So there would be fireworks at the American beach that evening, and Coralie wanted to see them. The city government had arranged a dance. Hacine had never gone there.
“Why not?” Coralie asked.
“I dunno. What the hell does it have to do with me?”
“Not even when you were little? You’ve really never seen the fireworks? It’s super fun.”
“Never, I’m telling you.”
Neither had any of his friends. It just wasn’t their thing. In his family, the question had never even come up.
“Why should I give a fuck about the Fourteenth of July?”
“Stop that! For a kid, it’s magical. There’s music, you have a few drinks. It’s great.”
“Yeah, right. But I have to work tomorrow.”
He was frowning, so she gave him a punch.
“Don’t do that thing again.”
“But—”
“We won’t stay late. Come on!”
Besides, he had to get up at five because they started early in summer. Jacques had warned him that they would be on a truly crappy worksite, with a risk of asbestos. Hacine had no desire to go dancing. The Bastille Day celebration would certainly be full of red-faced bozos, cops everywhere, brass bands, and soldiers. In a word: shit.
As he laid out his arguments, Coralie rolled her eyes.
“My poor baby…” she said.
Hacine understood that it was all settled, and there wasn’t much he could say about it.
On the way home, he did manage to wring one concession from her. They wouldn’t dance.
“All right,” said Coralie. “But we’re going to Sophie’s next Saturday.”
Sophie was her friend who lived in a farmhouse out in the country that she and her boyfriend were restoring. They had four kids, including a newborn. It was hell. Each time they came back from there, Coralie’s head was full of plans for the future.
3
Stéphanie’s father had finally built his swimming pool.
It was rectangular and blue, surrounded by wooden furniture, flowers, and umbrellas—the kind associated with television personalities featured in the pages of Paris Match. Steph considered the thing from the terrace. Standing nearby, her mother awaited her verdict.
“Well?”
“It’s nice.”
“It is, isn’t it? Those chaise longues, they’re teak. Rot resistant. They stay outside, even in winter.”
Caroline was seeking her daughter’s approval. In vain. Steph remained hidden behind her sunglasses. She had kept her distance from her parents since coming home, barely speaking to them. Her mother was trying to do the right thing.
“Do you want to go swimming? I can get you a towel.”
“Maybe later.”
The two women were about the same size, with Steph maybe a little rounder. Her mother was dressed in white, and smoking a Marlboro. Each time she raised the cigarette to her lips the gold bracelets on her wrist jingled prettily. In the distance you could hear the steady hum of the pump. The light cast thin white reflections on the water. Nobody ever went swimming.
“I’m thirsty,” said Caroline. “Want to have a drink?”
“Sure.”
“Okay, I’ll take you into town.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll treat you to champagne. As a celebration.”
“What are we celebrating?”
Her mother made a funny little noise with her lips that might have sounded like a fart, and meant that they were sure to think of something. The response amused Steph. The more her father embraced respectability, the more her mother seemed to loosen up. With her daughter away and her husband hustling, Caroline found herself on her own, or with girlfriends. It didn’t bother her. She had decided to have fun.
“Where do you want to go?” asked Steph.
“Let’s go to Algarde.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, don’t be a snob. He’ll be happy to see you.”
She looked at her daughter with desperate eagerness. Since Stéphanie had come home, Caroline wanted to take her everywhere, to show her off. People were calling her “the Parisienne.” It was both flattering and annoying. They had even gone shopping in Luxembourg City. Anyway, Steph didn’t really have much choice. She had already cut her visit down to nothing, four days, and then was leaving with some girlfriends for Florence, Rome, and Naples. She hadn’t been home since Christmas. And her parents were still footing the bills.
* * *
—
She and her mother took the Golf to drive into town. Steph had mixed feelings about being back in Heillange. In spite of herself, she enjoyed seeing these places again, the Metro, the Commerce brasserie, the little shops that would close when their owners died—a milliner, a notions store, a tiny fruit and vegetable stand—and also the post office, with its 1970s furnishings, City Hall, which was decked out for the national holiday, pedestrian streets, the bridge across the Henne, and finally her old school. In this shrunken, permanent landscape, Steph felt proud of herself. She kind of wished people knew it, that there was something that could set her off, now that she belonged to other places. Her whole attitude said she was just passing through.
When they reached Algarde, the owner immediately left the counter to come greet them. One of those eternally youthful men, Victor had the latest sneakers, rolled-up sleeves, and gorgeous teeth, thinning hair but not a single wrinkle. He didn’t flash his money around, but he still drove an SUV accompanied by an updated wife, with two kids in the back who looked almost exactly like him, except they had hair with lots of gel on it. Caroline hung out at Algarde, which she’d made her headquarters, coming in for drinks with her girlfriends and eating there on weekends. She took Victor’s arm and gave him a kiss.
“So you brought us your Parisienne!” he said.
Steph smiled at Victor but was careful not to kiss him. He was giving her the eye with a little half smile, seductive but distant. His cheeks had that burnished luster you see on men who shave twice a day. He was attractive, but in an unsettling way.
