Time Is a Killer

by Michel Bussi

  Sly little thing that she was.

  Clotilde was going to say, ‘I’ll think about it, darling, we’ll see, first of all I need to get rid of these bags of fruit because they’re pulling both of my arms out of their sockets,’ when Franck suddenly appeared behind her. He took the shopping bags from Clotilde without a word, with no obvious effort, apparently without even thinking about it.

  Gallant. Virile. The perfect man. What are you complaining about, you old thing?

  ‘What’s up, my lovely girls?’

  Valentine explained about the party on the beach, the star of Revellata Peninsula, Maman’s childhood friend.

  ‘Do you want to go?’ Franck asked, turning towards Clotilde. ‘Would it be fun to see that girl again?’

  Why not? Why not, in the end?

  Franck rested his hands on his daughter’s shoulders.

  ‘There’s no way that you’re going to that beach party on your own. But if your mother goes with you …’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’

  The ungrateful hussy threw her arms around her father, the hero, without a word of thanks to the mother who was going to have to endure the eighties night, from the start of the evening to the demons of midnight. It had been an eternity since she had set foot in any nightclub.

  Clotilde didn’t think about it for the rest of the day. From beach to bungalow, from deckchair to towel, her head immersed in the Mediterranean or under the shower, three questions ran through her mind in a loop. She gave herself until the evening to find three definitive answers.

  Yes or no.

  To go and see her grandfather, first of all, Cassanu Idrissi, and call a family meeting with Mamy Lisabetta, perhaps even with that witch Speranza and her grandson Orsu? And the dog Pacha as well. Install all those lovely people under the holm oak in the yard at Arcanu, then place on the table the revelation that was eating away at her: that her parents hadn’t been the victims of an accident. That the steering system of the Fuego had been sabotaged.

  Answer: YES, even if it wasn’t yet clear what form this meeting would take.

  And then secondly, should she talk to Franck? Talk about the policeman’s revelations. Show him the photographs of the bolt and the blasted steering rod, ask his opinion, his advice, he could identify anything under a car bonnet.

  Answer: NO! Under no condition did she want to face his sarcasm once more, his appalled pity, his simplistic binary solutions – to put in a complaint or let the matter drop.

  And last of all, whether she should take a trip to Punta Rossa, via the customs path along the Revellata, just something casual, a stroll up to the lighthouse, enjoying the panoramic view, like dozens of other tourists, and why not bump into Natale, who might be busy mending a net, smoking a cigarette on his terrace, watching the world go by.

  Answer: NO. Definitely NO!

  ~

  The speakers spat out a crackly version of ‘Life is Life’, which didn’t stop the crowd from responding in chorus, with no need for rehearsal.

  Clotilde and Valou walked among the dancers crowded on to the little beach of Oscelluccia. Slotted in between two tongues of rock, the little inlet was another of those small pieces of paradise that had been confiscated by Cervone Spinello. The closer you got to the sea, the more the stones and pebbles on the path seemed to have been crushed by thousands of tourists’ feet, in a hurry to reach the water, the stones reduced, summer after summer, to coarse sand whose quality, according to certain tourists, depended on the number of people visiting the beach.

  While the half-built walls of the future Roc e Mare marina were barely visible from that point, you couldn’t miss the Tropi-Kalliste, the straw hut facing due north, with a terrace, bar and bamboo ceiling, all of it no doubt easy to dismantle at speed if there was a storm warning or an impending visit from a zealous new police chief. The name, which had Cervone’s hallmark stamped all over it, evoked both the tropical heat of the night, and the ancient name of Corsica, Kalliste, the most beautiful. The disco was nothing more than this straw hut, fitted with spotlights and lasers that lit up the sky all the way to the moon, large speakers placed right on the sand, a floating platform on which less than a quarter of the crowd was dancing, and – especially for this evening – a raised stage, two metres high, thin and long like a catwalk or a large diving board. Below the dais a big inflatable swimming pool had been set up, lit by blue fluorescent lighting and guarded by three motionless black bodyguards who didn’t appear to be appreciating the chorus to Opus’s song ‘Life is Life’.

