“Hello,” said Hacine.
Anthony quickly buttoned his fly, feeling some wetness dribble along his thigh. The walls suddenly seemed very close, and the smell of ammonia, unbearable. He looked around. Aside from the barred window, there was no way out. He felt fourteen years old again.
“How are you?” asked Hacine.
He took the time to close the door and push the little bolt home, though it was already almost torn off. He was standing a few yards from Anthony and looked very calm, impassive, and brown.
“What d’you want?” asked Anthony.
“What do you think?”
Anthony honestly didn’t have the slightest idea. That was all so long ago. Behind the door was the world, and his father. He could hear the low hum of conversations, the clink of glasses. He tugged at his shirt, which was sticking to his back, and decided to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Let me by.”
Hacine pushed him back with the flat of his hand. It was a languid gesture, and it made an unsettling impression, the way a spiderweb feels on your face. Anthony could feel anger rising in his cheeks. He was still stewing over the humiliation of the other day with Romain. He thought about his father again, just outside the door.
“Leave me the fuck alone.”
At that point Hacine’s appearance underwent a curious change. He perched on one leg like a heron, brought his other knee to his chest, raised his fists to eye level, then suddenly kicked. His foot hit Anthony in the solar plexus with a dull, flat thud. Surprised, he flew through the air and found himself sitting on his ass with the breath completely knocked out of him. The sole of Hacine’s shoe left a distinct print on his beautiful white shirt. Anthony could feel the piss-stained tiles and the rough grain of the ceramic under his hands. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. It took him a good ten seconds to get his breath back and to stand up.
“You son of a bitch,” he said.
An exchange of feints followed, until Hacine stepped back a bit and started firing a series of middle kicks at Anthony’s ribs. His shin struck with amazing speed, but the blows were mainly for show and had no impact. Hacine wasn’t heavy enough to do any real damage, and Anthony took the kicks without any trouble. Soon the boys found themselves face-to-face, breathless, ill-tempered, and ridiculous. Hacine kept his guard up, swaying from side to side with his fists raised. Anthony would’ve been happy to call it quits, and Hacine was nearly of the same opinion.
Just then, the door rattled on its hinges. Hacine took a step aside. The door handle jiggled, the bolt yielded, and Patrick came in.
“What’s this all about?”
He saw his son with his white shirt soiled, looking confused and disheveled. He turned to Hacine. Hélène had explained everything in a few words. So it was him. In Patrick’s head, the links of evidence had implacably come together: the motorcycle, the theft, the divorce.
“It’s nothing,” Anthony tried to say.
Patrick glanced at him with a look of regret. Then he turned back to the tall asshole with the duck-bill mouth and kinky hair. A sand nigger, wouldn’t you know. With that dull, empty gaze, no way to know what was going on behind it. Right away, Patrick wanted to hurt him.
“So you’re the one?” he said flatly.
“I’m the what?”
Anthony was the first to understand. His father had taken on that stone-like density, that look of stupidity and mineral solidity. Anthony wanted to say something, but Hacine spoke first:
“We’re good here. Don’t bust my balls.”
Patrick gave a kind of chuckle and threw the first punch.
It came from a long way off, from his shoulder and back, rising from his kidneys and deep in his belly. It carried ancient pains and frustrations. It was a fist heavy with misery and missed chances, a ton of misspent living. It smashed Hacine full in the face. Even Patrick was surprised by the effect it produced. A pétanque ball couldn’t have done better. Under the impact, the boy’s head snapped far back and hit the wall. He bounced off and fell to the floor on all fours. Thick blood mixed with saliva immediately started dripping from his lips between his fingers, which he had raised to his mouth. With his tongue, Hacine explored the extent of the damage. He turned his head toward Patrick and opened his shattered mouth. What Patrick saw displeased him. Hacine’s left incisor was cracked, and the other one was missing. The boy spit between this gap in his teeth. Was this little pissant defying him?
“Go stand in front of the door,” he ordered his son.
“What?”
“Do it.”
Hacine was still on his knees, bent double, able to breathe through only one nostril, which made a spitting, hurried whistle, like pipes. Tiny bone fragments pricked his tongue, and he spat again. That’s when he noticed the pattern of the floor tiles. The little white and brown squares hadn’t been laid at random. They formed an ingenious weave of curves and loops, something ample and floral. As he felt the pain rising, Hacine thought of the guy who had once kneeled there long before him, composing these delicate patterns piece by piece, just to receive footprints and piss.
“Don’t make me say it again,” said Patrick.
Anthony came out of the men’s room first. He looked ashen, and his shirt was ripped. His mother stood up.
“Anthony!”
He didn’t hear her. There was too much noise, people standing, music. He muscled his way through the crowd, using his shoulders and hands. Along the way he bumped into a guy who spilled some of his drink onto his torn shirt. The guy in question made as if to protest—“Hey there, take it easy, no need to shove”—but it was more for show than anything else. In any case, Anthony couldn’t see anything or anybody. In a rush, he went out the door and didn’t turn back.
