He and Rudi had found themselves a little spot where they could watch the dance floor without people seeing them. They quietly emptied a bottle they’d stolen from one of the tables. It had practically nothing left. They lay stretched out, leaning on their elbows, legs crossed. They weren’t waiting for anything; they were just there.
“I’m gonna go.”
“Where?” asked Rudi.
“Nowhere. If I stay here, I’ll fall ’sleep.”
“So what?”
“I don’t wanna fall asleep, tha’s all.”
Patrick stood up as best he could. He was swaying on his heels. He patted himself down.
“What are you looking for?”
“My knife.”
“Where d’ya’ put it?”
“Rhaaa.”
Patrick knelt down, felt around, and found it. He slipped the knife back in his belt and pulled his polo shirt over it. Then he grabbed the bottle.
“I’m finishing this.”
Rudi didn’t react. Not that he had any choice. Patrick was looking the way he did on bad days, anyhow. His mouth shrunk to a bitter slit and the skin tight over his cheekbones, he looked like a corpse. He didn’t have many more drinks ahead of him, and firmly intended to down them all. He raised the bottle to his lips and drained it.
“That’s some more that the Germans won’ get.”
He was now in a state of terrible drunkenness, buzzing and metallic. He looked at the idiot with his spiky hair, his already deep wrinkles, his poignant, dazed look. Poor Rudi was useless, just spinning his wheels, and no woman would ever give in to him. He would be just as well-off dead.
“Home safe,” said Rudi.
Patrick snickered and got under way. He was stooped, breathing hard, still holding the bottle. Soon he was weaving between the tables. He had to use his shoulders and hands to make his way through. People didn’t want to move their asses. They stepped on his toes. Some kids shoved him. Little ragheads, besides. Need just one last drink, then go home. He was sure he’d find someone to drive him back. He stopped for a moment at a table, sitting down astride a bench. He looked over the table. There were abandoned tumblers with dregs of beer and red wine. He drank everything he found. He noticed some people looking at him. A whole family, with the grandparents and the kids.
“What?”
Nothing. They didn’t have anything to say. Cowards. He wanted to stand up but his legs got tangled in the bench, and before he knew it, he lost his balance and smashed face-first onto the ground. The father of the family hurried over.
“Wait, don’t move!”
Patrick’s face was pressed against the ground, his legs in the air. He was trapped. He let the guy straighten him out.
Once on his feet again, he touched his forehead. It didn’t hurt, but blood had started dripping onto his T-shirt and his shoes. The whole side of his nose was scraped. He felt it with his finger, which sank in. Facing him, the man grimaced in a way that said a lot.
“You’re pretty banged up, you know.”
“Is it deep?”
The guy took Patrick’s wrist and pulled his hand away, the better to see.
“Yeah, sure is.”
Patrick checked his teeth with his tongue. He had a taste of metal in his mouth; he was bleeding. But no damage, apparently.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
He looked at his hands, his clothes. The guy’s wife pulled a pack of tissues from her handbag, and her husband offered them to him.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“Still, it’s really bleeding a lot.”
Patrick felt a little foolish, his legs wobbly. He held his hand out to see if it shook. Tomorrow, he would have no memory of this, only scrapes and bruises. His hand was shaking hard.
“Let’s go see the medics.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’ve been though worse.”
He wiped himself off with a tissue. When it was wet with blood he stuffed it in his pocket and used another one. It took two more before the bleeding stopped. The guy was insisting that they go see the EMTs. He was a friendly, corpulent man with a pitted face and gray hair. His whole family was watching him. A regular hero.
“Leave me alone, dammit!” said Patrick.
He jerked himself free. He wasn’t very steady on his pins.
“I’ll manage.”
And he left, one step after another.
The shock had woken him up a little. He wandered over to the dance floor. The light had been turned blue to accompany the slow numbers, and he fell to studying the entwined couples shuffling around on the plywood. His hands felt like anvils at the end of his arms. He mopped his brow with a tissue from time to time. That gesture alone cost him the last of his strength. It was past midnight. Long past.
That’s when he saw his son, dancing with a girl. He was holding her tight, and the two kids were moving with the slowness of a jellyfish. In his nasal voice, Eros Ramazzotti was singing about the pain of love, and every embracing couple seemed overcome by the serious sense of their destiny. The women were remembering vague sorrows. Even the men had lowered their guard, and their faces showed a baffled awareness, like disappointment. By the light of this poor tune, life suddenly appeared to them as it was, a muddle, a series of false starts. The Italian’s sad song was whispering in their ear the secret of ill-lived lives, diminished by divorces and deaths, worn out in work, gnawed everywhere, sleepless nights and loneliness. It gave you something to think about. You loved and you died, too; you were the master of nothing, neither your best efforts nor your end.
That kind of thought had no room in Anthony’s head, however. He was dancing with his girlfriend, they were glued together, indistinguishable, mixing their hair and their sweat. Patrick saw the boy’s hand slide up his partner’s back. His son spoke into the girl’s ear. The song ended. And they disappeared, without holding hands or anything.
