’s closet. Some of these little hotshots even carried guns. Fights were constantly breaking out, and the cops had increased their surveillance and the number of patrols, but were careful not to get out of their cars except in cases of serious mayhem. In short, things had really changed.

  “What about the wholesaler?” asked Hacine.

  After all, those teenagers weren’t riding to Holland on their motorbikes. They needed a source, an adult somewhere with contacts and a driver’s license to organize the thing and satisfy their appetites.

  Nobody dared answer. Hacine waited, puffing on a big three-sheeter. He turned to Eliott.

  “So, who is it?”

  The fat boy shifted in his wheelchair before answering. It was so fucking hot.

  “It’s Kader, I think.”

  “Where is he?”

  Nobody knew, but in general he always came by during the evening.


  “We’re gonna wait for him,” said Hacine.

  Nobody felt like smoking anymore. At least now everyone knew why Hacine had come back.

  * * *

  —

  Little Kader finally showed up. It was almost midnight, and the boys couldn’t stand it anymore. They were stoned and starving, and each time one of them opened his mouth, Hacine seemed to condemn them all to death. It wound up being painful. All the more so because intermittent thunderclaps were now echoing across the sky. On the horizon over by the border, you could even see heat lightning. The atmosphere was unbearable. You just wanted to take a shower and go to bed. So little Kader’s appearance came as a relief. It was time to end this one way or the other, and in either case, quickly.

  “Hi, faggots!” cried the new arrival cheerfully.

  Kader was wearing a leather jacket covered with zippers and big eight-hundred-franc Nikes. He came strutting up, looking very pleased with himself, apparently relaxed. Hacine’s presence didn’t seem to bother him particularly.

  “What do you know,” he said. “Long time no see!”

  Hacine’s eyes were bloodshot, his mouth clamped shut.

  “So you’ve come back…”

  The person in question had to admit that this was so.

  The others followed this exchange with suitable expressions on their faces, while inwardly generating predictions and equations. Hacine wasn’t all that respected. He’d never been very husky and tonight seemed almost sickly weak, a wobbly invertebrate no one would pick as the future local Pablo Escobar. His contempt didn’t change anything; he came across as fragile.

  Kader, on the other hand, was short, tough, and quick. He’d been doing a fair amount of coke lately, and felt very sure of himself, on a roll, aggressively sarcastic. He had contacts in Amsterdam, Saint-Denis, and Villeurbanne. He would score a kilo for seven thousand francs and resell it for fifteen thousand, easy. On his BMW 750, the rims alone cost four times the minimum wage. He spat between his teeth. A fresh thunderclap rumbled in the sky overhead. When Kader smiled, you could see that he’d lost teeth on his right side and had them replaced with gold. It was chic.

  “All right,” he said patronizingly. “I’m glad you’re here, but—”

  He didn’t have time to get any further. The ax handle hissed through the air in a perfect curve and smashed the lower part of Kader’s face with a mineral crack. With its suddenness and absence of motive, Hacine’s move pained each of the witnesses. Silence fell immediately. Someone started to vomit. On the ground, his jaw dislocated, his hands flat in the dust, little Kader sat up. He had the bewildered look of a child lost in a department store. He was panting like a dog, and the harsh, whistling breath through his throat and nostrils blew threads of saliva mixed with blood from his lips. He tried to stand, not yet feeling the pain, not yet realizing what had happened, thinking it trivial, that he’d just slipped. But then he tried to speak and felt his lower jaw caught in a disgusting mushiness. Hacine watched him without saying anything. He was so scared he could have killed him right then and there.

  6

  Anthony’s mother asked him to accompany her to Luc Grandemange’s funeral, and he didn’t have much choice. It was his first funeral and he’d gotten dressed up: white shirt, jacket, and tie. It felt odd to be outfitted like that, looking halfway between a cop and an executive, but it wasn’t actually unpleasant. He was even wearing dress shoes, which they’d had to buy for the occasion. Like weddings, funerals involve expenses. His mother had wanted to buy him shoes that would last; Anthony wanted stylish Kenzos. Fortunately, shoes were on sale.

  During the whole drive to the church, Hélène kept fiddling with her hair, a sign that she was extremely nervous. Also, she smoked continuously. Anthony twice had to warn her that a light had turned red.

  “It’ll be fine,” he said protectively.

  She said, “Yes, sure, nothing to be done about it, anyway.” Behind her big sunglasses, Hélène was hanging in there. She would be seeing Patrick for the first time since their divorce became final. That was a drawback of funerals: you always ran into old acquaintances.

