Dawn had broken and he had sat up, took a few gulps of beer, and announced that he was heading off. Laurent, who had listened to the conversation without closing his eyes all night, immediately got to his feet. “Let’s go together, brother.” There was a chorus of protests: “You can’t just leave like that, where are you going to go, what are you going to do,” and it was Laurent who silenced them, “We’re happy to take a couple of beers for the road, there are a few left in the fridge … Otherwise, you’ve all been very kind, but I’m long enough in the tooth to be able to look after myself … And don’t worry, I’ll take care of your friend here.” He had kept his word: since that night he had taken care of Vernon. As he closed the door, he announced to the assembled company, “We’ll be at the Buttes-Chaumont if you want to come visit,” as though giving the address of his local bar. But neither he nor Vernon expected that, the very next day, so many people would turn up at the park to see how they were.
In the métro on their way back, Laurent had made no comment. He had been discreetly but visibly jubilant: at last, Subutex was one of them, a free man. Laurent had been annoyed that he had to wait for nightfall to show Vernon around his new territory: the famous railway line known as La Petite Ceinture. “It was originally built to transport plaster.” Laurent would prattle on endlessly about the Buttes-Chaumont, it made you wonder why he didn’t become a tour guide. “Up here on the Butte, they used to slaughter horses and hang criminals. There were quarries, right where you’re standing, and a municipal garbage dump. There was also the Gibbet of Montfaucon. The corpses of the fédérés who fought during the Paris Commune are buried under your feet. Oh, yes … By the time this park was built, the whole area was so pestilential that the middle classes fled, it was a park frequented by people of ill repute. They looted everything they could find, apparently—I read it on the internet. The poor are like that, we destroy everything we can.”
The railway lines are twenty yards below the level of the park, which they reach via a steep embankment. At night, when they reel home drunk, it’s the perfect opportunity to fall flat on their faces. Vernon set himself up a little way from Laurent, in a recess between two mounds of gravel. The walls are tagged with graffiti, to find his spot, he looks for the purple octopus on the pillar. He is sheltered and can’t be seen from the bridge that overlooks their sleeping quarters.
Laurent always carries a knife on him—there’s no way “just anybody” can crash here. No one can come down the embankment leading to the tracks without literally stepping over him. It works: there is enough space in the park for everyone to find a spot.
On their second day, Laurent forcibly took him on an adventure. “You’re lucky, I spotted a mattress while hanging out around the soup kitchen near Pyrénées, but I didn’t fancy asking that fucker Samir to help me carry it, I don’t like the guy, I don’t want him moving in on us. You and me are going to go fetch it.” They had followed the train tracks as far as the high railings that forced them back up into the city, then carried on, past Ménilmontant. Laurent had hidden the precious mattress behind a billboard, and Vernon did not have the heart to say no to him, though he didn’t feel he had the strength to lug the thing back to the park. It had taken them the whole day. They had dragged the thing, pushed it, carried it, collapsed onto it, and lay there for a couple of minutes, giggling like a pair of tired kids. By the time they let it slide down the slope to the railway line, the mattress was as tattered as if they’d salvaged it from the nearest dump. It was dark. They had continued on their journey, and Vernon had finally collapsed between two pillars.
It had also been Laurent who helped him erect a tent that could not be seen from the park using a length of oilcloth held down by some rusty sheets of metal stolen from a building site and abandoned here. You can find anything along the railway tracks. Vernon had turned up a crate he could use as a bedside table, a stool, and a stuffed Homer Simpson for decoration. Laurent had given him a duvet, and that night, Vernon had not been surprised that he felt so comfortable in his new refuge. It has become his cocoon, a fantastical structure that protects him much better than a house.