When Patrick emerged in turn a few seconds later, he seemed surprisingly calm. He carefully closed the men’s room door behind him, then headed for the bar. There he grabbed the first drink he saw, a half-empty glass of beer, and looked around. Cathy the owner was chatting with a woman with spiky, mousy blond hair, her elbows on the bar. Thierry was hard at work pulling on the beer taps and handing glasses to customers. Around them, you caught smiles, wrinkles, details. And always, that exhausting racket. Patrick ran a hand through his hair. His temples and neck were wet. A kid, his chin resting on a table, was studying a wasp trapped in his glass of grenadine. Life flowed on, without malice, determined to destroy, day after day, always unchanging. Patrick raised the glass to his lips and downed the beer in a single gulp. A terrible peace spread through his belly, the silence of an ossuary. He gestured to the bartender and ordered another glass. The same again, but with Picon this time.
11
The old power plant was the worst possible place for a date. A ruin perched on a hill, it was covered with ferns and weeds, choked with brambles, and littered with fire pits, condoms, and broken glass. Steph was already feeling sorry she’d come, especially since the little jerk was late. She stood waiting, caught in the greasy immobility of that summer evening. She glanced at her watch again. She felt thirsty and horny.
He finally arrived.
Anthony rode up on a tinny, putt-putting motorbike, legs spread wide. His shirt was in tatters, he had pointy dress shoes on, and he looked completely dazed. When he was within a few yards, he cut the engine and coasted. The bike rolled to a stop near Steph, swaying gracefully on its shock absorbers. Anthony looked like a kid on a rocking horse.
“Hi.”
“Did you forget?”
“No. I’m late, I’m sorry.”
He pulled the bike onto its stand and climbed off. He stuck his hand in the back pockets of his pants, which emphasized his shoulders in a not unattractive way. Steph looked him over.
“Did you get into another fight?”
“No.”
“What about your shirt?”
&n
bsp; “It’s nothing.”
She let him stew for a moment. Anthony looked a little stupid, but he felt like a nice change after slimy Simon’s low-down tricks. Besides, he was attractive. His shy roughneck side had its charm. She made him wait a little longer, then said:
“All right, come on. You’re getting on my nerves.”
She pointed the way and they walked to a staircase behind the power plant. From there, at least you got a view of downtown, with its scattering of streetlights, an occasional car on the maze of roads, and the ZUP projects with their flickering, bluish windows. The narrow steps led to some old locker rooms. They sat side by side, elbows touching. Anthony looked at his hands and thought about his father. He had come in spite of everything. Steph lit a cigarette.
“So what happened to you?”
“Just a thing. It’s nothing.”
The silence fell again, thickened by the heat. In this weather, everything took on the consistency of oil. As Anthony stared at his chewed-up fingernails, Steph studied him. The red marks on his neck. The outline of his cheekbone, his smooth cheeks, the black eye, that youthful, velvety skin, his smell.
“You’re no fun,” she sighed.
“It’s too hot. Anyway, I don’t know what to say.”
He said this with an impatient gesture, as if he were tossing coins on the ground. He felt self-conscious and hesitant. Steph decided she would have some fun with him.
“So, what did we come here for?”
He looked at her. She was very tan, had her hair up, and was wearing shorts, a sleeveless blue blouse, and Converse sneakers. He recognized her perfume, the one that smelled like cotton candy, and saw the golden fuzz on her thighs. She had put her question to him as a challenge. She knew perfectly well what he wanted. She went on:
“Try something, at least.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not just gonna sit there, are you?”
“What d’you want me to do?”
“Hey, it’s not my job to tell you what you should do.”
“Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Try it, and you’ll see.”
He considered this. She really had a lot of nerve. Steph’s eyes were full of mischief, but not so much as to totally discourage him.
“Haven’t you ever slept with a girl?”
“Of course I have!” he said indignantly.
“Well, then, what did you do with other girls?”
“I don’t know, it just happened.”
“And with me you’re hung up?”
“Well, I’m not about to jump you right here on the staircase.”
Steph burst out laughing. No way was she going to have sex with him, either on the stairs or anywhere else. But she could still have fun turning him on, and then give him a quick consolation peck at the end of the evening.
“All right, then. What do we want to do?”
“You want to go somewhere?”
“Wait a minute. Try something, at least.”
“Like what?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Whatever I like?”
“You have carte blanche, I promise.”
“Anything at all?”
“It’s an open bar, I’m telling you.”
She was smiling and so was he. For Anthony, this was as much an opportunity as a chance to mess everything up. He had to play it just right. He took her right wrist and pulled her hand close. Steph felt tempted to laugh. What was this idiot up to? He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them.
“Shit, a romantic.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re really too much of a gentleman.”
“Too true.”
Meanwhile, he was still holding her wrist and she didn’t pull away. It was a soft bit of shared skin-to-skin contact. Steph’s eyes were sparkling. They were now entering that blessed realm of play. The timing was good. Night was coming on. All in all, things weren’t turning out too badly.
