And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “Good, good…In that case, aim high, Mademoiselle Chaussoy. Aim high.”

  In May, Steph was able to visit the HEC business school campus with a little group of her classmates, as a way of getting a feel for the place. She saw brightly lit offices, well-tended flower beds, high-tech equipment, and professors who were lively, prophetic, and better paid than marketing directors. Steph’s attention was especially drawn to the students. They were as lean as athletes, devoted to power, and beautiful, just by knowing they were the best.

  For Steph the visit served as confirmation. This was exactly what she wanted to do. This was exactly how she wanted to be.

  She’d always had the feeling that outside of Paris, people only led second-class lives. Seeing this caste of hungry young people reinforced that impression. They alone knew; they alone were properly trained to understand how the world worked and how to move its levers. Everything else was crap, and the physicists, social sciences hotshots, agrégés, politicians, philosophers, lawyers, movie stars, and soccer players were all blind, impotent jerks. The people who intimately understood the machine and spoke the language of their time, those who embraced a perpetually accelerating era, exponential by nature, all-devouring, infused with light, speed, and money, they were here, the economics princes and future business leaders in their blue shirts, with their smooth, sleek bodies, their terrifying drive.

  Steph took her entrance competition exams in the spring and got her results in early July. The letters arrived one after the other. She was accepted at Lille, Lyon, and Essec. There it was: the launch pad. She could relax.

  * * *

  —

  Acting blasé and without a smile, Steph only told Clémence that she’d succeeded in the entrance competition for Essec.

  “Bitchin’!” exclaimed Clémence.

  “Yeah, gotta admit.”

  “When I think that you didn’t do jack shit at school.”

  “That’s right. But it seems so long ago.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to come back here. I’m never coming back.”

  “You amaze me.”

  “There comes a time when you just gotta go for it.”

  “Yeah, too true.”

  “I don’t care. I know what I want, and I’m not ashamed to be successful.”

  They walked a little farther to the white Peugeot 106 that Clémence drove when she was in town. It was her parents’ utility car, insured for liability only, dented but sturdy. Her father sometimes took it to the woods, hunting. The rest of the time it sat moldering in the garage. The seats gave off an unpleasant smell of mildew. The girls rolled down the windows for some fresh air.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I dunno.”

  “There’s a pool at my place now,” said Steph.

  “Well, that’s it.”

  “Cool.

  Steph was happy. In the last two years she hadn’t experienced this kind of relaxation, the feeling that nothing needed to be done. She had nothing to study, no daily obligations to meet. Her parents had even stopped pestering her to clean her bedroom or wash the dishes. The future looked complete, ideal. She could just coast until classes started. She was enjoying this unaccustomed state of weightlessness when she said:

  “You know, the timing of this dance is actually pretty good.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause it’s been months since I’ve gotten laid, girl.”

  Clémence slapped the steering wheel and laughed.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. I was working like crazy. And the guys in my class, forget about it. Rejects.”

  “Yeah, but still.”

  “I dunno. I didn’t even want to anymore. My libido completely vanished.”

  “So it’s back now?”

  “Fuck, yeah,” she said with a leer.

  Clémence laughed again.

  “But still, on a Bastille Day in Heillange, who are you going to get it on with? Some army private? A gypsy?”

  “I don’t give a damn,” said Steph. “Even your father, if worse comes to worst.”

  4

  Patrick Casati wanted to do things right. He got up early to buy fresh bait from Lamboley’s and came back with his old Nesquik can half full of weevil grubs. Crawling around in there, the larvae looked really disgusting. He put the pierced cover back on and laughed, remembering how they so revolted Anthony when he was little. He got his fishing poles ready. Those bait tins must be almost fifteen years old by now. They dated from the time the kid still drank hot chocolate, holding his bowl in both hands, a cowlick on his head.

  Patrick hadn’t ever taken him fishing that often. It was a good idea to do it now, before he left.

  He then didn’t have much to do with his morning, aside from waiting. It was pretty easy to not start drinking before noon. He plopped down in front of the TV and started rolling his cigarettes for the week. He would roll them in advance and store them in an airtight metal box. He eventually dozed off with the tobacco and the roller in his lap. He’d spread a towel underneath so as not to spill stuff all over. He slept like that for quite a while, with his mouth open and his chin on his chest. The parade finally woke him up. On television, tanks were rolling down the Champs-Élysées. Bands were marching, planes flying overhead, troops striding along as usual, geometry on the move. Seeing Chirac standing up straight in his Jeep and looking silly, he couldn’t help laughing.

  “Ah! The big guy!”

  Patrick was now living in a studio apartment that supposedly was on the ground floor. In reality you had to go down five steps to get in, with basement windows for light. In all, he had a nine-by-twelve-foot room at his disposal that served as a living room, kitchen, and bedroom with an attached bathroom where the toilet was in the shower. He was handy with tools and had fixed the place up a little, in particular by building shelves, which freed up space. He slept in a twin bed that doubled as a sofa.