  For once Cervone had brought his prices down, but even at seven euros a ticket, nine euros for a mojito and fifteen euros for a pitcher of Pietra, he still must have been raking in the money.

  Frankie Goes to Hollywood was now ordering the enthusiastic audience to relax. Clotilde estimated the crowd to be between two and three hundred people. Of all ages. Teenagers who seemed to have known these cheesy songs by heart since they were in nappies; hysterical adolescents, some of whom already seemed to be drunk; couples, too, and a few groups of older people.

  Old in comparison to most of the audience.

  Old in terms of their age.

  ‘I’m off, Maman!’

  Clotilde stared at her daughter uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Clara, Justin, Nils and Tahir are here. Just over there. I’ve got my phone. Text me when you want to go.’

  Valou disappeared into the crowd.

  If anything happened to her, if he found out about this, Franck would kill her. Not his daughter – his wife.

  But Clotilde didn’t care.

  Let Valou enjoy herself. My God, let the girl enjoy herself! What could happen to her here?

  She moved away slightly from the dancers and walked towards the sea, avoiding a few bodies lying around as if they’d been washed in by the tide. A boat floated a few metres out from the beach, moored to an iron ring that had been drilled into the rocks. Clotilde pointed the torch of her phone at the flaking bow of the fishing boat.

  The Aryon.

  It was almost impossible to make out the A, the Y and the N; she was probably the only person capable of still deciphering the name. The hull looked rotten, the mooring rope worn, the keel split. No oars, no sail, no engine. The boat looked like an escaped animal that had had a noose looped around its neck and then been forgotten about. At least that was Clotilde’s impression, as she held back the tears that came to her at the sight of this new wreck abandoned on the road of her journey into nostalgia.

  The music suddenly stopped. For a moment, the beach was plunged into darkness, before a green laser machine-gunned the crowd and the strobe turned them into epileptic zombies.

  Maria-Chjara appeared on the catwalk wearing a long sequined sheath dress, quite decent, apart from the revealing cleavage.

  A synthesiser provided the rhythm for her first few dance moves, before her lips approached the microphone to sing the first few notes of ‘Future Brain’, the global hit by Den Harrow, the king of eighties Italian disco … a song completely forgotten ever since.

  Or at least that’s what Clotilde thought.

  The crowd immediately joined in, chanting the words.

  Some hits last forever.

  Since returning to Corsica, Clotilde hadn’t been back to Oscelluccia beach. Too many questions haunted her now. Why, since this bit of paradise had always belonged to Cassanu Idrissi, had her grandfather allowed Cervone to put up this squalid nightclub here? Why was this boat still floating here, abandoned and rusty? Why was anyone tolerating this noise that sounded like a bad drug, this mesmerised crowd, these hypnotic lights? Why hadn’t silence won? If it didn’t win here, on Oscelluccia beach, where could it win?

  Why hadn’t a big bad wolf come over to this straw house on the beach, a local wolf who was friends with her grandfather, no need even for a balaclava or a bomb, a jerry-can or a lighter, all you’d have to do was blow it down. All it would have taken was a bit more wind; this wind which, rather than sweeping away the straw
hut, was carrying the decibels all the way to Calvi.

  Maria-Chjara continued. Under the spotlights, with all the shadows and the lights, with all that make-up, it would have been impossible to guess her age.

  Forty-five. Precisely. Clotilde knew.

  Maria-Chjara was extremely confident. The songs flew by one after another. Italian, English, French, Spanish.

  Valou appeared and disappeared again.

  Clotilde was getting bored.

  After a ‘Tarzan Boy’ continued the endless call and response of the sandy choir, waking up every mammal from the Pelagos animal sanctuary to Monaco, the lights suddenly became less garish, the synths faded away and Maria-Chjara murmured into the mike with a strong Italian accent.

  ‘I’m going to sing you a song that is sung without any accompaniment at all. No instruments. Just my voice. It’s a song I’m sure you know, “Forever Young”, but this time I would ask you not to sing along with me. Except those who can (she gave the crowd a smile like a kiss). I’m going to sing it in Corsican. Just for you. ‘Sempre giovanu’.

