“You’re an asshole,” said the barber.
“What do you mean?” asked Rudi.
The owner told them to watch their little friend, or things would get ugly. Patrick promised he would.
“I’m warning you, if he does it again, I’ll punch his lights out, handicap or no handicap.”
“I’m not handicapped,” said Rudi.
“Yeah, right.”
The owner had a mustache so big you could barely see his lips under it. Patrick knew him from rugby; the guy coached the little kids. Anthony had been enrolled for three years when he was small.
“We’ll keep an eye on him. No problem.”
The barber went “Heh-heh,” and they left it at that.
“Stop screwing around, Rudi. Are you out of it, or something?”
“She was looking at me.”
“The hell she was.”
“You don’t usually bother girls. What’s going on?”
“I dunno. I thought she was looking at me.”
“We all need love,” said the barber philosophically, raising his glass.
“That’s for sure.”
Patrick turned his back to the bar and resumed studying the crowd. He enjoyed the state he was in, drunk, bitter, all-powerful. There wasn’t much chance of finding his kid in this flood of faces and light, anyway. He grunted and took another swallow of beer. Rudi had turned around as well. His unblinking eyes shone like lead in his hedgehog face. He was staring, lost, his mouth agape.
“Over there!” he said, pointing.
Patrick tried to follow his gaze, and in fact a figure that could well be Anthony had just left a table full of people. Rudi’s finger was still in the air. Patrick didn’t even bother asking him how he knew. Drunks, idiots, and saints, all those people basically belonged to the same natural order.
“I’ll be back.”
He emptied his glass and tried to make his way through the crowd. It wasn’t easy. He grumbled as people kept coming in the other direction. He checked to see that the knife was still there, stuck in his belt under his polo shirt. He eventually found the cousin and Carine, along with some kids and a little fat guy who looked vaguely Hispanic.
“What do you know!” he said.
“Hi, there.”
The cousin offered him a seat. A baby was perched on Carine’s thigh. The other guy had a nice smile and was playing with another kid. Introductions were made. Patrick discovered the extent of this family, which had grown in his absence. He remained standing, feeling chagrined. The kids were cute, even if their noses were running and they looked scruffy from playing under the table. He pretended to steal little Julie’s nose between his fingers.
“Bingo!”
The girl’s eyes widened. Patrick caught Carine looking at him askance. He was just a drunk, after all.
“So what’s happening with you?”
“Not much. What about you?”
“I’m gettin’ by.”
“Lotta people, eh?”
“Yeah.”
Patrick looked for cigarettes in his pockets. The cousin offered him one.
“Here.”
He gave him a light. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” Patrick no longer quite knew what tack to take. He was thirsty already.
“How’s your mother?”
“Same as always,” said the cousin.
Patrick drew thoughtfully on his cigarette and nodded slowly.
These kids, he’d known them since they were this high. They had played at his house. He had treated them to carousel rides and swum with them at the pool. He cleared his throat.
“You haven’t seen Anthony, have you?”
This caused an odd exchange of glances over the table. Nobody wanted to speak. Eventually the cousin took the plunge.
“Yeah, he was here five minutes ago. He went to take a piss.”
“He was supposed to come see me,” Patrick explained.
The young people didn’t react, of course. Why the hell should they care? Patrick suddenly felt a little weary. He stubbed out his cigarette and smiled.
“All right, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Have a good evening.”
“If you see Anthony…”
“We’ll tell him, no problem.”
He made his way back to the bar, carefully putting each foot firmly on the ground. He didn’t want them to see him swaying. This whole thing was beginning to seriously piss him off. Reaching the counter, he found Rudi and the barber, along with his tin of cigarettes. He lit one and gestured to the mustachioed owner to serve him another beer. He didn’t ask the other two men if they wanted something.
* * *
—
Anthony quickly sized up the situation. If you wanted to take a piss, the beach had a grand total of three toilets, blue plastic cabins, with a queue twenty-five yards long in front of each one. Women, mostly. Once they saw the line, guys headed for the woods. Anthony did the same. He wanted to find himself a quiet spot, but even there, it was crowded. He went deeper among the trees. Soon the darkness of the forest closed around him. At his back, the party was nothing more than a muffled yellow pulsing. He took a few more steps. The foliage barely rustled. He unbuttoned his fly.
Whenever he found himself in this kind of situation, he started thinking of the inbreds. He couldn’t help it. When he was ten or twelve, he and his cousin used to spend entire afternoons watching horror movies. They closed the shutters, sat on the floor, and gazed up at the screen. The game consisted in seeing how long they could stand it. At times, the fear became so intense that Anthony closed his eyes. That only left the sound, and the fright took on a superlative dimension in his mind. After that he would have nightmares for days. Even at school, or at home, he would feel presences, sensing things lurking in dark corners. He jumped at the slightest sound, refused to go to the bathroom by himself. His mother even talked of taking him to a therapist. Luckily his father scotched that idea. Then the boys moved on to skin flicks, the cousin taped Ashlyn Gere and Christy Canyon on Canal, and Anthony’s sleep improved.
