by Leïla Sebbar
'You going off?'
'I'm meeting Zouzou and France.'
He was about to say, 'Can I come?' but held his tongue, knowing she'd say, 'No.' If she'd wanted, she'd have suggested it but she never let him share her other life. She was about to leave with her bag and her clothes. He thought she might not come back.
'How d'you feel about watching a film?'
'Dunno, perhaps . . . anyway, I'm late. 'Bye!'
Julien hurried to the table in the bedroom on which Sherazade sometimes left a bag, a sort of holdall. He didn't spot it straight away. He couldn't stop trembling, he had a cramp in his stomach; fortunately he was alone, he felt weak and guilty at the same time. He rummaged in the bag. He saw several red and black Chinese notebooks which he didn't touch. He felt better, he'd managed not to be indiscreet. He just took out two Michelin maps, a road map of France and one of Algeria. He put them back . . . He'd not done anything serious, after all. He hadn't committed a crime.
He watched Godard's A bout de souffle once more.
Jungle
Sherazade met Zouzou and France at the Halles in a brasserie which was still deserted at that time. They needed to talk. They had to finalize a plan for the evening. Zouzou was Tunisian; petite and plump, with a copper-coloured complexion and a lively, childish face which made you immediately feel you wanted to talk to her, touch her, love her. Her real name was Zoulikha, but everyone called her Zouzou. People were afraid of France, they adored Zouzou. You always wondered how they could be together like this, nearly twenty-four hours out of twenty-four, and no one up till now had managed to separate them. Some men said, 'Just wait, they're young, it won't last', and when they met them at parties or dropped in to see them at the boutique, they continued to chat up Zouzou. France was beautiful and unapproachable, she frightened you off. You wondered what reason she had to be so stuck-up – after all, when you're a half-caste from Martinique, you're descended from slaves – in spite of these reassuring thoughts people remained apprehensive. You never saw her laugh except when she was with the boys and girls from the gangs they both hung out with. They often heard people say of them, 'They've got the most incredible look.' Zouzou had accepted a private invitation from a well-known fashion photographer. He'd told her he wanted all three of them, he'd have things for them to wear, but if they wanted to they could bring way-out clothes they were fond of. He'd spoken in a roundabout way of daring pictures which were nice little earners especially of three girls together – exotic beauties -. . . It'd be a lark for them and they'd earn a pile for doing more or less nothing . . . They just had to listen to him, do what he asked, he knew the punters' tastes -women as well as men – he added to prove the extent of the business, it was all private sales, the punters were very generous and you could rely on their discretion. Zouzou let him develop his arguments. She couldn't wait to tell France and Sherazade about it.
In their break at the fast-food, Zouzou told them the whole story, adding ,'I said yes.'
'What! you said yes without knowing if we'd agree? You going alone?' asked France who'd have no truck with this way of behaving . . .
She'd only pretended to be angry. They'd keep the appointment, and they worked out a suitable collective countermeasure. Already, Zouzou could hardly control her laughter at the thought.
In the brasserie, Sherazade opened her bag; at the bottom, hidden under the battle-dress, were three pistols she'd bought in a toy shop, perfect replicas of the real thing. She took them out, 'Just like .38s,' she told the girls who were very impressed. 'Those are the pistols used by the Italian Autonomes. Pierrot and Basile have got real ones.'
They took a taxi to an elegant building in the Seventh Arrondissement, near the Avenue Bosquet. Zouzou checked the address. She hadn't been given any name. She'd been told third floor, door on the left. Zouzou rang and the door was opened. The flat was opulent, but with very little furniture. Heavy red and gold velvet curtains everywhere, and Chinese screens. The photographer took them to one end of a vast empty room with cameras on tripods and powerful spots. Everything was set up. He pointed to a chest stuffed with clothes near one of the screens. 'Take what you like.' While France and Sherazade were dressing up, whispering together behind the first screen, Zouzou took the photographer on one side and got him to advance the money: a thousand francs each. 'But see you do exactly what I say.' 'Yes' said Zouzou with her most captivating smile, 'Of course' – 'Right, let's go!' said the photographer patting her on the behind. To work.' France and Sherazade were ready. France was a tigress in yellow and black regular striped mini-skirt; Sherazade a zebra in irregular black and white striped hot-pants; both wore black fishnet stockings and off-the-shoulder tops. Their hair was teased to look like a mane and they each had a wide barbarian's belt such as Spartacus was supposed to have worn. Zouzou put on a leopard outfit consisting of split shorts and a top that barely covered her breasts. She had on red stockings that the photographer asked her to take off 'I prefer bare legs.' Her belt allowed her, like France and Sherazade, to hide her pistol.
