“Shh!”
Headlights appeared in the rear window, their beams lighting up the inside of the car. It was delicious and freaky. Motorbikes passed them, snarling and insulting, then went off down the departmental highway, leaving only the red wavering of their taillights in the distance, which disappeared in turn.
“That was weird, wasn’t it?”
“They didn’t see us.”
“Yeah, but I dunno…Did you get the feeling they were slowing down?”
“ ’Course not.”
“Who were they?”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”
Just the same, it put a bit of a chill on them. Steph was thinking.
“I’m going to take off my shorts. That way, we’ll be ahead of the game.”
Anthony laughed. She was right, it was a good idea. But to do it, Steph had to overcome a number of obstacles, namely the tightness of the passenger compartment, the lack of light, and the awkward gearshift lever. She finally managed to get onto her knees and slip her shorts off. She had plain cotton panties on underneath. A roll of her belly hung over the elastic waistband.
He touched her thighs. The skin was soft, the flesh underneath smooth and generous. His fingers sank in deep.
“Stop that.”
“It’s a turn-on.”
“Well, so much the better. But stop it. I feel like a fat cow.”
She got back into position over him, and he grabbed her hips.
“You have any condoms?”
“In my pocket.”
He handed her the prophylactic, and while she was unwrapping it, he reached around a buttock and found the swelling of her pussy lower down. Through her panties, he could feel her vagina gradually softening. He pushed the fabric aside to check. It was juicy and viscous. Steph’s face was hidden by her hair, but he could guess at the effect of pleasure on her crotch, and the redness of her cheeks. His fingers dipped deep inside her. She finally got the condom out of its wrapping. Holding it between her lips, she grabbed her panties with both hands and ripped the seam.
“Pull down your jeans,” she said.
He arched his back to get his butt free of the seat and slid his pants down.
“Take it easy,” said Steph, whose head was against the ceiling. “Stop. Don’t move.”
He couldn’t see her crotch but felt the nearly unpleasant prickling of hairs against his cock. The sensation of warmth was incomparable. Despite the darkness, she slipped the condom on him easily, pinching the reservoir just the way it says in the manual. Then she raised herself up, and suddenly he was inside her—a sensation like diving that barely lasted a fraction of a second. Lowering herself, she took him all the way in, pressing down with all her weight, open and heavy, trapping him with her arms, her hair spread across his face. Some got into Anthony’s mouth, and he blew to spit out a strand. He could barely move. She was holding him in her body in a vice-like grip.
The sound of the motorbikes rose in the distance again. In the darkness, the noise was terrifically sharp, like a dentist’s drill. Steph held Anthony even tighter.
“Don’t move,” he said.
She didn’t answer. He wrapped his arms around her.
She was frightened. He could feel her breathing against his belly. He figured that with all this going on, he was going to lose his erection. The two-wheelers approached. They slowly cruised past, and for an instant their lights filled the inside of the car with dusty brightness. The noise came in through the lowered window. It felt as if they had been there all along. Anthony was afraid they were going to stop. Then they rode off again.
“This isn’t good. I’m sure they spotted us.”
“I don’t care,” said Steph.
“I don’t like it.”
“Be quiet.”
But she could tell that he wasn’t as much in the mood anymore. She gathered her hair and tied it in a knot, baring her neck and face. Above him, she arched her back. He could see the angle of her jaw, the outline of her ear. A girl is full of so many details. Meanwhile, his erection was definitely on the way out. She leaned over to kiss him and he set his hands on the small of her back. He could follow the damp track her sweat was making along her spine. Catching the smell of her pussy, he roamed over her breasts, his hands constantly surprised by a swelling or an unexpected fold. And under her skin and the soft rolls of flesh, something intense, boiling, and whirling. Drops of sweat ran down her sides. His own ass was stuck to the seat. He ran his hands up to her deep, damp armpits. Steph was overflowing. He had an urge to bite her, to break her skin, to drink her juice. He wanted to smell the salt of her sweat. He took her buttocks in both hands and spread them. She couldn’t help sighing. She started swaying back and forth against him very fast, drenching him. She was so full, slumped, and open, he couldn’t even tell if his cock was still stiff. He raised himself up to match her movement. They were fucking. It was official, now. Hard to believe. Steph had started to moan rhythmically and he pounded hard against her, his back arched and his arms rigid. Her pussy was like a bath. She told him to come, told him to spurt, said other words that stung like slaps. But he wasn’t ready yet and began to work harder.