Being there in the woods with his cock hanging out brought back all those vague fears. A shiver ran down the back of his neck. It wasn’t really cold, but there was a prickly dampness in the air that fell from the branches and slipped under your collar to your skin. He thought he saw a shape passing between the tree trunks in front of him. Eyes wide, he stared into the emptiness. Something pale again caught his eye. His scrotum promptly tightened. The hairs on his forearms stood up. Then he recognized the familiar wet sound of urine hitting the soft soil of the forest.
Only he wasn’t pissing.
Breathless, he buttoned his fly. He didn’t dare move.
“Hey, there!”
Anthony jumped, and whipped around to see where the voice was coming from. A guy was just pissing behind a tree, only a few yards away.
“Oh, man, I really freaked out!”
“Heh-heh,” said the guy.
Just hearing him, it was as if someone had turned on a light. At that, Anthony was able to go back to doing what he’d come for. He pissed for a long time, with pleasure, reassured by the presence of the other man, occupied just as he was in relieving himself against a tree. When the other guy was finished, he took a step toward Anthony, and said:
“I can’t stand this place.”
“The beach?”
“No, the forest. I don’t know, it gives me the creeps.”
“Totally.”
Anthony couldn’t see the man but from his voice he imagined he was young, friendly, and a little loaded, just like him. In the distance the first notes of “La Bamba” could be heard. He shook off the last drops and buttoned his fly. The other guy was waiting. Out of politeness, in a way. Anthony wiped his hands on his jeans and joined him.
“Shit.”
He and Hacine had bumped into each other for the first time in a long time. Somewhat stunned, they remained speechless for a long moment. They didn’t know quite how to handle the encounter.
“So what do we do?” asked Hacine.
Anthony didn’t have the slightest idea. Fortunately, just then the music stopped and the lights at the beach were switched off. The two boys found themselves in total darkness. A murmur ran through the motionless crowd of spectators as the first rocket soared above the lake, drawing a long curve of glittering sparks. It exploded very high up, very far away, superb. The opening lyrics of “Who Wants to Live Forever” rang out pompously. Anthony found himself alone again. Hacine had split. Behind him, the forest weighed like a memory. He hurried back to his cousin and the others.
6
On the beach, a thousand faces were lifted to the sky, reflecting bursts of red, blue, and white light. Roman candles shot up through the night, sparkling and rigid, before thumping people’s chests and blasting their eardrums. It was a swarming of light, a cascade of color and thunder. City Hall had gone all out this time.
Even Steph and Clémence couldn’t find anything to mock, despite the deeply gregarious atmosphere, despite Céline Dion and Whitney Houston. The sound and light captivated them, and they forgot to keep themselves detached. Nearby, a father held his daughter in his arms as she said, “Beautiful red one…Beautiful blue one,” her finger pointed at the sky. The cops had their noses in the air, too. The whole valley was looking in the same direction. It was July 14, Bastille Day.
The final display was launched to the strains of “Que je t’aime.” Steph felt Clémence leaning against her. Their eyes were shining with the same damp spark while the lyrics my body on your body kneaded their bellies with a brute, animal emotion, an irresistible grip.
And then it was over, people whistled and applauded, and everybody rushed off to get a drink. The audience had worked up quite a thirst. Now the dancing could start.
Very quickly, the mood changed. What had begun as ambling goodwill turned into a kind of frenzy. Bodies heated by alcohol, noise, and fatigue mindlessly attracted and repelled each other. On the dance floor, couples began to sway under garlands of light bulbs. The DJ, who knew his classics, started the dancing with the Jackson Five, then Gloria Gaynor. If you looked, you could glimpse dampness in the cleavages. The old people cast an affectionate gaze over all this disorder. Some of them were nodding off. The teenagers, on the other hand, were in no danger of falling asleep. Tightly wound and pretending to be cool, they watched each other along the edge of the dance floor, their eyes like daggers. For each generation, desire had to overcome the same shyness. It’s such a drag not knowing how to do that.
Steph and Clémence had also stepped onto the dance floor. Anthony found them there when he came back from the forest. They were dancing, a little shakily, copying each other’s moves, arms in the air, doing a whole number, and looking super pretty. After a couple of songs, they whispered something to each other, and Clémence left the dance floor.
This seemed like the right time.
“Hi, there,” he said.
Steph turned to him. It took her two full seconds to realize who he was.
“Damn, whaddya know!”
She was smiling broadly. They tried to talk, but the music was too loud. She took the initiative to leave the dance floor.
“So what have you been up to?”
“I’m in Paris now,” she said.
“Ah, that’s cool.”
“Are you kidding? I’m studying like a maniac. I’ve gained twenty pounds.”