He eventually led the two women out to the terrasse. The weather was beautiful. Victor asked them for their news. Steph’s mother answered playfully, without telling him anything in particular. He found them a table shaded by a big umbrella, quite far back from the street and the occasional passing car. They had some trees behind them to keep them cool, and a panoramic view of place Mortier, the handsomest in town, with its old houses, paving stones, and a fountain designed by some contemporary artist.
They chatted for a moment, out of habit. Basically, Stéphanie was at the center of a somewhat meaningless society game. Her mother showed her off, people pretended to be interested, and Steph played along. A kind of fake currency was being circulated that helped lubricate relationships. At bottom, nobody really gave a damn.
Victor was treating them to drinks, so they gave up the idea of champagne. Caroline ordered a kir; Steph had beer. It was almost eleven in the morning. They sipped their drinks slowly, looking around. It was crowded. For some time now, downtown Heillange was being pulled in different directions. Businesses were heading out to the periphery while the historic core, with its streets and buildings, was being renovated at great expense. The mayor was ambitious, and he had accommodating bankers. There were practically no factories left in the valley, and young people were leaving for lack of jobs. As a result, the mass of workers who once formed the majority in municipal elections and shaped the area’s politics had become the smallest share of the electorate. So City Hall was exploring new development approaches with the help of the regional and state councils. Tourism would spark a renaissance. After upgrading the campground, enlarging the sailing club and swimming pool, and creating a theme miniature golf course, the city was now multiplying pedestrian streets and bike paths and had announced a brand-new iron and s
teel museum for the year 2000. The surrounding area had lots of hills and trails, which attracted hikers. Moreover, several companies—local, German, and Luxemberger—had been persuaded to support the idea of an amusement park. The overall plan was simple: invest. The means: take on debt. The inevitable result: prosperity.
Steph’s father, Pierre, now a deputy mayor for culture, was totally committed to this laudable adventure, whose repercussions were yet to be felt. At the municipal council, people stuck to the official line. Priming the pump required time and effort, but once the machine was launched, we’d be set for a century of full employment. In the meantime, when a councillor was challenged by an inquisitive voter, a budding economist, or a reporter, he blamed the state or the previous administration, Communists who had brought the town to its knees.
“What they’ve done isn’t too bad,” commented Steph’s mother.
“Yeah.”
“Everything used to be gray in this town. It was ugly.”
“For sure.”
Buildings throughout the area had blossomed in light red, green, fuchsia, and baby blue. The fashion even reached the prefecture, which was now painted a dusty rose. Driving through town, you sometimes felt you’d stumbled into a Jacques Demy movie. Everything that remained of the old city—its steel mills, its memories of wars and their dead, its Republican mottos, and what remained of its Catholicism—was gradually disappearing under new paint. The urban landscape that resulted from these renovations gave the inhabitants the odd feeling of living in a theme park. But they accepted it in the name of that most tenacious of ideas, progress.
Steph was thinking about all this and much besides, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up. Clémence was standing right behind her.
“What the heck are you doing here?”
“Well, nothing,” said a delighted Stéphanie.
“Don’t you ever tell people when you come home?”
“I arrived on Tuesday. I’m leaving tomorrow night.”
“And I’m spending nearly the whole summer here,” said Clémence, with mock dismay.
“Oh, poor you.”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you leaving?”
“As soon as I can, in August. But I’m working all of July.”
“Where?”
“At the law firm, with my father. I’m subbing for the receptionist.”
“That’s nice.”
Clémence was still standing behind her and Steph was looking up at her, which made her friend’s face look strangely reversed. She was amused at having such trouble recognizing her old pal.
“Sit down,” suggested Caroline. “Have a drink with us.”
Clémence gladly accepted, and took a chair from the next table. The women began gossiping enthusiastically, like actresses in the limelight, speaking loudly or softly depending on the topic. Steph learned that their classmate Clarisse had twice screwed up her first year at medical school and was at the end of her rope. On top of that, her boyfriend, who’d been at Paris Dauphine University, was leaving for London for a graduate internship. It was the pits. As for Simon Rotier, he was loafing his way through a business school in the Paca area, where his main interests were windsurfing and electronic music. He was back home just then, and Clémence had run into him.
“And?”
“The same as ever.”
“A real douche.”
“There you have it.”
The girls laughed. Was Steph planning on seeing him? Clémence wanted to know.
“Not on your life!”
Still, just thinking about it made Steph feel funny, sort of weak. The two girls continued the roll call of people they knew. Rodrigue was studying law in Metz; nobody saw him anymore. Romain Rotier was a star in a sports physiology program. He’d started doing triathlons and was winning metals. Steph’s mother had seen his name in the paper a couple of times.
“Problem is, he’s gonna wind up working as a coach.”
“That’s right. The guy’s gonna spend the rest of his days wearing slipons in some smelly gym. The pits.”
