Vernon Subutex 2

by Virginie Despentes

  She launched into a rant about how, before she met him, she’d been slim and curvy, Belleville’s answer to Mariah Carey, how he was the one who filled the fridge with sugary shit and the cupboards with potato chips, so it was hardly surprising she was losing her figure. In the twenty years he’d known her, Véro had always been built like a brick shithouse, but she was convinced that she had once been beautiful. Whenever she cornered some sexy young thing at the bar, she would launch into endless stories about back when she was a stunner and had all the men panting after her. Urban myths. She’d always been ugly as sin. At least in her case, growing old involved no regrets.

  But by now Véro was in full flow: it was his fault that she was no longer svelte, and while she was at it, she wanted to know where he had suddenly gotten all this money from, it made her sick to think she was sharing her life with a man who’d had kids behind her back, and had obviously come into an inheritance, a tidy sum too, but was obviously ashamed to admit it.

  “You’re such a miserable fucking bastard … do you really think that just because some uncle left you ten thousand euros when he croaked, everyone’s going to be hanging around you like vultures? I pity you, I really do … Well, spit it out then, how much did you inherit?”

  “What difference would it make if I did inherit money? Would you know what to do with it? You’re hardly going to go out and buy clothes, you’ve got the classy chassis of a battered old rattletrap. So what then? You want to go to the hairdressers? You’ve barely got four hairs on that cue-ball head of yours. Get your mustache waxed? If that’s all, just wait there, I’ll go get my razor. Come on then, what is it you want? You want to get liposuction? So do it, get yourself liposucked, you old hag, just let me drink my beer in peace.”

  He thought she might trot out her old lady dreams, talk about a house in the country where she could live out her days. Like all the working-class women who’ve had it drummed into their heads that nirvana is owning your own little house with your own little garden. One look at the state of Véro’s bedroom, and you wouldn’t want her to have a little house—Christ, no. The woman is feral.

  Véro had simply shrugged, she was resigned to the fact that her dreams were in vain, but was content to nurture them, and without a flicker of hesitation, she said: “If I had money, darling, I’d go to see New York. New York, Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Chicago.” Her tone was one he did not recognize, there was no bitterness, no resentment; in fact she sounded like an excited little girl; and he could have gone for the jugular, mocked her for letting down her guard so easily, but he said nothing, he allowed himself to be moved. She had this in reserve, the old bag. She had no idea that he could afford to pay for such a trip, she had just blurted it out, not trying to be shrewd, to hoodwink him. It was a dream she had set aside, one she cared about, one she nurtured. Twenty years he had been trailing after her from bar to bar, propping her up when she stumbled, listening to her throw up at home, and never once had she told him about it. And now there she was, smiling, showing her rotten teeth—she still has a full set of fangs, but given the color and the state of them, she’d be better off without. He snubbed her, out of habit. But she had amazed him. Three months before, with his head in a vice and the never-ending pressure to pay the bills, he could not have allowed himself the indulgence of finding her poignant, in fact he would have laid into her for talking such shit. Three months earlier, he had not even been curious to know what she thought. So this was the secret of having money: having space enough to indulge in flights of fancy.

  “You’re not going anywhere, you old whore. You haven’t even got a passport, you wouldn’t have the first idea how to buy tickets, and if you got there, what the hell would you do?”

  “You really are full of shit. Going to the States is no more complicated than taking the métro, except the ticket is different. And if I needed my passport, I’d just go and get it. All my papers are in order, I’ll have you know.”

  “You wouldn’t move that fat ass of yours an inch. Drunks are all the same, they’re all mouth.”

  “Why am I even bothering to talk to you? You’ve never been anywhere in your life. You’re a boor. You’ve always been a boor.”

  “I don’t like traveling. Besides, what could you do there that you can’t do here?”

  “I’d go for a walk, dipshit. I’d drink scotch, I’d take a taxi, go see a park, if there are squirrels, I’d try to catch one, I’d listen to the locals talking with no subtitles, I’d take the subway. You’ve never been anywhere, you don’t know what it’s like abroad.”