He looked them over.
He approached them and with a professional touch bared a breast here, a buttock there, and pulled Sherazade's décolleté a bit lower. 'You're fantastic. Jungle and virgin forest scenes are very popular at the moment . . . We ought to have a panther as well, but I've got a suitable outfit in the chest. We'll have that later. Wait, I've got an idea, each of you take a sub-machine-gun, like guerrillas, I've got some there, real ones, unloaded. Toy guns are no use, these are better, you're not scared I hope, don't worry; look, I'll show you, there's no risk, they're not loaded; I don't want any blood and if I did for other scenes, I've got some haemoglobin or tomato ketchup, that always does the trick if you can't stand the sight of blood. OK, let's start, you're not shocked darlings I hope, Oh! you don't look the goody-goody type I personally haven't much time for them and their airs and graces, but you three . . . You wouldn't have come. It's going to be fabulous. Well this is what you do, first you kiss on the lips you can pretend as soon as I say "Now" you change partners as if you were dancing in a nightclub – there really are discos just for women – and then you lie down one on top of the other in turn, it's quite simple. But see that your tits and bums are visible, you mustn't be prudish. If you were in a sauna or a Turkish bath since that's the thing now, you'd be starkers and it wouldn't worry you, well now it's the same thing. Let's start. You're wonderful the photos'll be t'riff, brill, scoops . . . No it's not for a newspaper, I work privately for this kind of photo don't worry. Right, you ready? What are you waiting for? The spots have been on all this time, they'll bum out, they're expensive and you've got to work fast . . . You ready? We're starting. Come on Zouzou . . . You think you're stars or something? You're not stars yet, are you! and anyway in this business there aren't any stars, so don't waste your time imagining you've got there. OK, you've got nice bums, nice tits, you're young, but there are thousands like you queuing up for the job if you don't want it, no problem for me . . . but I've already paid you; the little one there's got the money, it's not cheap for shags you can pick up anywhere, well come on, I'm not joking. Well, shit, can we start?'
They were standing in front of him, holding their pistols.
'Oh, ho! You don't mess about with me. What game d'you think you're playing? Where d'you think you are?'
'It's not a game. These are .38s. You know what those are? The Red Brigade who go in for knee-capping, you know about that? We're going to knee-cap you . . .' said Sherazade, still disguised as a veritable tigress; she continued, 'One of the three is loaded. It's like Russian Roulette you know what that is? We're going to screw up the whole show and scram. If you shoot your mouth off we'll bring a charge against you for inciting to prostitution, unmistakable case of procuring . . . We've got proof. You're well known. Besides, I'm wondering if we shouldn't just shoot you like a dog.'
The well-known photographer took his girl-guerrillas seriously and wasn't very happy. He didn't believe they'd shoot. He was righ
t.
At the parties they subsequently attended there was no more talk of this well-known photographer, but a similar story to theirs circulated. There was no mention of a revolver. The girls in question had stopped a porn-merchant in his tracks with an anti-rape device and had beaten him up.
Godard
Julien was now watching Pierrot le fou. Sherazade arrived just when the car was going up in flames.
'That film again?'
'It's for my work. I'm watching how it's made. I can stop it when I like, and re-start . . . it's brilliant, a video. Eustache worked with one, he had heaps of plans when he committed suicide.'
'Who's Eustache?'
'A French film director, who died for France.'
'Don't talk bullshit.'
'It's not bullshit. He wanted French cinema to be real cinema again, not crap, and he died for it. OK, I'm stopping, it's late. I'm working tomorrow.'
