And Their Children After Them

by Nicolas Mathieu

  “You don’t even have a license for it.”

  “You don’t need one. It’s small.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  “It wasn’t expensive.”

  “How much?”

  “A thousand francs.”

  “What about insurance?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  She closed her eyes, took a breath. Don’t get angry in front of the kid, stay calm.

  “My parents just asked me when we were going to repay the money we owe them. What do I tell them?”

  The baby was now attacking the underwear pages. Hacine didn’t have much to say. Coralie withdrew to their bedroom. He decided to go out for a spin on the bike. The sky was extremely pale. He trembled, shifting through the gears. He scared himself a few times, had wanted to flee. Unfortunately, the tank was almost empty and he hadn’t brought his credit card. So he went home a little before ten.

  “Are you happy?” Coralie asked.

  The baby was asleep. Yes, he was happy.

  From then on, Hacine made an effort. Coralie didn’t understand, but she compromised. Their life as a couple gradually started to look like a war of attrition. She criticized him for doing whatever he felt like, for acting like a kid. Hacine kept his reproaches to himself, in his gut. In the evenings, he would go out for a ride, without a helmet. It was reassuring. Overall, things seemed to have stabilized. But that wasn’t reckoning with the World Cup.

  His father-in-law had already started to tease him because Morocco had qualified, and if by some mischance that pathetic nation wound up playing France, it would take a hammering like you never saw in your life. The asshole laughed then, his belly and his double chins shaking like jelly. When Brazil scored three goals against Morocco, the sarcastic remarks redoubled. Fortunately, the Lions of the Atlas redeemed themselves by beating Scotland 3–0 a few days later. But the fact remained that Morocco had never made it to the finals.

  Things really took a turn for the worse when, instead of coming straight home from work as usual, Hacine went to a bistro with his workmates to watch the France-Denmark game. He was dying to see it, and he couldn’t face going home to the same surroundings, the apartment, the in-laws, the crying. So he played hooky, had a beer like anyone else, and watched the game with a mix of satisfaction and bad conscience. But it wasn’t easy to enjoy the play when he was already dreading the scene he would confront when he got home. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even see the first goal. It was only when he saw the others yelling that he realized what had happened. In the end, he wound up leaving at halftime, feeling both guilty and frustrated, the worst situation.

  Coming home, he found the apartment empty. Coralie had left a note on the kitchen table: “I’m at my parents’ with the baby.” Hacine hated to admit it, but he felt relieved. He fixed himself a big plate of noodles and ate in peace while he watched the end of the game. Since he was by himself for a change, he jerked off to a porno DVD before going to bed. He took his time and came super hard.

  In the shower, he wondered what was really going on in his life. The water ran down his chest and his cock. He looked at the foam at his feet. What was he going to do? He felt trapped. There was the baby. She didn’t demand anything. He loved her like crazy. He couldn’t stay. He took a Temesta and went to sleep.

  Coralie came back the next morning, and they didn’t exchange three words the whole week. Then the French team began to drive the commentators crazy. After getting through the first round, it eliminated Paraguay in the first knockout round, then beat Italy in the quarterfinals. Everyone could see the team was on a roll. Once Italy, a perennial powerhouse, was out of the game, everything became possible. Only Coralie refused to join in the universal rapture. Hacine watched it all: the games, the wrap-ups, the TV news, the commentaries, the rebroadcasts, everything. He even bought the newspapers. It was exciting and, at the same time, convenient. He was losing himself in the national epic, the better to forget his daily drama. And during this whole immersion in the blue wave, he could feel Coralie’s dull disapproval. She didn’t criticize him. But from the sound of her footsteps, the drawers she slammed, the way she closed the fridge, the way she ate yogurt, it was obvious that she was upset with him. And she wasn’t even angry. She was sad, which was the worst.

  Hacine bravely acted as if nothing was happening. The pressure increased. He expected an explosion. With the baby, he fulfilled the bare minimum requirements: every other diaper change, a bottle from time to time, beddy-bye in the evening, maybe a song, but quickly, with no encore. He slept on the sofa. A deserter.