Then Olga had reappeared, looking rested, clean, and altogether much better than the last time he had seen her, the night Xavier was attacked. “They kept me in the hospital for a couple of weeks, I had a pneumothorax, I was treated like a fucking queen, guys!” Laurent had told her she could not go back to her old spot a few pillars away, “You’ve caused enough trouble for everyone as it is,” but Vernon had intervened. “Come on, leave her alone.” She had hooked up with Jackie, a little guy of about fifty, smart, funny, with a face like a crafty clown. He had just come out of squatting in an abandoned multi-story parking garage that the local crackheads had nearly burned to the ground, so the place had been boarded up with everything he owned inside. But whatever he was like during the day, Jackie was a lot more difficult to manage when he was drinking—he was a loud, venomous drunk. He had not had time to get on Laurent’s nerves: one night, he simply did not appear. Olga had been upset, but Laurent was matter-of-fact: “That’s what it’s like on the streets. You meet people, hang out with them, and one day they disappear. When you run into them again three months later, likely as not, they don’t remember you. We meet a lot of people. It’s completely contradictory: nothing ever happens and something’s always happening. It’s a particular rhythm, it takes some getting used to…” In her corner, Olga was sobbing. “Shit, if we can’t even bring ourselves to care about what happens to each other, we’re don’t even qualify as human.” Then she moved on. She didn’t have much choice.
A few days later, she had dragged Vernon to the Secours populaire near Télégraphe métro station, telling him, “I’ve got connections there.” She was grateful to him for persuading Laurent to let her have her old spot back. The uphill trek to get to the charity felt like losing a lung … Then, amid the fierce chaos of an unlikely mob scrabbling for jackets, socks, or towels, one of the volunteers—a kindly woman of about sixty with cropped white hair, inch-thick makeup, huge red earrings, dazzling white teeth, and a big smile—had recognized Olga and signaled for them to wait. She had reappeared clutching a pair of red boots with a black eagle on the side. “I kept them for you.” And Vernon realized that Olga had insisted they be put aside for her. She was thrilled to be able to make a present of them to him. He hadn’t had the heart to say, “They look like something Dick Rivers would have worn in the sixties, I’ll never wear them.” He gingerly weighed them up—they were a fine pair of battered red Mexican boots, just what he needed. It was difficult to imagine how they had come to be here—perhaps the previous owner had dropped dead. Or his girlfriend had threatened to leave him if he didn’t get rid of the boots. Now here they were in Vernon’s hands. And two women were excited at the idea of seeing him put them on. He had politely complied. But even then, he remained unconvinced: they were flashy and not at all his style. But the spry old woman with the shimmering smile said, “They’ve been sitting here waiting for you,” then she had headed off to deal with a woman of about her own age and just as chubby, a breezy African woman who was clearly a regular. Vernon had put on the boots. They fitted him perfectly, they felt as comfortable as slippers. His feet had been aching for weeks, so the relief was instantaneous. The boots changed the way he walked. They demanded that he thrust his leg up higher. Wearing them, he felt his thighs stretch, his hips tip forward, he took longer strides. He was teetering. Out in the street, though worried about falling from the vertiginous heels of his cowboy boots, he had thanked Olga: yes, he really liked his new boots. He was surprised by the effect they had on him. He felt like a giant.
He gets up early. The day starts with the dawn chorus and ends with the same refrain. Over time, he has come to recognize their songs. First there is a cooing, then gradually the little sparrows, whose song is disproportionate to their size, after that it gets complicated, chords ring out from everywhere and he does not even have to glance at the fluorescent green
alarm clock he found to know it is time to get up and go up to the surface: the park gates are open. He can crawl out of his lair. In the morning, he meets old people walking their dogs. From time to time, the park keepers fine them on the pretext that dogs are not allowed off the leash. Then the Chinese arrive and break up into large groups who make synchronized, mostly graceful movements in the air. From a distance, Vernon tries to mimic some of their movements, trying to make sure no one can see him. A young man comes every day and sings next to the big chestnut tree. He flings his arms wide, closes his eyes, his deep bass vibrato sounding out the long notes. It is quite pleasant. Meanwhile, the crows peck holes in the garbage bags and share whatever victuals fall to the ground.
The gardeners and the park keepers all know that Vernon sleeps here. They never speak to him about it. It is a matter of being discreet. The three who live on the railway lines are not the only ones who hide when the park closes. Shadows dawdle, dart into the thickets, climb the railings, or disappear beneath the branches of the lofty trees. Afterward, the only rule is not to make a ruckus until the following morning.