“Oooh, I think I’m in love,” she said.
“That’s normal.”
“You’re dumb, you know. You could’ve touched my breasts.”
“Or your ass.”
“Or even worse yet.”
“Seriously?”
“No, you’re crazy.”
She pulled her wrist back and playfully pushed him away. Through the gap in her blouse he glimpsed the taut strap of her bra, the roundness of a breast, and a mole near the edge of the fabric. She was desirable, the way a beach is desirable, or a pastry, or chocolate.
“Do you want me to help you?” she asked.
“It’s okay, I didn’t do anything.”
“Come on, let’s go somewhere.”
Steph jumped to her feet and turned toward the silent town. She brushed off her bottom and put her hands on her hips. There she was, firmly planted in front of him. A statue, an Eiffel Tower.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It was stupid not to bring something to drink.”
“We still can. We could just swing by the club.”
“To do what?”
Anthony checked his watch.
“It’s closed at this time of night. I know where the key is hidden. We’ll slip in, grab a bottle, and take off.”
“Think so?” she asked, coming closer to him. “Kind of risky, isn’t it?”
Anthony had also stood up and was stretching, happy to be taking some initiative.
“No, it’s okay. But I only have one helmet.”
“I’ve got my car.”
“I’d rather we went on the bike. It’s simpler.”
“Can two of us ride on that thing?”
Anthony sighed. Of course they could.
“You’ll bring me back here afterward?”
“No problem.”
“Wait a sec.”
Steph ran to her car and fetched a little canvas shoulder bag that she slung across her chest. They were ready to go.
“Hang on, okay?”
“Yeah, but where?”
“Anywhere you like.”
She put her arms around his waist, and he abruptly took off. As he rode down to the road, she cried:
“You won’t drive like a maniac, okay?”
They flew through the warm evening air, enjoying the perfect smoothness of departmental highways. Steph soon began to shiver. Speed rose from everywhere, in her thighs and her belly. She clung to Anthony, trying to lean in the turns, her cheek against his back, eyes closed. Daylight gradually faded from the surrounding countryside, leaving only a timid pallor at the horizon. They crossed open areas, forests, and fields. All along the way she breathed in the boy’s sour smell. He had been drinking, running, and sweating, and he smelled. It was physical and vaguely off-putting, but in the darkness that smell became her landmark. The night rushed into her. She let herself go.
When they got to the sailing club, Anthony left her alone while he went to get a bottle from the storeroom. It wouldn’t take long, but Steph started to freak out the moment he disappeared. The night was pitch black and she was stuck by the side of the road in shorts. At the first car that came along, she panicked and ran to hide in a little grove of trees nearby. She waited there, crouched down without moving, her hands on her shoulders, heart pounding. Branches rustled gently overhead, even though there wasn’t a breath of wind. When Anthony reappeared, the relief she felt was so sharp she could have kissed him.
“Shit, where did you go?”
“Nowhere. Hey, take it easy.”
She took Anthony’s arm, instinctively seeking contact with him.
“It’s a jungle in there,” she said. “I was scared.”
By way of an answer, he showed her the bottle of vodka and some old ne
wspapers he’d found to start a fire with.
“Can you put all this in your bag?”
“Sure. Give me the bottle. I need a drink now.”
He handed it to her. It was Eristoff, and not even cold. It brought back memories. The screw cap cracked when Steph twisted it off. She took two good swallows before returning the bottle.
“Does a body good.”
“C’mon, let’s get going,” he said. “I don’t feel like hanging around here.”
He stuffed the newspaper into Steph’s bag. She climbed on behind him and they left as quickly as possible. She now hugged him tightly.
* * *
—
All around the shore, the lake was dotted with the bright pinpoints of campfires. Youngsters were partying or camping on the various beaches. Theoretically, you weren’t allowed to camp or drink there, but custom won out over the rule. So in summer, kids would come almost every evening to light fires, get loaded, and sleep under the stars. This led to all sorts of nuisances: fights, wear and tear, and a lot of garbage. City Hall launched public information campaigns, plastering the area with signs reminding people of the relevant prohibitions. Sometimes, a patrol would even fine offenders. But everybody in Heillange could remember once sleeping overnight on a beach or sharing a kiss in the moonlight. And, by and large, you couldn’t do anything against that tradition.
In fact, Anthony and Steph had to walk quite some distance on the American beach to find a quiet spot. Along the way they passed several small groups of laughing teens playing guitars and flirting around the campfire. They finally settled near a circle of big blackened rocks. Anthony gathered branches and crumpled the newspaper, then lit a match. The flames shot up, yellow and bright, redefining their faces and lengthening their shadows. Steph sat on the sand, her knees pulled up. Anthony came close to her and they started drinking. They didn’t have much to say to each other, but that was okay, they felt good, and Stéphanie no longer wanted to be elsewhere. But in the silence, Anthony started thinking about his old man anyway. He wondered how the business at L’Usine had turned out. This time it was Steph who wanted to talk about the weather. Which was handy, as a subject of conversation. You just made statements.
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