'Me too. Tonight I'll sleep in the single bed, I must get up early tomorrow.'
Julien didn't reply. Perhaps she'd join him in his bed as she sometimes did when she decided to sleep in the single bed where she'd spent the first night. Sherazade took off her blouson, took the banknotes out of the inside pocket, ten one-hundred-franc notes, and threw them on the table.
'That your wages?'
'One evening's wages, look, a thousand francs . . .'
'You on the game now? You turning tricks or what?'
'No, no! Don't get in a stew I'm going to tell you about it.'
For the first time, Sherazade told Julien a bit about her life elsewhere. Anxious at first, he burst out laughing with her as she acted the scene of the screwed-up photo session and the celebrated photographer's panic. She showed him the pistol that didn't look like a toy. When she'd finished telling him the story Sherazade said to Julien, 'You see what you can expect if you go on taking photos.'
'But I don't do porn.'
'It's the same thing . . . Anyway, just Wait and see . . .'
She tore down all the pictures of herself that Julien had stuck or pinned everywhere from the kitchen to the bathroom, through the panelled walls of the bedroom and the big living-room, photos of every shape and size, from passport to poster. 'I'm sick to death of seeing my mug everywhere, you understand . . . you don't need me in the flesh after all . .
Julien, who wasn't used to scenes and still less to Sherazade's who never made any, stared at her in bewilderment.
'That's what I do with your play-acting.'
Sherazade meticulously tore up all the photos, one by one, from the smallest to the largest. She filled the waste-paper basket which she went to empty in the rubbish chute and started again. The photographic paper was best quality, thick and hard to cut. Sherazade continued till the very last pictures.
'I know you've got others in yellow Kodak boxes and in files, I'll leave you those. I'm tearing up the ones I don't want to see on the walls any more, that's all.'
Julien had not made the slightest move to stop her destroying these photos of which he had taken print after print till they were perfect. He'd shown some to his friend for the film-script, but he'd kept some that he greatly prized. Sherazade had destroyed them. He knew that if he'd wanted to stop her it would have led to a fight. In her fury he might have hurt her and he'd never have seen her again. So he'd watched her and finally, when the last scraps of his pictures were in the waste-paper basket, he felt that Sherazade was right. He wasn't angry with her.
He thought again about the scene she had described to him.
'Will you lend me your jungle scene?'
'What for?'
'For the film-script.'
'If you like. Are you making the film?'
'With you, yes. I'm finishing off the dialogue. It's going to be fine. Will you read the script?'
'OK. And the chap who's making the film, who's he?'
'A film-director pal, you don't know him. If you like, we'll go and see him.'
'What's the story all about?'
'I'd rather not talk about it. Read it.'
Sherazade read Julien's script in the bath. Julien came in to shave. He could see her in the mirror above the basin.
'You've finished?'
'Yes.'
'Well, d'you like it?'
'Yes, but I think . . .'
Sherazade made some observations which Julien listened to, blaming his tension on the shitty razor, which didn't cut properly and was the only one he'd got . . . He thought she could be right and he'd change the script taking into account what she'd said.
'It's very late, you know? I don't know about you, but I'm going to bed, I've got work to do tomorrow.'
'Me too . . . You're not the only one.'
'OK. 'Night!'
"Night!'
Julien Waited a bit for Sherazade but fell asleep just when she was getting into the single bed after winding up the alarm. It was three a.m.
Rachid
Pierrot was back from Germany. He was waiting for Basile who would be coming via Italy on his way back from Africa, after getting as far as Tunisia. He hadn't heard from him and was getting impatient.
The letters he'd sent Sherazade had arrived the day before. Krim had put them on the table in her room where she was sure to see them. Pierrot had read Sherazade's two letters. Without knowing the reason he was in such a bad mood, Krim had told him off and suggested a bit of music. They'd shut themselves in the end room. Krim had told Pierrot he'd do better playing music instead of playing militants in phony groups. Pierrot was very good on the bass; he didn't feel like arguing.