Caroline giggled. She had already finished her drink and was having a very good time. She wanted another one and ordered a bottle of a very cold white wine that tasted like electricity. The mood was definitely excellent. Steph was happy to find Clémence the same as always, lively and desirable, with an extra something that was hard to define. It looked like arrogance, but maybe it was actually just strength. Whatever the case, it made her irresistible. Being there was delightful, and the three women intended to make the pleasure last.
“Let’s have lunch here,” said Caroline after a while, glancing at her watch.
It was almost half past. They hadn’t seen the time flying. Clémence said she was expected. Caroline insisted, Clem would be her guest. Well, in that case. Victor brought the menus. Around them, people were lingering over drinks. Thirtysomethings in T-shirts enjoyed the sunshine. Children ran to and from the big pool in the middle of the square. There were also a few old people with tartan cloth shopping bags, visitors eating sirloin steak and quiche. The two girls wanted salads; Caroline was inclined to salmon tartare. But they kept drinking and eventually wound up ordering pizza. The conversation flowed on, more and more lively, cheerful, unstoppable. Clémence had tons of stories about her father’s law office and the crazy people who passed through it. To hear her tell it, the waiting room had nothing on a medieval court of miracles. Alcoholics, pensioners, indigents, silicosis victims, the obese, varicose veins sufferers, people crippled or otherwise hurt, incomprehensible foreigners and French people who were hardly more articulate.
“One woman showed up, she had three children, they’re all handicapped. One, I can understand, but three, what the heck is that about?”
It was funny, though not really. Making fun of social misfits was pretty routine, and increasingly widespread. It was partly for laughs, but partly to ward off evil, the insidious tide ever rising from below. When you ran into those people in the street, they weren’t just local color anymore, a few wackos or inbreds out for a stroll. A bare-bones economy was being set up for them dedicated to the management of poverty, the extinction of a species, with housing, Aldi supermarkets, and health clinics. You would see the people wandering ghostlike from welfare office to ZUP housing project and from bistro to canal, carrying plastic bags, equipped with children in strollers, legs like posts, huge bellies, and faces not to be believed. Once in a while a particularly beautiful girl would be born to them, and you could then imagine things, promiscuity and violence. Still, she was lucky, because her body might serve as a passport to a better world. Those families would also produce incredibly tough guys who refused to accept their fate and lashed out. They would have brief, deviant careers and wind up dead or in prison.
There were no statistics to measure the extent of this collapse, but the number of hungry people fed by Restos du Coeur was growing exponentially as social services crumbled. You had to wonder what kind of life those people could be leading, in their shabby housing, eating fatty food, hooked on video games and soap operas, spending their time making children and trouble, lost, enraged, and marginalized. It was best to avoid asking yourself the question, or counting them, or speculating on their life expectancy or fertility. They were scum, hovering below the poverty line, tossed occasional scraps of welfare, destined to frighten and to disappear.
Victor suggested dessert, but the three women were full. They had shared a carafe of Côtes-du-Rhône with the pizzas and were feeling very relaxed, sleepy, and heavy. Steph’s mother announced that she couldn’t move, and the two girls were doing no better. Coffee came with the bill, and Caroline laid her Visa Premier card on it. While they’d been chatting and laughing, the terrasse had emptied out. Only an English couple who came in late remained, with some teenagers smoking Chesterfields and drinking a Monaco. In the torpor of thi
s early afternoon, it was very pleasant to contemplate the emptiness of July.
“Hey, look!” said Clémence, pointing down rue des Trois-Épis.
Steph’s father was coming their way. His sagging belly hid his belt and stretched his blue-and-white checked Eden Park shirt. He strode along carrying a briefcase and staring at his shoes. He looked at his watch and quickened his pace. Steph’s mother stood up to wave at him.
“Hey, there!” she called, clinging to the back of her chair.
“Are you all right?” asked Steph.
“Sure, sure. I’ve had it a lot worse.”
Caroline raised her hand, and her bracelets slid down her forearm and made their pleasant jingle. Her husband gave a quick wave and came over. He looked black as thunder, and immediately started telling them what was bothering him. The three women pretended to listen.
Pierre Chaussoy had just come from the American beach, where he’d checked on the final preparations for the festivities. The fireworks weren’t set up yet. The firefighters were giving him a hard time, and so were the municipal workers, who wanted triple-time pay because this Bastille Day fell on a Sunday. The mayor was waiting for him to report back. As he talked, he swiped pieces of pizza crust from his daughter’s plate. Steph watched him doing it. He won’t last long at that rate, she thought.
“You’re coming tonight, aren’t you?” he asked. “There’ll be a big turnout.”
Steph and Clémence played up to him. In fact they weren’t too crazy about the idea. Oompah music and fistfights really weren’t their idea of a fun evening. But he was so persistent that they wound up promising to come. Then he went on his way, pudgy, panting, briefcase in hand. The mayor was waiting for him, and, in one way or another, the whole town needed him.
“Okay then…”
Caroline and the girls didn’t have anything more to say to each other. The two avoided looking at her, and she got the message. She got to her feet and picked up the bill.
“Do you have a car, Clémence?”
“Yes.”
And Their Children After Them Page 32