  A white spotlight settled on Maria-Chjara. The Italian chanteuse closed her eyes, letting her unadorned voice defy the waves and climb ever higher, making even the moon weep.

  And, carried by a soprano voice purer than anyone could have imagined, the tune became a hymn, the crowd shivering in the darkness, not even one nervous laugh, like a small miracle, as if everyone had understood that the singer was only agreeing to perform in this circus on the grounds that she was allowed these four minutes, that she was left in peace for the duration of her prayer, her a cappella credo.

  A parenthesis that had to close again.

  The sound of the drum machine exploded even before Maria-Chjara had opened her eyes again, even before the last octave was whispered by her parted lips, followed by an insipid synth note which all the beachgoers seemed to recognise from the first chord.

  Maria-Chjara’s dress had just fallen to the stage. As if by magic she appeared in her bikini.

  White. Immaculate. Clinging.

  The crowd began to shout the chorus of ‘Boys, boys, boys’ even before the backing tape started up.

  Maria-Chjara stopped, swayed, smiled, stepped forward, stepped back and then took a swift run.

  The crowd continued to chant, repeating the words again and again.

  She dived.

  And re-emerged from the pool below the stage, under a shower of sequins, her hair sticking to her head, her make-up washed away, her foundation furrowed, but it didn’t matter, the important aspect was elsewhere: the top of her wet bikini was shining, intoxicating, transparent, just as the legend said it was, almost like a trademark.

  Maria-Chjara now took up the refrain, repeating it ad infinitum. She had been brought a different microphone, a big rainbow-coloured plastic ball, and cannons spewed forth foam. The singer held out her hand as if blowing a kiss, and beckoned to the crowd.

  As if expertly choreographed, the three bodyguards parted at last and clothes rained down on the beach. Soon there were a hundred people in the tiny pool, singing the words to ‘Boys, boys, boys’ for the thousandth time.

  The more daring of the girls took off their bikini tops.

  But not Maria-Chjara.

  As if she were too old for that.

  Because only the hits never get older.

  ~

  ‘I’m a friend of Maria-Chjara’s. I knew her when we were children.’

  The bodyguard didn’t seem convinced.

  The crowd was still dancing at the other end of the beach, to techno beats that no longer had much to do with the eighties.

  Are we staying on here for a bit, Maman?

  Yes, but not for long, Clotilde had replied to her daughter’s anxious text after Maria-Chjara’s last song. That was twenty minutes ago. Since then she had been waiting by the caravan parked on the unpaved car park that served as the backstage area. It wasn’t as if she was stuck in a queue of groupies. Clotilde was alone, but the door was closed and the bouncer wouldn’t hear a word about it.

  ‘At least knock on the door. Tell her there’s a fan who wants to talk to her, she’ll like that.’

  The bouncer smiled faintly, or felt sorry for her. At last he knocked on the partition.

  ‘Miss Giordano. It’s for you …’

  Maria-Chjara poked her head out a few seconds later. She had wrapped a dressing gown around her shoulders and a towel on her hair. Not a trace of make-up, foundation or lip gloss. She turned towards Clotilde, only half-opening the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  She was still beautiful. Clotilde hadn’t expected that. She’d probably had face-lifts, liposuction, scalpels and silicon, but she still looked good. Like a customised car, Clotilde thought, a bit vulgar, but proud to be different, proud to attract people’s attention. Whether it was admiration or criticism, she didn’t care. Monster or icon, what did it matter?

  ‘Have you got a ciggie for me?’

  The muscle-bound bodyguard, who must have been twenty-five years younger than her, nervously took out a cigarette and, like a trembling John Wayne, brought it to Maria-Chjara’s lips, not knowing where to look.

  A shy little boy with his teacher.

  ‘So,’ Maria-Chjara said, addressing Clotilde at last, ‘you’re my last fan? And you think I’m going to open my door to you? Don’t count on it, lovey, I’m not like all those cocksuckers who suddenly turn into muff-divers when the men start turning their backs.’

  She exploded with laughter.

  There was something feline about her gestures, her claws, her almond eyes. Even though Clotilde hated the word ‘cougar’, it seemed an apt term.

  Or tigress.

