“Are you Émilie?”
“Depends who’s asking.”
“You know who I am.”
“Not a clue.”
Émilie was mortified to be carrying a twelve-roll family pack of toilet paper and a plastic bag with leeks poking out. At a glance, despite the baggy sportswear, she noticed the narrow waist, the perfectly flat stomach: a magazine cover body set off by huge breasts. Pamela looked like a doll from a very different factory from the one that had produced her. Émilie finds it difficult to take pleasure in other people’s fortune. She admires the theory, but finds it difficult to apply in practice. Pretty girls do not inspire noble thoughts in her. With her free hand, she tugged at the waistband of her pants, wishing the short-assed bitch in front of her would vanish in a flash of spontaneous combustion.
“You got time for a coffee?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Vernon Subutex.”
“I’ve got a lot going on, I can’t talk for long.”
“He told me he left some things at your place, asked if I could pick them up.”
“And he didn’t give you my laptop? That’s weird. Because he left his bag and said he’d pick it up when he gave me back the computer I lent him. Then again, I’m not really surprised. I’ve heard that’s his thing these days. Borrowing stuff and never giving it back … I suppose I should be grateful he didn’t steal anything from me…”
* * *
It was a low blow. But Émilie was so furious at the idea that Vernon had the nerve to send this bitch to do his dirty work that she had to let off steam. Pamela persisted, it was obvious she was not the kind of girl who took no for an answer. Perfect skin, glossy hair, slim nose, pale complexion, charming tilt of the head, shit, the more Émilie looked at her, the more she longed to see her mown down by a bus.
Émilie could not understand—and she had no desire to ask the question and let it be known that she was interested—what the hell did a girl like this want with Vernon? Then the penny suddenly dropped: the tapes! Vernon had told her they were unseen footage of Alex Bleach, Émilie had forgotten all about them, thinking they were of no interest. Since he had dumped his bag at her place without specifically asking her to look after them, she had assumed Vernon had filmed the singer making an omelet in his kitchen. But if Pamela wanted the bag, that meant it was not just footage of two drunks on a binge … And if the tapes were valuable, so too was Émilie, since she was in possession of them. The penny dropped: this was what that dumbfuck journalist Lydia Bazooka was looking for. Émilie had never made the connection between the backpack under her bed and the McGuffin the whole world was trying to track down. Suddenly, she was at the very center of this affair. This thought had pleased her. But her newfound status had not encouraged her to play nice.
* * *
“Tell Vernon I want my laptop back.”
“I can pay you for the computer, that seems reasonable. Just tell me the make and model and we can come up with a price.”
“I need Vernon to personally tell me that he’s asked you to collect the backpack. Sure, I’m pissed off that he didn’t keep his promise to give back the laptop, but that’s not the problem … I don’t know you, I can’t just hand over his stuff without his okay. How do I know that he’s agreed to this?”
Émilie knew perfectly well that Vernon could not be found. She was playing for time. Laying it on thick. It was not often that someone had the upper hand in a conversation with Pamela Kant. She was making the most of it.
“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about this over a coffee?”
Émilie had noticed that the young actress was trying to avoid a strange man who seemed to be prowling around. The guy looked like a weirdo, thick glasses and a purple sweater that was far too small, there was something disturbing about the way he was acting, he had obviously recognized Pamela Kant and was making lewd gestures. Émilie had smiled, and she hoped that her smile said all there was to say:
“I really don’t have the time.”
The fleeting look of distress that flickered across Pamela Kant’s face disconcerted her. For once she had her revenge, but it left a bad taste in her mouth. She said again, “I really am in a hurry, sorry,” and, blocking the doorway with her shoulder, added:
“Tell Vernon to give me a ring, or write to me.”
“He’s disappeared.”
“I thought you just said he’d asked you to collect his backpack?”
“That was before. Xavier—an old friend of his—Xavier was beaten up while he was with Vernon, we went with him to the hospital, that’s when Vernon disappeared.”