A dull thud echoed on the roof of the car.
They froze.
Figures were circling them. A face pressed against the passenger-side window. The guy sniffed at the opening and yelled:
“It smells like sex in there!”
Steph bent over, searching for her bra on the floor. More blows rained down on the roof and hood while the shapes kept disappearing and returning. It was impossible to say how many of them there were. The whole car was ringing. Anthony checked to be sure the doors were locked. The little Opel was now being rocked from side to side.
“Roll up the window!” he shouted, buttoning his fly.
But Steph was naked, exposed to all eyes. She huddled on the floor of the car, curled up in a ball.
“Hiiiiiiiiii!” a voice yelled.
Fingers reached through the window opening. The attackers, somewhere between three and ten of them, were wailing, grunting like pigs, moaning. The car felt as it were about to lift off. You couldn’t tell where to look anymore.
“Stop it!” yelled Anthony.
Fingers reached through the window gap. They tried the door handles on both sides of the car. A face pressed against the window on Anthony’s side. You would’ve sworn it was a big, pale fish stuck against the wall of an aquarium. The features were distorted but you could clearly see the ears sticking out on either side of the skull, giving this nightmare head a fantastic dimension. Anthony turned the key in the ignition and honked the horn.
The little car produced a long choking whine that echoed deep into the vast night. The chaos stopped immediately. Nothing remained of the attackers. Returned to itself, the darkness seemed to give the lie to what had happened.
“Get dressed,” said Anthony. “Quick.”
Shivering, Steph did the best she could. Anthony switched on the headlights, then got out of the car. Outside, there was nothing left. Everything was empty, abandoned. Steph got out of the car in turn. She didn’t take the time to put on her shoes, and could feel the rough texture of the roadway under her feet. The asphalt was still warm, whereas the air had become much cooler. You couldn’t see ten feet, and the surrounding forest had fallen silent. The landscape, which she guessed at without seeing, seemed to be waiting.
“I want you to take me home.”
He stared at a point in the distance.
“Right away.”
He went back to the Opel, opened the trunk and took out a wrench, just in case. Then they got back in the car.
“Those were inbreds, for sure.”
“I’m freezing.”
She was in the passenger seat, shivering. He found a sweatshirt lying on the backseat and handed
it to her. Steph didn’t know exactly what Anthony meant by “inbreds,” though she knew the expression, of course. In her house, it meant those incestuous families out in the countryside and in makeshift camps, brutal, dazed-looking kids who rode around on motorbikes, necks shaved and noses running. They were the bottom, the lowest level, below social misfits even. Those people, the way they lived, their rustic isolation, and their distorted features seemed to emerge from a kind of state of nature. You imagined them shut in as recluses on farms, mixing like animals. Steph shivered again.
“Let’s go, please.”
“I know. I’m taking you home now.”
They didn’t exchange another word. Anthony looked at his watch at regular intervals. His bag was in the trunk and his train was leaving in a few hours. Here he had finally managed to fuck Stéphanie Chaussoy, and all it left was bitterness and fatigue, and nobody he could boast about it to. Neither of them had come.
When they were a hundred yards from her house, Steph had him stop the car.
“This is fine. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
He stopped the car without bothering to park. The streets were deserted. He hadn’t seen a soul during the whole drive.
“Do you live far away?”
“No.”