  The morning of the semifinals, Coralie came into the living room and woke him with a cup of coffee.

  “Here.”

  He took the cup as she parted the curtains and opened the window wide. It was nice out. Bright July sunshine reflected almost blindingly on the white tile floor. The usual automotive hum from the nearby aqueduct. The good smell of coffee.

  “Is she asleep?”

  Coralie went to check, then came back and sat on the coffee table.

  “What are you planning to do?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  He was sitting up and rubbing his face. This looked very much like a setup. He took a sip of his coffee.

  “This evening. Your game. Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re not staying here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He felt a little upset. This was his home, after all.

  “I don’t want to see you around here,” said Coralie.

  “What is this bullshit? Why are you talking to me like this?”

  “Hey…” She waved her open hand in front of his eyes, as if to make sure he was conscious. “Have you had a stroke or something? What is it that you don’t understand?”

  “What I understand is that you’re busting my balls.”

  She grabbed him by the ear and yanked it, nearly hard enough to tear it off. He yelped, a ridiculous shriek that echoed through the whole apartment. Even someone outside could have heard it. The two of them froze, worried about how the baby would react. It sometimes took more than half an hour to get her back to sleep. Hacine was about to say something, but Coralie stopped him with a look. The seconds ticked by one by one. The baby went on sleeping.

  Then Coralie looked him right in the eyes and very quietly said:

  “Now listen to me, you little turd. Either you straighten up and fly right or I’m packing my bags, taking my daughter, and you’ll never see us again in your life.”

  She went out then, leaving Hacine with the kid just when he had to be at work in an hour. Fortunately his mother-in-law had arrived. She didn’t make a fuss, just took the baby from him.

  “I’ll take care of her, it’ll be fine.”

  As he hurried to get ready to go to work, he listened as the woman went kitchy-kitchy-koo and the baby burst out laughing. Océane was so little, so insignificant, but she had such a capacity for happiness. It took practically nothing to feed this tiny life. It also would take almost nothing to end it. A bad fall, a passing car, drowning in the bathtub; there was no end of ways the little wretches could find to die. A second’s inattention, a moment’s carelessness and you bought yourself a four-foot coffin. Shit. When Hacine was about to leave, he kissed her on the head and on her fist. Then he climbed onto his motorcycle. Coralie had taken off with the car.

  After that, he had the whole day to ruminate. The mood at work was so unusual, like the day before vacation, with everybody excited, and that phrase that kept going around: France is in the semifinals. Customers and salesmen talked soccer. Warehousemen and drivers, ditto. Even stockholders were delighted; flat-screen TVs were selling like hotcakes, as were beer dispensers, refrigerators, and barbecues.

  At quitting time, Hacine’s workmates all wen
t to watch the game on the big screen set up at the Renardière stadium. He didn’t want to go with them. Instead, he rode his motorcycle around town. The mood was completely insane. The bars were so crowded, people spilled out onto the sidewalk. Only one television channel existed, La Une, and Thierry Roland and Jean-Michel Larqué were part of the family. By dint of riding around looking for a friendly place, one thing led to another, one bar led to another, and Hacine wound up at L’Usine. He hadn’t been there since his “accident.” That was ages ago.

  3

  Davor Šuker took a long pass from Asanović and scored.

  They never saw it coming. It was in the forty-sixth minute, fresh from the locker rooms.

  The country seemed to be hanging by a thread.

  Davor Šuker was the guy with the sharp, bony face, jutting chin, hooded eyes. He looked like a mercenary, a brute from the maquis, a starving partisan. He looked like a bastard, his lipless mouth stretched around a cry of joy. He looked unpleasantly pale in his white jersey strewn with red squares as he ran, arms outthrust.