“You know Xavier?”
“Yes, and Patrice too. I saw online that they’re friends of yours.”
Émilie had been so surprised by what she was hearing that she almost invited Pamela to come up to her place for this famous coffee. Patrice and Xavier were polar opposites. How had Pamela tracked them down? But in the end the pleasure of slamming the door in her face got the better of her, she affected a sad pout and said:
“You have to understand, I’ve got nothing against you. But imagine if Vernon shows up tomorrow asking for his backpack? What am I supposed to say? Some girl turned up asking for it, and I gave her everything you had in the world?”
“I understand.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“The last time he was seen was up at the parc des Buttes-Chaumont. I’m planning to go up and have a look around—I’m going to ask Xavier and Patrice if they’ll help out…”
“Would you like me to give you a hand?”
* * *
That night, she was admitted to the private world of the WhatsApp group. Two days later, they all met up near the parc des Buttes-Chaumont—Xavier, Patrice, Lydia Bazooka, Pamela Kant, and her faggot boyfriend, Daniel, who Émilie initially thought was too affected, but he was so nice to her she decided he was charming. They had spent the day talking to homeless people in the neighborhood, and the evening discussing what they had found out in a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, and though she had a vicious hangover from cheap rosé the following morning, she had enjoyed seeing them again. They were genuinely concerned about Vernon, you could see it in their faces. Pamela was probably wondering what would happen if he was found dead somewhere—would she get her hands on the fucking tapes? She found it hard to hide her obsession. But all in all, she was pretty decent. She laughed too easily for anyone to be able to keep their guard up for long.
* * *
The following night, when she came home after a tanning session at the salon just up the street, Émilie had found her door wide open. Someone had been through her apartment. She rushed to the drawer where she kept a little cash hidden, then checked to make sure her jewelry box was intact, only then did she think to get down on all fours and look under the bed. Vernon’s backpack was gone.
* * *
She had panicked. She got in touch with the others while she waited for the police to show up to report the break-in. She was convinced it had been that bitch Pamela Kant. The two-faced little slut had probably decided to help herself, Pamela’s hysterical protestations had done little to convince her otherwise. Émile felt distinctly uneasy. The burglars had not turned the place upside down, just rummaged through a few drawers and ransacked a shelf. But still she had the unsettling feeling of being exposed; the apartment that was designed to keep her safe was open to the four winds.
They had all agreed to meet the following day at the Rosa Bonheur. And now here she was, wandering through the park, trying to find the bar. She was afraid that they would give her dirty looks; after all, if she had simply given Pamela Kant the tapes, they would all be better off.
Patrice sends a text message—he has just arrived. Émilie hasn’t got the faintest idea where exactly in the park she is. All she does know is that she cannot see the bar. She walks along the banks of a man-made lake where large birds are shaking their feathers.
A friend told her that
Patrice used to beat his wife. She doesn’t know if this is true. Sometimes, when people split up they make up all sorts of shit. That said, she wouldn’t be surprised. Patronizing, assertive, rough and ready, with that arrogant, macho, I’m-always-right-about-everything air … she can easily imagine him punching a woman in the face if she didn’t immediately agree with him. He is a little Neanderthal for her taste. And the navy tattoos on his arm don’t help matters. Émilie has never understood what women see in this kind of primate. What do guys like that talk about over breakfast? Do they beat their chests and roar, squatting in the sink, waiting for someone to wring a chicken’s neck so they can have their ration of blood before their first cup of coffee? It’s not her thing at all. What Émilie most looks for in a man is intelligence. Someone she can look up to. But, to tell the truth, if a guy like Patrice did try to hook up with her, she’d consider it … it’s been so long since she slept in a man’s arms. She’s not so desperate that she would say yes to just anyone, but not far off …
Neither Patrice nor Xavier has aged well. Everything has started to droop. The shoulders, the ass, the chin. They haven’t looked after their teeth. Intellectually, they’ve slowed down. It is strange to watch them joking around together. When they were twenty, they couldn’t be in the same room without starting a fistfight. It’s not that they are any more open-minded these days, their principles have probably not changed one iota, it’s just that they have been spouting their drivel for so long it has become a dead language. And they no longer have the stamina to act the tough guy. They’ve come to resemble each other physically as they’ve gotten older. It’s the booze taking over. Their faces are puffy, the expressions frozen. They are becoming cousins in substance. Patrice was a handsome guy once upon a time. You’d have to rack your brains to remember it when you look at him today.