  “You’d be just one more fat fucking tourist.”

  Véro had had a life before she devoted herself to propping up bars full-time. For more than twenty years, she’d been a teacher. Had taught literature. She’s the only person he knows who’d been dumb enough to get herself fired from the state education system. Four months’ vacation a year, twenty hours of classes a week, and even that was too much to ask of her … Charles hates the idea of traveling. There is nothing he hates more than the thought of packing a suitcase, unless it is the prospect of brushing his teeth somewhere far from home. He has never taken her anywhere, the old nag. There was no way he was going to fritter away his cash on pathetic trips.

  * * *

  A late, blazing sun has obliterated all trace of the earlier downpour. Charles feels the heat stab at his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. A park keeper in khaki overalls is pushing an empty wheelbarrow and whistling. A couple passes, the man striding a few steps ahead of the woman, swinging his arms with a military air. Charles changes his mind. It was a bad idea to let the woman in the red coat disappear without first letting Vernon know people were looking for him.

  “Can you give me the number of the woman in red? Just in case…”

  “You know where Vernon is?”

  “No.”

  “Oh yes, you do, I know you … Don’t be a bastard, let me in on the secret … Or maybe you’ve got your eye on the babe in the red coat for yourself, is that it?”

  “Take a good look at me. How do you rate my chances of convincing her to have a quick fumble in the bushes?”

  “Depends. If she really wants to know where this guy is, maybe she’d be willing to…”

  “There you go! That’s the reason I’m not going to tell you where Vernon is. I’ll open the last beer, you’ll give me her number, and we’ll change the subject.”

  “Come on, let me in on the secret. I knew this guy Vernon before you did.”

  “Get up. We’re going for a little walk.”

  ON A BENCH, a girl in a white dress is practicing the theme from Carmen on an accordion. As she passes, Émilie wonders whether slip dresses are back in fashion. If she wasn’t so fat, she’d love to wear clothes like that, so diaphanous, so feminine. But even if she was skinny, she’s too old to pull off that look. In a way, she finds this reassuring.

  The encounter with the homeless guy has left her depressed. “I suppose it was too much effort to squeeze out a couple of kids.” Having to deal with the destitute is supposed to make you feel better about your life, not make you feel even shittier. But even to the homeless, women like her are considered to be pathetic losers. Émilie is looking for the Rosa Bonheur, though still unsure if she is heading in the right direction. She has always had a terrible sense of direction, and today, because she is upset, it is worse.

  She has been thinking about Vernon nonstop ever since she kicked him out. Retracing his path, she realized that she was the first person he turned to when he was evicted from his apartment. Maybe she was too harsh.

  But the night it happened, she had patted herself on the back. Finding herself in an empty apartment, she was proud that she had defended her territory. She’d slipped on the pair of American Apparel pants with a rip in the crotch, and the pink-and-black Hello Kitty T-shirt she only wears when she is alone. Taking off her jeans as soon as she gets home has always been a relief. She buys her jeans a size too small, telling he
rself she’s about to lose weight. This means she spends the whole day tugging at her sweater to hide her hips. She has rolls of fat hanging over her waist, stale muffin tops. She had lit a Diptyque candle that had been gathering dust for months to create a cozy atmosphere. Who the hell could have given it to her? They cost a fortune, and apparently they’re toxic. She had done a few stretches she learned at her yoga class while listening to Tibetan mantras on YouTube. She had lain on her back, palms facing the ceiling, alternating abdominal and clavicular breaths, relaxing her jaw, her stomach. The gray double-lined curtains she bought from Zara Home protected her from the outside world, from the cold, the noise, the prying eyes. Then she had put on an album of cover versions by Cat Power and told herself that she was happy being on her own. Being able to relax, to center herself. She had heated up a Monoprix Gourmet pizza, settled herself on her bed with a tray, and watched an ARTE documentary about Barbie dolls on the internet. Had she not been alone, she would not have been able to do any of these little things that gave her so much pleasure. After dinner, she polished off the bottle of white wine while munching her way through a 250-gram box of malted milk balls, eating them one by one, letting the chocolate melt against the roof of her mouth before crunching into the honeycomb … She had gone to bed early, but had been unable to sleep.