  Davor Šuker. The very name brought up bad memories of the German air force, of speed against which you were helpless. In front of their TVs, millions sat stunned. Anthony set his beer on the counter and grabbed his head in both hands, like a lot of other people. The gesture was a dramatic one. You just didn’t have that many opportunities for hope.

  He had driven to his cousin’s place around five o’clock, carrying the boxed wine. The cousin had just had a house built in a new development near the tennis courts. Things had changed fast for him. He’d met Nath about a year earlier, landed an open-ended contract with Kleinhoffer, the heating specialist, and gotten a bank loan while he was at it. He’d put on a little weight, too. He and Nath were happy.

  Anthony was treated to the owner’s tour, which he got each time he came, to see how the work was progressing. The house was in good shape, standing in the middle of a small patch of ground that would soon be a lawn. Four walls, a roof, white tile floors downstairs, a laminate floor in the bedrooms upstairs. Everything was new. Electrical wires still stuck out of walls that left white dust on your hands when you touched them. For the time being, they still needed a ladder to get upstairs. This was hard for Nath, so they were sleeping on a bed in the living room. The pitch pine furniture looked ridiculously inadequate in this six-room house. The cousin had been thinking big. All that remained was to win the World Cup. And pay back the bank.

  A pretty brunette with a hint of gold in her eyes, Nath was on the city police force. She was planning to go back to school or take a civil service exam. They would see about that later, when their kid was in school. In the meantime the house was eating up all their time, money, and energy. The cousin was feeling proud, but he was exhausted, and as worried as any homeowner.

  “I just can’t take it anymore. I spend my time redoing everything. The shutters weren’t the right size. There’s not a goddamned door in the house that closes properly. Those guys really are useless.”

  After the tour, the three of them settled on the patio, or what stood in for a patio, namely a square of gravel with plastic lawn furniture. Nath had her legs stretched out, feet propped on her man’s knees. She was drinking water while the boys popped cans of beer. Anthony was having a little trouble getting used to his cousin’s new attitude, his worried, supervising, settled side. On the other hand, he was very fond of Nath. She was funny, a wit with a straight face. The two of them teamed up to make fun of the cousin. Anthony had found himself a family, in a way. He came often during the summer. They asked if he would consider being the kid’s godfather. He said yes.

  The conversation mainly revolved around soccer. Nath absolutely refused to believe in the “black-white-brown” business—so called because Les Bleus had black, white, and Arab players. It struck her as a passing fad, a bit of comic opium. As a cop, she’d seen it all, and practiced a protective, good-natured cynicism. The cousin didn’t share her opinion.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “If we win, it’ll leave something behind.”

  “What will it leave?”

  “Knowing that we can get along.”

  “What are you talking about?” she scoffed. “You yell about the Turkish mason and the Arab workers. You’re always complaining about the racket that the Portuguese next door make.”

  “Those guys, they’re mental cases. They’ve been listening to ‘I Will Survive’ nonstop since the start of the Cup. Honestly, it drives you out of your gourd.”

  “Yeah, so what is it that you say? ‘The Portagees are a pain in the ass.’ ”

  “That’s not racism.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Simple observation.”

  Anthony laughed. From time to time, you could hear firecrackers and cars honking in the distance. A rocket shot up from a house nearby. Kids raced around in ATVs yelling, “Les Bleus!” You sensed the same eagerness in every house in the development. After a while, the cousin put some pork ribs and sausages on the barbecue. People were eating outside. Television sets were on. Everything was calm and feverish. The two cousins poured themselves big glasses of rosé with lots of ice cubes, which made a nice tinkling sound in the evening. Nath was slowly beginning to fade. She was in her third month, and she felt weary. The boys cleared the dishes quickly and left them in the sink, before going into the living room. It was about to begin. The whole country held its breath. The national anthems. It started.