Xavier has grown more bitter. It’s something of a paradox, since, of the two, he’s the one who’s made something of himself. He wrote the screenplay for a successful movie, he has a beautiful apartment, stylish clothes, his wife hasn’t dumped him, he lives with his daughter, and he can afford to go on vacation. But he is more frustrated. He still has the same sense of humor, but it is not as sharp, and it is underscored not by fury but by despair. Émilie read somewhere that women survive prison better than men because, throughout history, they have been accustomed to being locked up spied on hobbled punished and deprived of their freedom. Not that it’s in their blood, but it’s part of their heritage. The same thing could be said about social success: women don’t suffer as much when they don’t succeed. They’re disappointed, but they make do. For a guy like Xavier, who seemed to have everything going for him—the right breeding, the right skin color, the right nationality—and who had a taste of success early on, failure is harder to accept. Oh well, I’ve fucked up my life, I made the wrong decisions, didn’t take the opportunity when it presented itself, it’s too late, it’s done now … Émilie can see that the very things she can bear to think are killing Xavier. He is rotting from the inside, eaten up by the bitterness of being mediocre. You can smell it on his breath. He can’t stomach it. He is spewing the same shit—Muslims freemasons Jews feminazis the Chinese the Germans the Portuguese the Romanians the Protestants the faggots and their brood—he’s probably hoping that his wisecracks will make Patrice lose his temper, but Patrice just yawns, stares blankly, and from time to time asks: “Are you keeping up with your treatment?” For some reason that escapes her, Patrice has decided not to rise to the bait. Though he’s not conciliatory by nature.
Émilie doesn’t find it funny. She finds Xavier’s ravings disturbing, she has long since blocked him on Facebook. She didn’t actually unfriend him, she simply hides his posts from her timeline. Even so, she did not manage to be as cold as her moral code dictated, after the accident, when they all got together to look for Vernon; she finds it difficult to reconcile the alt-right idiot whose posts on Facebook make her skin crawl and the guy she used to know so well. Xavier never was very sensitive or liberal, so she can hardly play the blushing virgin; unlike a lot of others, at least he didn’t take them by surprise. And, in a way, seeing Patrice laugh at his bullshit rather than taking offense made her feel less tense. Then again, Patrice always saw himself as head of the thought police, the shepherd who welcomes strays or banishes them from the flock. In the end, it suited her to be easygoing, it had been a pleasant day, she didn’t have the heart to throw a wrench into the works.
Spending the evening with Xavier, Patrice, Lydia Bazooka, Kant, and her cute but queer boyfriend was a little like sleeping with a guy who’s meh because it’s been too long since you got laid. Obviously, she would have preferred to be spending time with people who were more interesting, more sophisticated, more on her level. But she had to admit that it felt fucking amazing to be with people whom she had known long ago, to have Lydia Bazooka hanging on her every word every time she brought up some memory from her youth, or to have Patrice teasing her as though they’d seen each other just yesterday and were picking up a conversation that had been cut short. And when she had found the door of her apartment open, she had appreciated the fact that she could reach out to them, “You won’t fucking believe it, someone broke into my place,” and have them call her back within five minutes to ask what had happened and whether she needed anything. Just being in touch with them makes Émilie realize how much the sole responsibility for her life has rested on her own shoulders for years.