  Patrick grabbed some canned food for lunch, the first can he came across. The cupboard over the sink was full of them. Cassoulet, boeuf bourguignon, couscous, ravioli—the basics. He poured the ravioli into a pot and heated it on the gas camping stove. It was ready in two minutes. And practical, with almost no dishes to wash. It wasn’t like he ate right out of the pot, but it was close. He added a healthy shake of salt and pepper, then poured himself a big glass of red wine. Eaten from a tray in front of the TV, the meal didn’t take much longer than its preparation. Since he’d misplaced the remote and was too lazy to get up, he had to watch the entire news program. He ate an apple for dessert and treated himself to another glass of wine, full to the brim; it was a small glass. According to the little alarm clock at the head of the bed, it was almost two. The kid would be there any moment now. Patrick drained his glass, had a third one for the road, and fell asleep again.

  Patrick was living a lethargic life on welfare in his studio apartment. He’d found a cool little job working for a private building manager, twelve hours a week at minimum wage. It consisted in doing the housekeeping at a couple of quiet residences, taking out the garbage, mowing the lawn, weather permitting—being present, basically. It wasn’t much, but old ladies would ask him to lend a hand from time to time. He would do a little carpentry and fix things, and they would tip him. In the beginning, he felt crappy about the job because he would sometimes run into people he used to know. Mopping a floor in front of an old classmate was still something of an existential trial. But all in all, the job was as good as any other. Patrick had big debts and a tiny income, received a housing subsidy, and had the town’s permission to cultivate a patch of land behind the Renardière soccer stadium. He tried to grow potatoes and onions, some parsley, and had even planted strawberries. In fact, each time he went there he brought a case of beer along. After the third can, he would put down his sp
ade and sit in a camp chair, smoking cheap tobacco and looking at the dug-up earth. He could stay like that for a long time, without saying anything, doing nothing but drinking. As the sun set behind the stadium bleachers, he would be there, slumped in his chair and occasionally laughing to himself, surrounded by empty cans. He felt good.

  As result, when the time came to harvest his potatoes, the yield wasn’t that great. He mainly ate out of cans anyway. He went fishing, too. It was a diminished, anesthetized life, and he didn’t ask himself too many questions. That’s the way it was.

  * * *

  —

  Patrick soon woke up, his mouth pasty. The phone was stuck under his armchair. He pulled it out, grumbling. His mood had changed. Everything got on his nerves. On the TV, a guy was pitching mobile phone service in front of Mont-Saint-Michel. You could get a network connection everywhere now, apparently. Patrick was no more tempted to buy one of those filthy phones than fly to the moon. He turned the volume down and dialed his ex’s number. He plugged his other ear, the better to hear.

  “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” said Patrick.

  Hélène said yes, she recognized him, she was used to it. Since they’d gotten over their coldness, he called her often. He would ask her to fill out his tax form or make him an appointment at the ophthalmologist. Among men of Patrick’s generation, relations with the outside world went through the women. Those guys could pour a cement slab or drive a thousand miles without sleeping, but they found it almost physically impossible to invite someone to dinner.

  “So is he coming, or not?”

  “I’m sure he is, since he said he would.”

  “ ’Cause I’ve been waiting for him.”

  “I know. Stop worrying.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “All right.”

  A silence followed.

  “Did you watch the parade?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “The légionnaires.”

  “Well, sure. I saw them.”

  “Feels funny, though.”

  “What does?”

  “That he’s going there.”

  “Yes, I know. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  Hélène always had a good reason for not sleeping, worries, unless it was the phase of the moon. To hear her, she hadn’t slept since May 1991.

  After hanging up, Patrick had another glass of wine. He did the dishes. Because he was expecting Anthony, he had collected the empty bottles, five full bags, and driven them down to the recycling bin. The apartment was immaculate. Then he opened the windows and smoked a cigarette lying on his bed, the ashtray perched on his chest. The television was still turned on, the volume low. Outside, the summer was beautiful. Patrick had known enough of them to know. It wasn’t raining. In the clear sky, the few passing clouds served only to show the wind direction. Today was like yesterday, and like tomorrow. He remembered the summers of his childhood, a veritable continent that his brothers and their friends moved to, emerging only when classes started again. Those were followed by summers broken up by jobs, girls, motorbikes. Then adult summers, almost unnoticeable, three weeks of mandatory paid vacation that always felt failed and inadequate. When he was unemployed he experienced other ones—slow, guilty summers spent stewing and brooding. And then now. He didn’t know anymore. He felt out of it. It both relieved and angered him.

  What he especially couldn’t stand was the waste of his strength. His father hadn’t gone to school beyond age twelve; his mother, not much longer. He himself had dropped out at fourteen, and had consoled himself later by claiming that his certificate was worth more than a baccalauréat. During his whole childhood, his parents had raised him to dread idleness, to be contemptuous of farniente. He learned to cut wood, make a fire, lay tiles, fix a faucet, patch a roof, maintain a house and garden, even do basic carpentry. He and his brothers spent their whole youth in the open air, gathering mushrooms and picking blueberries and plums. He had learned to ski thanks to Catholic youth programs, even though he didn’t go to church. In his world, people looked down on indoor occupations. They preferred leading collective, hardworking lives outside. Even the steel mill, that gigantic operation, was a kind of outdoors. Anything except sitting in an office holding a pen, debilitated by the act of thinking.