  * * *

  —

  The first half didn’t go too badly, even though Les Bleus played cautiously, without much energy. After a while, the Croats started getting really threatening. They had nothing to lose, they were young, uninhibited, and tough, and they had in mind the great game they’d played against Germany. The situation generated remarks from the cousins like, “What the hell are they doing, for chrissakes? Where’s Guivarc’h, at a bar?” Karembeu was injured and was replaced by Thierry Henry. The boys watched the French center being slowly picked apart, as the Croats stirred and stretched it like dough. Unbelievable blunders occurred at midfield. Anthony wasn’t even able to drink. He was biting his nails while his cousin stood up, sat down, stood up again. Nath dozed off around the fortieth minute. She was done for.

  At halftime the cousin suggested that they go watch the rest of the game at a bar.

  “She’s out for twelve hours now,” he said. “I’ll put her to bed. Just wait for me outside. I’ll be right there.”

  “Step on it. We don’t want to miss the start of the second half.”

  “Okay, no sweat.”

  Sitting on the hood of his Clio, Anthony smoked a cigarette as the evening gathered. The houses around him shared a family resemblance, each with its little plot of land, red roof, new facade, spindly bushes, and car parked out front. New streets named for trees meandered among them. A comfortable calm reigned over this little world. A thousand details revealed the care the inhabitants put into comfort, intimacy, and respect for their property. A man stood watering his lawn with a hose, his shirt open, looking happy. From time to time you heard a burst of laughter in the distance, or the scraping of a chaise longue being dragged in for the night. Swallows streaked by overhead. The sky was vast and round, like a woman’s belly. Just then, the cousin came out.

  “Okay, let’s hit it.”

  “Did Nath say anything?”

  “She didn’t even wake up.”

  * * *

  —

  They got in the car and raced for the nearest bistro. There wasn’t a free parking space in the whole town. The long, deserted streets were jammed with cars. Every bar and terrasse overflowed with fans. You would’ve been hard-pressed to find a Croat anywhere. On the other hand, you saw some pretty unusual-looking people, with shaved heads and unbelievable outfits. The surrounding countryside had emptied itself into downtown. It was worse than during the sales. The cousin wound u
p leaving his car double parked. He was too drunk to parallel park, anyway. He and Anthony went looking for a bar that still had some room. Every place was full. They were running out of time. The halftime advertising break was ending. Finding themselves near the blast furnace, they sprinted into L’Usine and made their way to the bar. Anthony spotted Rudi. Manu was there, too. The boys had just enough time to order a beer.

  Then Davor Šuker scored.

  Everything fell silent, a whole country seized, disappointed.

  “Motherfucker!” yelled Rudi.

  At that very moment, a guy with kinky hair entered and sidled up to the bar. He ordered a beer, then turned around to see if he knew anyone there. He recognized Anthony. Anthony recognized him, too. Hacine shifted his attention to the big TV screen mounted on the wall. It was the forty-seventh minute of the game, and Lilian Thuram, who never scored, worked his way up the pitch and scored. At that, the bar exploded. A single shout rose from every mouth. A table was knocked over. Beer spilled on the ground. The spectators started jumping in place, yelling and hugging each other. Hacine raised two fists to the sky. He felt someone shaking him. It was Anthony, who was out of his mind, amnesiac, terribly French, as happy as a child.

  * * *

  —

  The match continued in a completely frenzied atmosphere. Beer flowed like water, people smoked like chimneys, yelling and calling to each other from table to table. Anthony himself started drinking as much as he could. He and the cousin were buying each other rounds, and treating Rudi. He looked more haggard than ever, and screamed Cock-a-doodle-do! at Les Bleus’ every action. Hacine was drinking hard, too. He had good reason to.

  At the seventieth minute Thuram slotted in a second goal, and it was all over. People suddenly found themselves melded, wholly yielding to their destiny as a horde, completely free of outliers and aberrations. That which chose to stay outside was incomprehensible. Everything caught inside tolled to the same bell. The entire country was encountering itself in a total fantasy. It was a moment of sexual, serious unity. Nothing had ever existed before, neither history, nor the dead, nor debts, erased as if by enchantment. France was linked together, immensely fraternal.