  ‘I’m Clotilde. Nicolas’s sister. Nicolas Idrissi, do you remember?’

  Maria-Chjara narrowed her eyes, seeming to scour the depths of her memory. Yet Clotilde could have sworn that the woman had recognised her as soon as she saw her. A slight pressure of her fingers on the door of the caravan, a tightening of thumb and index finger on the blistered metal.

  Maria-Chjara shook her head.

  ‘No idea. An ex of mine?’

  She seemed sincere. Clotilde was sorry not to have thought of bringing some pictures of Nicolas.

  ‘The summer of ’89. And the five years before that.’

  Maria-Chjara blew smoke in the bouncer’s face, pushed a damp lock of hair beneath her towel, let the dressing gown slip slightly, revealing a tattooed rose, the prisoner of black briars climbing up to her shoulder and on to her arm.

  ‘The summer of ’89!’ the starlet said, astonished. ‘Well, darling, that doesn’t make us any younger. I was a dish back than, a gourmet dish, and the boys were a bit like the liquorice in a bag of Haribo, that brother of yours was just one among many.’

  The year you lost your virginity, oh pussy my love! Don’t give me that, you don’t forget something like that!

  ‘He was tall and fair. A nice guy. It was the summer of the lambada. He didn’t dance as well as you.’

  Maria-Chjara spat out the cigarette butt. Her red thumbnail picked nervously at the paint of her metal lodging.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I have five thousand fans on Copains d’avant.1 And I’m talking about the ones who got me into bed, not the little virgins who just felt me up.’

  She was lying. Clotilde had no choice. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air, before blowing the house down.

  ‘I’m talking about the boy who died, Maria. The one who died on the Revellata road. The evening when you and my brother Nicolas were supposed to do it for the first time.’

  The red nail broke. Cleanly.

  No smile from Maria-Chjara. Cold.

  The prize for best actress goes to … Hats off.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember. I’m exhausted. Come back later. Bye.’

  1 French equivalent of Friends Reunited.

  21

  Thursday, 17 August 1989, eleventh day of the holidays

&n
bsp; Big Blue sky

  The port of Stareso consists of a concrete jetty and three houses. For a long time, apparently, this pocket-sized harbour below the Revellata lighthouse was basically forbidden to the public because it was home to a small scientific base researching the marine life of the Mediterranean. But this summer they’ve opened the site to allow a few visitors, some divers, fishermen and also, once a week, about fifteen street vendors who come and sell their local products on the quay.

  Maman couldn’t miss that. Maman looooooves markets.

  She loves looking pretty in her hat, wandering about, showing an interest in things, being enthusiastic, chatting, disagreeing, going away, changing her mind, coming back, negotiating, bargaining, buying, changing her mind again. During that week in Marrakech when I was twelve, I thought I would die of shame in the souk and not come out of our riad for a week. And this morning at breakfast, fatal mistake, I agreed to go with Maman to the market. There goes the morning! When I got fed up of being jostled by holidaymakers, and having my feet run over by buggies, I went and sat on the only bench. Blazing sun. Camouflage gear. Headphones and Manu Chao in my ears and, for a change, a newspaper on my knees, the Corse-Matin, whose banner headline had grabbed my attention.

  FALLEN FROM HIS BOAT?

  Someone called Drago Bianchi, a businessman from Nice, had been reported missing, according to the few lines I read on the front page. They’d found his yacht but not him, just his fishing rod which was found floating in the water with nothing on it. The guy had made his fortune in building and public works, the kind of man who could turn concrete into gold. Perhaps he’d got the formula wrong this time; perhaps all the gold in his pockets had turned back into concrete and made him fall to the bottom. The other brief news items from the island got on my nerves, so instead I chose to admire the landscape in front of me.

  Shall I describe it to you? Let me try and find the words.

  So in front of me there’s a fishing boat, blue and white, which looks more like a large rowing-boat than a trawler. No sails, just an engine, iron chains piled up everywhere, and nets, sea-green, forming a huge cocoon on the jetty, with a giant caterpillar of yellow buoys imprisoned inside it. Perhaps, when the net is cast, the biggest butterfly in the world will come fluttering out of it.