Patrick stood there for a moment like that, panting, unable to move. He wasn’t even thirsty anymore. He just knew one thing: he didn’t want to go to sleep.
7
Hacine was totally fed up. Coralie had run into some friends from work, and there was no escaping them. He’d been forced to sit down and have drinks with them. There were three couples, and if there was one thing Hacine hated in his new life, it was having to hang out with other couples. Sooner or later, the men would always wind up together, talking among themselves. You had to play the game. A guy wearing boat shoes and a Mise au Green shirt started telling how he planned to upgrade his apartment so he could buy a bigger one. Seriously, why the fuck would anyone care about that? Besides, Soizic and Romain had just bought a dog, a totally moronic pug that kept bothering Nelson. Hacine would have liked to fire a load of buckshot at it, to see how he liked it. He couldn’t even do any real drinking, since he was going back to work the next day. Coralie, who must’ve realized that something was wrong, put a hand on his knee. She gave him a squeeze from time to time to remind him to behave. He got the message.
Hacine was all the angrier because when he went to take a piss, he ran into that little dipshit with the twisted eye. Granted, the valley was narrow, gloomy, and inbred, but this was really too much. On top of that, he’d had to slink off like a coward, because he had to rejoin the other morons at their table. Ever since, he’d been feeling weird, like being on probation and especially like he was being spied on. He constantly glanced at his watch and looked around to see if someone was about to jump him. Meanwhile, Rémi and his girlfriend were trying to convince Coralie and him to go skiing with them. Hell.
“Just for a weekend.”
“I’ve got an agreement with the head of my company. Three days at the chalet, and it doesn’t even come to five hundred francs a head.”
“But I don’t ski,” said Hacine.
“That doesn’t matter. You’ll see, it’
s beautiful in the mountains.”
Coralie insisted, and Hacine’s misgivings became less and less audible. You’d think he was crazy to pass up such a wonderful opportunity to freeze his nuts off.
“No, I mean it. You guys can go without me.”
“But it’s just two days.”
“Two days is nice. We’ll make fondue. You’ll drink mulled wine.”
This went on and on, to the point where Hacine began to wonder if they were doing it on purpose, just to annoy him. He finally dropped out of the conversation and let his gaze wander. There were already fewer people around. On the dance floor, the DJ was playing a series of slow numbers, as much to get people to dance as to calm them down. A man was staggering along the edge of the dance floor.
“No…” Hacine muttered under his breath.
“What is it?” asked Coralie.
Hacine was on his feet. He recognized the man over there, who seemed about to fall down. It was the guy who had destroyed his mouth.
“Oh!” said Coralie, trying to grab his hand.
Hacine’s face had totally changed. It almost scared her.
“Is something wrong?” asked Soizic.
He couldn’t really make out the man’s face, but that didn’t matter. He would have recognized that look anywhere, even in the dark with his eyes closed. Five weeks of hospitalization and two months of convalescence had written it in his guts.
Around the table, everyone had fallen silent. The two other couples exchanged meaningful glances. Speaking in a low voice, Coralie tried to salvage the situation:
“Stop it! What’s gotten into you?”
The man at the edge of the dance floor still seemed unsure whether to stand up or lie down. Then he started walking again. Hacine immediately stepped away from the bench. Coralie tried to stop him. Her hand closed on emptiness.
“It’s nothing,” she said with a weak smile.
They all acted as if that were true.
Meanwhile, the man began walking at a good clip in spite of his drunkenness, and at first Hacine had trouble keeping up. Then they moved away from the dance, and the festivities gradually faded behind them. Soon they were alone, and all that remained was a dull murmur in the distance. They continued onward, heading south, with only twenty or thirty yards between them. The man swung close to the shore, and his lurches sometimes left him splashing in the water. But he kept stubbornly on, relentlessly moving toward the end of the beach. It was the lake’s biggest, almost two miles long. There was something in his determination, his drunken heaviness, that suggested a beast of burden, like he was accomplishing a task almost in spite of himself.
In ten minutes they reached the point where the sand turned to mud, a swampy tangle of rushes, brambles, and tall grass. Only then did Hacine dare look behind him. Without realizing it, they had covered quite some distance. For his part, the man walked on, then found a flat rock and sat down on it. With legs bent and arms draped over his skinny knees, he gazed out at the lake and the night. Hacine bent over and got closer, then knelt down to watch him. What he saw between the rushes and the grass was a motionless shape, like an Indian. The man wasn’t doing anything. Every so often a croaking sound broke the silence. Hacine waited for the right moment.
Then the man seemed to pass out. His head became too heavy and slumped onto his chest. Hacine thought this was it, now. But the man almost immediately awoke and shook himself, grumbling. He got to his feet, still muttering what sounded like curses and criticisms. He continued to complain as he removed his shoes, with some difficulty, before taking off his shirt, pants, and socks. And finally his underpants. Once naked, he cautiously walked into the water up to his waist. He stretched out on the surface, first on his back, floating like an otter. Then, without warning, he started swimming away from shore.