  She was thinking about how cold it was outside, and though she curled into a ball under the heavy pink duvet, she could not help but wonder whether Vernon had found somewhere to stay for the night. She was haunted by the tale of the little match girl. Émilie had reasoned with herself—why should she feel responsible for a man who, when she had turned to him for help, had not even bothered to reply? A man who would be annoying her if he were here: they had nothing in common. Why would she put herself through that? Sorry, Vernon, take your shit and dump it somewhere else. She has not spent years in therapy in order to get stuck in old patterns of middle-class guilt. Okay, so her parents had bought her an apartment in Paris; okay, so life was easier for her than if she had been born in Brazzaville. But she wasn’t going to spend her whole life punishing herself for it.

  She felt rather less guilty because Vernon was resourceful. Right now, while she was lying alone in her bedroom worrying herself sick, he was probably in good company, well fed and being pampered by someone else. Vernon was a liar, Vernon made no effort in life, Vernon had not worried about her when Jean-No died. But Vernon had also been a friend. She had genuinely liked him, and she had spent years bursting into the record shop mouthing off about all sorts of shit and she felt good because he had always treated her with consideration and affection. He did it with everyone; managed to make them feel that they were unique, important. And she had admired that. And now it came between them. It was ugly. She was afraid to think that what most bothered her about Vernon being in her apartment was that he was a witness to her life. For as long as there was no one here to see how she lived, she could pretend—without really lying—that she lived a moderately rich and varied life. A life that gave her no cause to complain. This was what she most feared: being seen as a victim. But if she considers her life through the eyes of a third person, things become complicated. Her job is shit. She works all hours. Because she is terrified that otherwise it won’t look good. Vernon would see that she had no friends, no relationships. No parties of any kind. He would see her online flirtations. The random hookups with guys encountered on Meetic, the endless hours she spent shaving, doing her makeup, styling her hair, choosing her clothes, only to see nothing but disappointment in the eyes of the man when she stepped into the room. She can no longer cut it at her age. What else would Vernon see? The kitchen on which she lavishes so much care? A wall lined with herbal teas. A rack filled with organic oils. And everywhere, funny little knickknacks in garish colors—fridge magnets, salt cellars shaped like Mickey Mouse, retro fifties cookie tins … a chorus of cries for help: the more she had tried to create an atmosphere of elegance, the more she underscored her utter desperation. She doesn’t even have a cat to keep her company. At night, when she comes home, she switches on the television. And pours herself a drink. In that order.

  She has a map of the world pinned over her desk, with red thumbtacks indicating places she has been and yellow ones indicating places she plans to visit soon. She goes abroad every year. She saves up and treats herself to a vacation. Travel is so rewarding. But she does not want Vernon to see that. If she looks at it from someone else’s point of view, she is afraid what she considers an oasis of calm and pleasure might seem like so many signs of pathos.

  Émilie had slept badly that night. She had gotten up in the small hours, smoked a cigarette, opened another bottle of wine, and stared down at the deserted street at four in the morning. Old memories had begun to take shape. Her memory is a compost heap; everything was jumbled together and beginning to rot … you had to study them carefully to make out the contours they had had, before they had clotted into a vast mound of bitterness. She remembered one of the first times she had seen Vernon, at the shop. She had been looking for Adam and the Ants’ first album, he didn’t have it, and he added without a smile, “You can do better than that,” and had put on a record by the Cure. He was wearing the ring of a Native American chief with a headdress of blue and red feathers, it should have looked tacky, but it suited him. With hands like his, it would have been a shame not to wear rings. She remembered his movements as he handled the vinyl, index finger on the central hole, thumb gripping the edge as he turned it over, looking for the track he wanted to play. She remembered a morning when he had kissed her unexpectedly, shoved his tongue down her throat outside the all-night bakery where they bought croissants at 5:00 a.m. She had pushed him away, flattered but not as drunk as he was, saying that she couldn’t do that to Jean-No. Yeah, right! She should have leapt at the chance.