There was a knock on the door. It was Basile. He was wearing a new hat, 'guaranteed pure bush', he said. Basile hugged Pierrot, then Krim,
Eastern fashion; he picked up his bag and distributed 'local gadgets'. Sherazade turned up just as Basile was taking a necklace for her out of his bag.
'A diamond necklace for Sherazade. Real diamonds, no Bokassa stuff.'
Basile got up, put his arms round Sherazade and turned her round three times before fastening the necklace round her neck.
'Queen Zingha,' he said.
'You've heard of her?' said Sherazade.
'Yes, why?'
'I've got a pal who calls herself Zingha.'
'A Negress?'
'Half Negress. She's from Martinique.'
'Oh, my!' said Basile. 'Where's your Zingha? I'd like to meet her. Is she pretty?'
'Prettier than Lisette Malidor . . .'
Krim asked Basile why he'd come back alone, without any bush Negress to protect him against Babylon where he was never going to set foot again. Basile made a vague gesture indicating don't let's talk about that and all three began playing. Krim told Sherazade to sing. Sherazade improvised. She had a good voice and the squat-mates promised to engage her for their next gig.
'Meanwhile,' said Pierrot, 'you ought to take singing lessons.'
'Where?'
'At classes run by the municipality. They're free.'
Rachid opened the door and came into the middle of the room. He was alone, Vero was practising her hairdressing; he'd overslept that morning and intended to bunk off his boiler-making, he was sick of it. . . People were always making rude remarks to him, his tattoos, clothes, hair. They could all go to hell.
'Right, you Beurs, shall we do a take-off of Carte de séjour? You need an Arab singer. I can sing; I don't know much Arabic, I'm a Kabyle, but I can do a mixture . . . That'll satisfy everyone. Shall we try?'
Rachid sang, taking off sixties rock-singers. There was nothing he didn't know about rock, all the English, American, French groups. He'd been a member of gangs of young hoodlums, dressing successively as rocker, teddy-boy, weatherman; he'd kept all the outfits that he took with him everywhere in spite of Vero's reproaches that all that was out of fashion, old hat, and only fit to be chucked in the dustbin: his Mexican boots, leather jackets, denim waistcoast, genuine denim jeans, German boots, ranger's hats, scarves and belts, and especially his mohican that Vero always w
anted to cut off because she thought it really common. But he was still keen on it and now he was the one who occupied the bathroom as long as Driss, with his gels and brilliantines for his mohican, that Vero threatened to throw away. Rachid had known gangs he'd never belonged to – Hell's Angels - in the suburbs of Crimée, Créteil. He often bumped into them, but he didn't like their skinheads and the SS badges they flaunted. He'd had a Jewish girlfriend who'd reproached him for his interest in gangs which adopted Nazi badges, even if, as some of them claimed, it was just for a joke. He'd taken notice of what she'd said. She often talked about what happened to the Jews and about Hitler, he'd seen it on the telly, Holocaust it was called. She told him some members of her family had never returned from the camps. He thought of the Algerian War that he knew nothing about as nobody had ever talked to him about it, neither his father, nor his mother, nor the foster families he'd been put with, nor the social workers, nor the staff at the various homes he'd been in. His Jewish girlfriend had left him as she was sick of being dragged into his gangs of rockers where they never talked of anything but gear, shops where you could buy badges, rock groups she knew all that by heart: Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, everlasting Elvis, Matchbox, Crazy Cavan, Chuck Berry, Stray Cats . . . Rockabilly fans, rock 'n'roll fans who talked about revolt and violence but who were more worried about the lacquer for their hair and things they needed for their gear. She'd written to him quite nicely, explaining she wanted to look around a bit. He'd not seen her again. With Vero, it was easy. She didn't agonize so much.
Rachid couldn't sing, but he was very good at taking off all the stars the big names and the less well-known ones he knew indirectly through cassettes which he learnt by heart, copying their clothes, remembering everything he read about their private lives with the same enthusiasm his sisters showed in reading Nous deux. * Rachid read everything about his idols and his gang shared out among themselves everything they could find about the groups and the singers they liked. They had the insatiable appetite and obsession of all collectors.