  They arrived quite early, so parking in the church’s lot was easy. The church itself stood in the very center of town, not far from City Hall. It was an impressive Roman-looking building with a symmetrical, pilastered facade and a square belfry tower. The Wendel family had had it built during the German annexation and asked the architect for something with a Renaissance, Italian feeling, as a slap at the kaiser and his visigothic leanings. They had spent lavishly on a significant building, probably out of guilt, since they were living in the 8th arrondissement of Paris while Heillange was under German rule. A hundred and ten years later, Saint-Michel d’Heillange now stood as a luxurious relic surrounded by poverty. Each time a family buried a drunkard or a silicosis victim, it felt as if they had somehow earned the right to a national funeral.

  The church’s little forecourt soon filled with people. Anthony and his mother, who had stayed off to one side, joined the crowd. Hélène led the way. She was wearing a dark dress cinched at the waist by a shiny belt. A small purse shaped like a seashell hung from her shoulder. In the sea of faces, Anthony recognized a few, mainly people he was used to seeing in town. Everybody was smiling and chatting quietly. You might have mistaken it for a charity bazaar, except for a certain restraint, and all the black. A thunderstorm loomed overhead like a promise. This was no weather in which to be wearing a suit.

  “Look,” said Hélène.

  Vanessa had just spotted the two of them, and crossed the forecourt to join them. She, too, was wearing a dark dress and high heels. She looked pretty.

  “So you came?” said Hélène, pleasantly surprised.

  “Yes, sure.”

  “Do you know the Grandemange family?”

  “Not really.”

  Vanessa smiled, looking natural and sweet. Hélène was very fond of the girl. She used to come to the house from time to time, and she said hello and stayed downstairs to chat for a few minutes before running upstairs and shutting herself in Anthony’s bedroom. She ate dinner with them a few times and always offered to help setting the table or doing the dishes. She was intelligent and not a show-off, the kind of girl who could have raised Anthony up. Then she stopped coming, and Anthony didn’t mention her anymore. But it was none of Hélène’s business.

  Anthony saw the situation differently. As soon as he could, he took Vanessa aside.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Am I bothering you?”

  “No, but you have no business being here. I didn’t ask you to come.”

  “All right, don’t get uptight. I’ll split.”

  But Anthony kept her from leaving. He was dying of the heat. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar. Searching for some fresh air, he looked up at the close, low sky. It was marbled and gray, as languid as soup.

  “It’s gotta break soon. I can’t stand this anymore.”

  “There’s nothing forecast before tonight.”

  That was something Anthony was well aware of, having checked the weather earlier. He had a date behind the old power plant that evening at nine and intended to be there come rain, wind, or snow.

  * * *

  —

  Meanwhile, Hélène had started making the rounds. Neighbors were there, as well as Luc’s family and old workmates. She greeted each person with an appropriate expression, but conversation soon drove away the show of sadness. People caught up with each other’s news. So-and-so was dead; that other one’s son left for China; the Hartz’s bakery found a buyer. Expressions flitted across Hélène’s face like clouds. She was friendly, solicitous, always interested in other people’s lives, their joys and sorrows. When she raised her sunglasses, you saw the bags under her eyes and her ashy skin, wrinkled by worry and scored by tears, that made her look quite old
. She’d gone through a ton of shit in the last two years.

  For their part, Vanessa and Anthony watched as the little crowd complacently milled about in the shadow of the church. Vanessa hadn’t said anything for some time. He turned to her.

  “Are you in a bad mood?”

  “No.”

  “Seems that way.”

  Vanessa was angry at herself for having come. True, Anthony hadn’t asked her for anything. She was trying to make a place for herself in his life, but why bother? He was a punk and a jerk-off. Ugly, too, with that screwed-up eye. She looked at him to make sure. He really wasn’t that ugly, worse luck.

  “Come on,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder. “It’s all right. I apologize.”

  “You’re not so aggressive when you come to fuck me.”

  He turned on her in surprise.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s a bitchy thing to say! You enjoy it as much as I do.”

  This time she turned to face him. In her heels, she was almost as tall as he was.

  “Yeah, I just love it when you wake me up in the middle of the night to drain your balls.”

  “So what do you want?” he snapped irritably. “For us to get married?”

  “Asshole.”

  It was less of a reproach than a regret. Vanessa didn’t expect anything from him, of course. He was a kid, a loser, hopeless at school, always going on about his motorbike, not her type at all. Besides, they had their agreement to get together and fuck, basta. Except that after sex, when you’re lying there looking at the ceiling, you can’t help but confide in each other. When Anthony’s mother wasn’t home, they sometimes stayed like that for a long time in his darkened room, talking. He had those long lashes, that brown skin. He kept saying that he didn’t give a damn, but clearly, the opposite was true. She sometimes thought about him even when she was in her studio apartment in Metz or watching a movie with Christopher. She constantly felt an urge to grab him, pull his hair, bite him. She hated herself for being that way. She had put on her prettiest dress.