  But as the days passed, the guilt she felt about Vernon faded, and she would check out his Facebook page from time to time and was reassured that he seemed to be getting by. It was at this point that Sylvie made her entrance in the comments section. Screeds of vile, deranged abuse rained down on Vernon’s Facebook page, accompanied by graphic photographs depicting the intentions of this woman scorned—soldiers eating their enemies’ brains with a spoon, screenshots from Cannibal Holocaust and Saw, decapitations, executions by firing squad, by hanging, by defenestration … At first, Vernon made an effort to delete the messages as they appeared, which had a perverse effect on Émilie: she found herself spending whole days refreshing the page, desperate not to miss an episode of this soap opera …

  Not that she condoned Sylvie’s unhinged behavior. All that aggression, washing her dirty linen in public, it was grotesque and pathetic. He had stolen some book and a watch. It was hardly gentlemanly. But there was no need to turn it into a capital crime. Vernon had dumped her when she wasn’t expecting it. Émilie felt like saying: it happens every day. If we trolled a guy every time we got dumped, Facebook would turn into white riot … She disapproved of this display of hostility, but when Sylvie sent friend requests to all of his contacts because Vernon had blocked her and she wanted to carry on making an exhibition of herself, Émilie had accepted. Without a second thought. In the same way she might read an article about Jennifer Lopez’s hemorrhoids: it was disgusting to write about such things, but she was not going to miss reading it.

  She was fascinated by Sylvie’s madness. Émilie never loses her temper. She champs at the bit, she grits her teeth, she gets constipated, gives herself ulcers. But she has never lost control to the point where she screamed at someone. She behaves like a lady, anything else would mean making a spectacle of herself, and she knows she would die of shame. So Sylvie’s hysterical rants, which broke all the boundaries Émilie imposed on herself, were somehow cathartic. The wronged woman lashed out with a fury it was impossible not to admire. She was in the wrong, she was ridiculous, yet still everyone egged her on. Everyone loves an online battle. It had to be said that her threats to castrate Vernon with her bare tee
th when she found him were much more entertaining than videos of baby bats. Aware of the popularity of her posts, Sylvie created the hashtag #wherethehellissubutex. For the first few days, it bombed. No one was interested in tracking down this guy. Sylvie sounded like a nutjob. One dipshit retweeted Lydia Bazooka’s photo of Vernon, stoned and smiling, sitting in front of her computer … But the person who had poured oil on the flames was Pamela Kant. When she joined the comments thread—using her porn name—the hunt began. Guys would have sold their own mothers for a “like” from the hard-core porn star. Like so many others, Émilie spent all day glued to her screen, and when the discussion moved to WhatsApp, she joined the group. It was here that she had stumbled on her old acquaintances Xavier and Patrice, and got in touch. Curiously, the more invisible he was, the more important Vernon became in their lives. A bizarro group of old Revolver customers popped in and out of conversations, endlessly typing—hey, long time no see—WTF have U been up 2? Meanwhile, Pamela Kant, who had many thousands of followers, trailed in her wake a veritable army of slackers bent on tracking down Subutex. Some techie freak eventually spotted him in a photograph on a blog post about the old public baths in the nineteenth arrondissement. Then someone else popped up saying that they had seen him outside the gates of the Buttes-Chaumont.

  * * *

  Émilie kept a close watch on these conversations, but she did not take part until one day, having stopped off to buy toilet paper, milk, and leeks at Dia on her way home, she found Pamela Kant standing outside the front door of her building. She recognized her from photos on the internet. In real life, she was a lot smaller than she looked in the photos. She was dressed like an American trying to pass incognito—baseball cap, tracksuit, sunglasses. As she approached, Pamela was staring at her smartphone, and Émilie noticed she was playing Tetris.