  So he had wound up by himself, alone most of the time. He spent gloomy evenings sipping Picon-bière and falling asleep open-mouthed in front of the TV. He would wake with a start at three in the morning, a cold ache cutting across his lower back. The next day, he would struggle to get up and then had to work all day. After that he didn’t feel like doing anything except go home. And there, it was the same thing all over again. Just one glass, that’s what he promised himself. And then his willpower would weaken and he would polish off the cans one after another. This housebound repetition now made up the greatest part of his life. Sometimes, sunk in his armchair, he would look at his hands. A few brown spots had appeared on their backs, but they were still heavy and good-looking. He felt empty, exhausted. He didn’t feel like going out or seeing anybody. He’d gotten into fights with almost everybody, anyway. He would have liked to put those empty hands to work. Wrap them around a handle. They were made to use tools, to shape things. At times like that, fevers and anxieties would rise, turning him into a killer.

  But Patrick Casati was happy, for once. His son was coming to see him, and he felt proud. The boy would soon be in uniform, in Germany. He didn’t tell himself that the kid was becoming a soldier. And he thought about war even less. Just one word went through his mind: “military.” It carried a whiff of moderate heroism, order and discipline, and especially the same steadiness as a civil service job.

  The poor kid really hadn’t had much luck. With Hélène, they’d had him very early. Then there were the problems at the mill. Fear of what might happen tomorrow had wormed its way into their lives. The lack of money, the worries, the struggle fought on the line that separates the lower-middle class from the hard-core poor. And finally the urge to drink, which had always been there.

  When Patrick met Hélène, she was seventeen. She and her sister thought they were the heartthrobs of the valley. They were kidding themselves. The Kleber girl was prettier. So was Chantal Durupt, who went off to Paris; they saw her in a Petula Clark Scopitone film. People didn’t know what became of her, but with legs like hers, a good marriage or a career as a stewardess wasn’t out of the question.

  Except that Hélène had something else, something alluring and dangerous. Looking at Hélène was a little like having sex with her. At the time all the boys were sniffing around her, and she ordered her crew of idiots around like a conductor. That game had lasted decades. Basically, Hélène had never wanted to give up her power over men. Nowadays, it was Patrick’s turn to laugh. The witchcraft had completely dissipated. She had cut her hair; her arms had gotten soft; her cheeks were sunken. Not to mention her breasts. He was happy. Hélène was neutralized.

  And to think they weren’t even fifty yet.

  Their turn had come and gone quickly, and they hadn’t gotten much out of it. This feeling of retreat had produced a new kind of understanding between them. It wasn’t love anymore, but a kind of weary tenderness, a disappointed faithfulness. They wouldn’t hurt each other anymore now. It was too late.

  After a while Patrick fetched his present from the cupboard under the sink. He set it on the tiny desk and went to sit in a chair. It was almost three o’clock. “That kid just doesn’t give a shit about anyone,” he muttered. Patrick sat staring at the shiny gift wrap and curly ribbon. His chair wasn’t very comfortable, but he didn’t dare go back to his armchair, for fear of falling asleep again. After half an hour he got up and snapped a can from the pack that had been intended for their men’s outing. He drained three beers, eventually lay down, and fell asleep as suddenly as if he’d been clubbed.

  When he c
ame to, it was past eight, he felt stiff all over, and the day was shot. The grubs were still busily crawling around in the Nesquik tin. The washed-out sky promised only emptiness. It didn’t feel as pleasant as before. He closed the window and walked to the kitchenette. His lips were pursed, and you could hear him breathing from ten feet away. It was a congested breath, heavy with thirty years of tobacco and full of gravel. He stared at the gift for a moment. Then he tore off the wrapping paper, opened the rectangular box, and grasped the beautiful hunting knife it contained. A superb weapon, it had a wide, almost black blade whose oblong, swollen shape looked like a Judas-tree leaf. Patrick had tested the edge on his forearm; it was razor sharp. He slid the knife into its sheath, then slipped the sheath into his belt. Since Anthony hadn’t come, he would go find him.

  Before leaving his apartment, Patrick took a couple of beers for the road. He got into his 205 hatchback and headed for the lake. He was going to give him his present, like it or not. His fucking son.

  5

  So there they were, maybe not all, but a lot of them: the French.

  The old, the unemployed, the big shots, the kids on motorbikes, the Arabs from the projects, the disappointed voters and the single-parent families, the baby carriages and the owners of Renault Espace, the executives in Lacoste, the last workers, the sellers of French fries, the hotties in shorts, the hair-gelled, and, from farther away, the rustics, the inbreds, and of course a few grunts for good measure.

  They were coming to the lakeshore en masse, having parked for a couple of miles along the departmental highway, in the fields, even in the forest. They moved in clumps, migrating, cheerful, frighteningly diverse and irreconcilable, yet side by side, and ultimately pretty friendly.