Anthony looked her over. Much of the extra weight had clearly gone to her breasts. Her tank top strap was cutting into the skin on her shoulder, the way her bathing suit strings once cut into her hips.
“Hey, there!” said Steph, snapping her fingers under his nose.
“You’re beautiful.”
“That’s so stupid…”
Just the same, hearing this pleased her, and she struggled to hide it. Just then Clémence came back carrying two tumblers of beer.
“I couldn’t find you. Where were you?”
“I was here.”
Steph didn’t know what to say. Anthony kept quiet. They were off on the wrong foot.
“Am I in the way, by any chance?” asked Clémence.
“Of course not.”
Nothing was happening. The music blared. Anthony chose to sacrifice himself.
“I’m getting myself something to drink. I’ll be back.”
“Right,” said Clémence.
There you had it: dead in the water again. Anthony tried to look cool as he walked away, though he felt completely disgusted. He’d come here to enjoy himself, to take one last breath of this shithole town before leaving forever, and Steph had screwed everything up, as usual. He couldn’t even turn around, because she and her bitch friend were probably watching him. He went to stand in line at the bar. He was dying to look over his shoulder but didn’t dare. It all made him feel like hitting something, hurting himself, though he thought he’d gotten over all that. Girls…what a plague!
“Hey!”
Anthony turned around. Steph was walking toward him, alone. Her girlfriend had disappeared. A miracle.
“Would you mind driving me home a little later?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Clémence had to go, and it felt like a drag having to leave.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, but don’t go getting any ideas.”
Too late. Anthony was already hoping for everything. He got his beer and they went off to one side, at the edge of the woods, to talk. Actually, talk mainly meant sitting on the grass, waiting. Steph asked him questions. He answered yes or no, evasively, almost unable to look at her. He in turn tried to find out what she’d been doing these last two years. She wasn’t much more talkative. None of this was happening the way it was supposed to.
“You’re a drag,” said Steph.
So he turned and kissed her. Their teeth banged together. It was a rough kiss, one last chance. It hurt her, and she grabbed him by the hair. They nearly lost their balance. They closed their eyes, their tongues tangled, their hearts beat fast. Gradually, the clumsiness fell away. They tumbled over onto the scratchy grass, him on top of her. He kissed her cheeks and her cheekbones, breathed into her neck. He was heavy and Steph felt herself yielding under this weight of a man, opening up to him. She wasn’t thinking about anything anymore for once. And neither was he. They were excited, and it was the end of the world. But as he began to fumble in her panties, she changed her mind.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“My parents are here. I don’t want them to catch me making out with some guy.”
“They can’t see us. We’re cool here. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Still…”
To get out of it, Steph said the first thing that came to her mind:
“Anyway, I want to dance.”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on, I love this song.”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
But it was already settled. She pushed him aside and quickly straightened her clothes.
“Come on. It’s not late, you can fuck me later.”
* * *
—
In his career as a drinker, Patrick Casati had known various eras. The era of pals and parties, which left you with a spotty memory and was dealt with in the morning with two aspirins and a Coke. Later came the binges that lasted several days, followed by self-pitying repentance, where he went so far as to lecture his friends and consider returning to the church. He had also known the phase of continuous, medium-intensity drunkenness, bottles hidden in the locker room and chewing gum for breath, the thousand screw
ups at work that his friends covered up for him, the good times laughing at the bistro and the gloomy returns home. Those ended in shouting matches, sleeping on the living room sofa, and the kid seeing it all. After Metalor shut down, there was therapeutic drinking, to relax, buck yourself up, forget your problems; even the unemployed have a right to have a little fun, for chrissakes. There had been times of quitting when he stopped for good, not even having a drink on the weekend. Which basically consisted in waiting for the backsliding, when a drink would eventually do him in—just a splash of port, and then the deep dive. At times like that, when he wasn’t drinking, Patrick didn’t want to go out or see anybody; Christmas became a threat. He was afraid of his friends, afraid of cocktail time each evening. Around seven, the need would make itself felt, always. Nothing to beat yourself up over, but the temptation of a drink, just one. It couldn’t do any harm. The drink had its moments, and also its voice. That of the friend who knows that life is short, that we’ll all wind up in a hole, may as well enjoy ourselves. So Patrick would take just one break, and the next day find himself completely screwed up, and having to start all over again.
Those phases had followed each other again and again, in confusion, he had experienced them all. But they were nothing like what was happening now. Now he was drinking like an athlete aiming for a personal best, like a bodybuilder seeking the weight he couldn’t lift, the one that would leave him drained. And during this whole effort, until he fell asleep, Patrick lived like a king. All-powerful, brutal, generating fear and trembling because you knew at a glance that he was capable of anything and that his thirst had no other end except the cemetery.
“All right, this isn’t the whole story.”
And Their Children After Them Page 36