PATRICE HATES PARKS. He finds the neatly trimmed lawns where families can picnic while dimwit teenagers smoke spliffs depressing. When he picks up his kids, twice a month, he lets them play soccer outside his place, sometimes he takes them to the pool, despite the fact that everyone has to wear a bathing cap, but he never takes them to the park. Forty hysterical brats per square meter, and twice as many parents in helicopter mode, there’s always some father sticking his nose in and his fat wife backing him up—in places like that, you’re guaranteed a fight.
He had never set foot in Rosa Bonheur before all this shit with Vernon Subutex. They had ended up there the other night, after combing the nineteenth arrondissement talking to every homeless person they could find. The beer is expensive, but the place itself isn’t too bad. What he likes most about the bar is the little waitress with the tattoos. When he arrived today, he was happy to see that she was working. But when he rolls up his sleeves to show off his ink, she doesn’t react. He picks up a newspaper left on the next table. FINANCIAL MARKETS JITTERY OVER ITALIAN ELECTION RESULTS. Anger flares at the base of his cerebral cortex like a jet of boiling oil. How can they print this shit. They go on about the debt, but the journalists can’t be bothered to do their damn jobs: to write about what’s really happening. Make the distinction between public debt and personal debt, report the story in all its complexity—call a spade a spade: the rich have declared war on the rest of the world. Not just on the poor. On the whole planet. And with the support of the ass-licking media, they prepare public opinion for draconian reforms. It drives him insane. In the morning, the young guys in the postal sorting office are all talking about the Front National. It comes in snatches, “Marine was right about the euro, we’ve been well and truly screwed,” as if she isn’t an establishment figure just like the rest. They are not shocked to see the political elite enabling the Front National. “I mean, this is our country,” they say. At the sorting office, where he’s on a fixed-term contract, they start work at 4:20 a.m. so they don’t get paid for a night shift. That’s what civil service has come to in “our country” these days: everything goes to middle managers. They appoint more and more of them, pay them more and more, add more perks, more benefits, and everything they get is stolen from the shop floor. From the people who do the actual work. Fucking morons, why don’t they realize that they’re being set against each other, being wound up so they end up bashing their neighbors? The banks are being bailed out by the state on the pretext that they fucked up, their debts are nationalized, the profits are pr
ivatized, while all the ignorant man in the street can think about is kicking the shit out of some immigrants.
Mélenchon is better than Marine in every way. His only problem in attracting support is that he’s not racist. The working class has been so brainwashed over the last decade that the only thing they care about is spewing hatred about “ragheads.” They’ve been stripped of the self-respect it took centuries to win, there’s not a moment of the day when they don’t feel like they’re being fleeced, and they’ve been taught that the only thing they’ve got to make them feel a little less shitty is to rant about how they’re white so they have a right to put down darkies. In the same way that kids in the suburbs torch the cars outside their own high-rises and never invade the sixteenth arrondissement, the Frenchman in dire straits takes it out on the person sitting next to him on the bus. Even in his irritation, he is passive: last night, on TV, he was informed that there are people even worse off than he is, people who are poorer and deeper in debt: the stinking black guy, the murderous Muslim, the thieving Rom. Meanwhile, the true culture of the French people—social heritage, the national education system, the great political theories—has been deliberately dismantled. The greatest achievement of the dictatorship of the one percent has been its ability to manipulate minds. The alliance between banks/religions and multinationals has won the battle. They have managed to get a citizen with no heritage to give up all their rights in exchange for access to a nostalgia for empire. Well, you got screwed there too, comrade: don’t think the riches of the colonies were for everyone, even in the age of empire the only privilege you were granted was the right to feel white, meaning a little better than a coworker who wasn’t white. From miners to the sheeple pushing their shopping carts, the reign of the educated citizen didn’t last long. It has to be said that the rich were at the end of their tether: they were sick and tired of having to go to Russia and Thailand in order to see proper poor people, the ones who starve to death, who don’t know how to read, who go around barefoot, the ones who make you feel educated, privileged, envied. This new century has been torture for him, he is choked with anger when he hears what is going on all around him.
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