He didn’t have time for more questions. Steph had already opened the door and put a foot down. She needed a shower and ten hours of sleep. She thought of her bedroom, the fresh sheets, her teenage decor. A Luke Perry poster was still pinned to the wall. And near the bed, a crucifix with some dried boxwood.
“Wait,” said Anthony.
“What?”
“I don’t know. It feels lousy to say goodbye like this.”
“So what do you want? We’re not gonna make a big deal out of it.”
“I could write you,” said Anthony.
“If you like.”
She was very close to him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“So long.”
She slammed the door, and he watched her walk away. She was barefoot, carrying her sneakers. She didn’t even bother turning around. He had fucked her, at least. He consoled himself with that thought as he made a U-turn and headed home.
FOUR
1998
I Will Survive
1
The Leclerc store had certainly grown. It now boasted a fabric section, an upgraded fish market, and, especially, a hi-fi and electronics department worthy of the most beautiful shopping centers. In all, some 110,000 square feet of retail space. The store didn’t even close during the remodel, which took place behind plywood partitions while customers went about their shopping.
Once the renovations were done, the whole valley was plastered with flyers promising exceptional discounts on everything from irons to DVD players. People showed up en masse. Cops even had to be dispatched to direct traffic. Since then, two roundabouts had been built. Every Saturday, there were lines in the parking lot, lines at the cash registers, lines at the new McDonald’s. This was heartwarming, at a time when naysayers were seeing the specter of the crisis and the noxious effects of globalization at every turn.
Not that it didn’t cause some inconvenience. In the personal hygiene aisle, for example, Anthony found himself flummoxed. With such discounts, you couldn’t even choose toothpaste without worrying that you might be missing out on something. He finally settled on a tube of Colgate and went on his way with his cart fairly full. Around him, shoppers were cheerfully coming and going in large numbers, especially for a Wednesday. The entire store was decked out. For months, all of France was tricolor, and the same words ricocheted around the whole country. He’d heard them on his clock radio at eight that morning: France is in the semifinals.
This didn’t keep Anthony from running his errands; he just did them as quickly as he could. Because around here you always wound up meeting someone you knew, and then you had to give them the news. “How’s your mother? What about you, what are you up to?” Anthony was twenty; he was young; he had his whole life ahead of him. That was the only thing people could ever think to tell him.
“What about work?”
“I’m looking.”
The baby boomers were understanding. It was a lot easier in their day.
“How’s your mother doing? Say hello to her for me.”
“She’s doing okay.” “Yes,” he would say hello. “Have a nice day.”
* * *
—
Since coming home, Anthony hadn’t done anything worthwhile. It was true that he was young. At least that’s what people kept telling him. He had to get moving. Just go to Canada. Or sign up for some training. Everybody had a piece of advice. People are very good at arranging other people’s lives. Anthony didn’t have the words to explain things for them.
He bought more canned food, beans, peas, sardines. Aside from that, his shopping cart contained the usual: ham, sausage, ground beef, noodles. Coca-Cola, some croissants for breakfast. Coffee, bananas, yogurt.
Finally he reached the liquor section. There, he chose two bottles of red wine, a case of beer, and a bottle of Label 5 whiskey. He had a date with his cousin in the late afternoon to watch the game. He grabbed a box of rosé, so as not to arrive empty-handed. He would put it in the freezer until he left.
France is in the semifinals. The loudspeakers reminded the customers of this and announced that, for the occasion, Leclerc was offering exceptional discounts on television sets. Anthony promptly re-crossed the store to check this out.