“What the fuck is he doing?” wondered Hacine.
The man’s pale arms were flailing in clumsy strokes, but he was swimming. Hacine stood up, the better to see. But the man’s shape was already almost out of sight, disappearing in the distance, in the mix of water and darkness for lack of a horizon. Hacine glimpsed a sort of whitish band, then nothing.
He hurried over to the flat rock where the clothes were piled. The water lapped gently at his feet. He couldn’t see a thing. Everything was black as ink. His heart was thudding against his ribs.
“Hey!” he shouted.
Then again, in a laughably childish way:
“Hey, mister!”
But his calls didn’t ring true. He waited a good long time, scanning the expanse of water and night stretching before him. He would have liked to leave but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Something in him, some incongruous hope, resisted. Finally, he searched through the things the man had left on the flat stone. There wasn’t much; no watch, no wallet, just his clothes and a knife, a beautiful hunting knife that Hacine slipped in his belt. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He then walked through the woods to the road. During the whole way back, he thought about the man and his son. Hacine felt he had the soul of a killer. It wasn’t unpleasant.
8
The Opel Kadett was parked far away, and Anthony and Steph were walking along the departmental highway, tired now, and not as drunk. From time to time they had to step aside when a car passed; it was quite late, and the highway shoulder was empty. Their hands touched occasionally. Everything became serious and precious. They kept quiet, thinking of what was to come. Neither of them wanted it to end like this, unresolved.
“Here we are,” said Anthony.
He had spotted his car in the distance, alone on the side of the road. They covered the last yards dragging their feet. Steph got in on the passenger side, and Anthony sat down behind the wheel. He was about to turn the ignition when she said:
“Wait.”
He waited. You couldn’t see anything out the windshield. They might as well have been lost on the high seas. Steph lowered her window a bit to get some fresh air, turning the squeaky crank. The moonless, indifferent sky weighed down on the little car’s square roof. From the surrounding countryside came tiny, continuous rustlings.
“It’s sweltering.”
“Yes,” said Anthony.
“What time are you leaving tomorrow?”
“I have a train a little after ten.”
“Come here.”
She leaned toward him and their mouths met above the gearshift lever. Anthony, who had closed his eyes, reached for Steph’s breasts. Touching her body through the bra, it felt almost solid. He pressed, and Steph giggled.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“C’mon, what is it?”
“It’s nothing. You’re touching my breasts like they’re made of plastic.”
“They are a little like plastic.”
“Idiot!”
“Really, they’re super hard.”
“They’re firm.”
She arched her back, showing off.
“Come see.”
He felt them again.
“So?”
He felt her through the tank top, then touched the bare skin in her cleavage with his fingers.
“Now here, it’s soft.”
He ran his hand across the naked space between her tank top straps, and slipped his index finger into the dip between her breasts.
“You’re sweating…”
Steph reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. She slipped the straps off her shoulders, pulled the thing out the side. Then she took the tank top off over her head. The faint starlight just barely revealed the oval of her shoulder, the weight of her breasts. Anthony had wanted to see them for so long. He took them in his hands. The feeling was incredible—and almost immediately inadequate. Breathing hard, he hurriedly started exploring, then bit one of her nipples. Steph gave a little cry. He had hurt her. Her panties were g
etting wet. She hoped he wouldn’t waste too much time feeling her up. Guys tended to get lost doing that, and she preferred to have them slip a hand into her panties and really caress her. She wanted to spread her legs wide. She grabbed Anthony’s face with her hands and the kisses started again. For once she needed speed, to wrap it up. Also to repress a strange urge to weep that was rising in her, though for no good reason. It was late, she was tired. She hung on to him, and Anthony took her in his arms. That is, he tried to, because the gearshift lever was definitely in their way. They got increasingly annoyed, driven by a fierce hunger, kissing like high schoolers, their hands wandering everywhere, the car’s interior full of sighs and rustlings. Their cheeks and foreheads met. She bit him. She was dying for it. She sobbed.
“Something wrong?”
“I’m fine, it’s nothing. I’m just tired.”
She climbed over the gearshift and straddled him.
“Hey, there…” he murmured consolingly, wiping away her tears with his thumb.
She bumped him with her forehead.
“Stop it. I’m fine, I’m telling you. I want it. Fuck me now.”
She tackled the fly of his jeans, which had buttons, what a nuisance.
“Help me.”
He arched his back to open his fly, and Steph’s head nearly hit the ceiling. But she didn’t care, she was rubbing against him, she could hardly wait.
“Hurry.”
She thrust her hand down between them, touching his cock through his underpants. She was languidly rocking against him. He felt hard against her panties. She pulled them aside, freeing her pussy. They were almost there when a noise distracted them.
“What was that?”
“Wait.”
A buzzing could be heard behind them, nasal at first and steadily getting louder.
“What is it?”
“It’s kids. Don’t move.”
She flattened herself against him. He used the occasion to pull off the elastic holding her hair.
“Hey, not so fast!” she said.
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