In the electronics department, big Day-Glo signs announced bargain-basement prices. Shoppers were going from one screen to the next, anxious to find their happiness, and in growing numbers. Over the loudspeakers, the same voice repeated that France was in the semifinals and warned that there wouldn’t be enough televisions for everyone. Anthony made up his mind quickly. A forty-inch Sony for twelve thousand francs, a bargain. It worked with a rear projector inside. When you watched the game, you felt you were actually on the field. The salesman had a little blue vest and the soft face of a prelate. He didn’t bother making a pitch. The TV sets were selling like hotcakes anyway, and not just because of the discounts. Given what was happening, buying one was practically an act of patriotism. Anthony tried to bargain, out of habit, but the guy wasn’t having any of it. At that price, it wasn’t worth the trouble. While his invoice was being prepared, Anthony got absorbed in contemplating the wall of screens showing highlights of the game against Italy. Kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor, gazing wide-eyed. Even from a distance, each player was recognizable. Liza, Desailly, Zidane, Petit with his ponytail. Like fifty million other losers, Anthony was caught up in the game, his misfortune temporarily at bay, his yearning merging with the great national aspiration. From stock traders and kids in Bobigny to Patrick Bruel and José Bové, everyone was on the same page, and it didn’t matter whether you were in Paris or Heillange. From the top to the bottom of the pay scale, from the boonies to La Défense, the country was cheering in unison. Basically, the thing was simple. Just do like they do in America: think your country is the best in the world and revel in that forever.
Anthony made the down payment on the TV with a Crédit Mut check. He was already overdrawn, but the set could be paid for in six installments with no interest, and, at worst, his mother would bail him out. He passed through the checkout line, stowed his purchases in the Clio’s trunk, and picked up his new TV from the warehouse behind the store. He drove home unhurriedly; it was a beautiful day, he wasn’t working. On the radio, they were still talking about the semifinals. Croatia was clearly beatable. But you had to stay focused and not get overconfident, otherwise you risked a bad surprise. It was almost noon when he got home. He hooked up his new purchase and programmed the channels. To celebrate, he poured himself a small whiskey. On channel La Une, Jean-Pierre Pernaut kept talking excitedly. Croatia certainly had technical s
kills and some great players. Plus it was a brand-new country full of energy, with everything to prove. But France was a great soccer nation, playing at home and riding a totally unprecedented wave of popular fervor. All the commentators agreed on that, and on the rest. Actually, everybody agreed on everything, so long as Zidane stayed on his feet. We’d had the baptism of Clovis, the Battle of Marignano, the Battle of the Somme. And now, France-Croatia. A people and its rendezvous with destiny. It was cool.
Anthony had another whiskey, a somewhat bigger one this time. The liquor began to affect him. He opened a bag of chips, cut a few slices of sausage, and started to nibble in front of his new TV. He was pleased with his purchase. The image quality left something to be desired, but the set’s format largely compensated for it. The Leclerc guy said that with gear like this, you’d think you were there. Meanwhile, the reports continued one after another, and Anthony’s excitement grew. It was going be a great game. Reporters fanned out to interview the French and found them all tricolored, shouting, and self-confident. Their kids could hardly keep still. People had appealing faces and accents from every part of the country. Then there was a commercial break. Anthony switched off the set, thinking he ought to move a little, fix something to eat. He could see his reflection in the black screen, legs spread, the glass on his knee. The least thing made him feel sad again. He turned the TV back on.
* * *
—
Anthony had injured himself in the army, playing soccer after class, as it happens. The meniscus. It hadn’t seemed serious, and he spent a first week in the infirmary with a bandage on his knee and taking Doliprane, bored out of his mind and in constant pain. A nurse once found him tangled in his sheets on the floor, unconscious. He was then prescribed codeine and was finally able to read magazines without getting nauseated. When the chief doctor came back from leave, he examined him anyway. He was a well-groomed little man with a signet ring on his pinky who used words like “dipshits” and “fuckwads.” He chewed out his entire staff and had Anthony shipped back to France for immediate surgery at the Saint-Mandé military hospital. Six months of physical therapy followed, after which he was sent back to Germany. But after a series of physical tests to measure his fitness to serve, he was told there wasn’t any point in trying any longer. Anthony found himself in an office ten feet square where a guy in civvies gave him the news: he would receive his two years of pay and could go home. Sign here. At the time, it seemed like a good deal.
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