Xavier and Émilie were the first to come and find him. They didn’t hang around: the day after the evening they spent in the Hyena’s apartment, they were wandering the paths, studying the bodies sprawled in the grass. It was one of those rare sunny days, the park was filled with families, shady characters, lovers, students, and fitness enthusiasts. Time passes in a curious fashion for those who live on the streets: both oddly protracted and strangely fleeting. Vernon had all but forgotten that Xavier and Émilie existed. Their opening gambit was less than subtle: “So, what are you going to do,” mumbled in a worried tone. It made him want to say: “What about you? And your misfortunes? How do you handle them?” They tried desperately to persuade him to move in with them. The offer, turned back on them, seemed quite amusing.
Vernon does not have the faintest idea what he is planning to do now. He is making the most of the spell of fine weather. All he does know is that he does not want to move in with other people. This is the sum of his future plans. What is new is that he genuinely does not give a damn. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Xavier and Émilie clearly had a lovely day playing on the grass, not knowing what to say, because they reappeared the following day, then Lydia joined them, followed by Patrice, Pamela … Vodka Satana’s daughter showed up one afternoon, she wanted to talk about her mother but tensed up as soon as anyone did, which didn’t stop her showing up with her father a few days later. Sélim stormed up, furious, demanding to know why they had “done that” to his daughter, but he was like an unpinned grenade: he had come to cause damage, had watched the video on Émilie’s laptop—she had ripped the file and was sending it to anyone in the group who wanted to rewatch it. Sélim stayed on his own for some time after he had finished listening to Alex Bleach. Eventually, his daughter had gone over and put an arm around his shoulder. They sat, motionless, their backs turned to Vernon, making it impossible to tell whether they were speaking. Émilie went over to collect her laptop, she was leaving. Father and daughter made the most of this to wave to the group from afar and walk off. Sélim had come back two days later. He had showed up saying, “What the … are you guys here every day?” surprised and bizarrely moved. He had sat down with them and talked and talked for hours. He told them his life story. How, ever since Faïza had changed her name to Satana, he had been completely unable to remember people’s names. How his daughter was the dearest thing in the world to him and how he could not bear the fact that he could not protect the women he loved from themselves. Pamela had said to him: “She’s lucky to have a father like you, I can’t see what more you could do to protect her.” And he had ended up in her arms, in tears. He had left utterly drained, but happy. Since then, he has come every day.
This was what daytime in the park had become: a mixture of group therapy session, al fresco coffee shop, beer garden, and debating society. The lawn was his salon where Vernon welcomed all comers with the geniality of a generous host touched by so much attention. His life was pleasant: there were cupcakes, bottles of rosé, entertaining company, girls waiting on him hand and foot, they listened to great music on tubular Bluetooth speakers, there were the regulars and those who simply dropped by for a day. An uncomplicated social life that came to him, and no paperwork to ruin his mornings.
It reminded him of the bars in country villages, you never knew who would come, who would talk to whom, who would be the butt of the jokes, whether there would be ugly altercations or unexpected libidinal collisions. When the gates closed, the park keepers made their last rounds, whistling, while the last residents scattered, and Vernon enjoyed this moment of solitude, the moment when he glided down the embankment and settled into his bivouac. He could have left the park, spent an evening elsewhere as others did and climbed over the railings on his way back—but the idea of venturing beyond his territory did not appeal to him. He had become a homebody.
These gatherings do not bother anyone: they do nothing to draw attention to themselves. Laurent and Olga enjoy nightly debriefings where they lecture Vernon in pessimistic tones: “It’s a passing phase, so make the most of it … Though it might seem that your friends have nothing much to do, they’ll eventually realize they have better things to do than watch the trees grow … but you’re pretty lucky, Vernon, usually being penniless keeps people at bay, they think it’s contagious.” It is impossible to tell whether they admire him for deciding to stay with them or whether they think he is a half-wit that they protect because he has his uses.
As the summer dragged on, the gatherings grew, regardless of the rain. When it rained, they sheltered in the man-made grotto by the artificial lake, where they talked in low voices because of the echoes.
Nestled amid the tree roots, Vernon is bogarting the spliff. Lydia Bazooka is busy watching a Lydia Lunch interview on her phone, Patrice, on his day off, is talking to a stranger about the Camera Silens LP. Sitting in a circle on an orange sarong of the sort you might see at the beach, Pamela is explaining to Olga and Laurent that in the Netherlands, people sign on to a waiting list to buy property at an affordable price, which is why they are almost all homeowners by the time they are thirty. Patrice brings them coffee and Vernon listens to them from a distance. He is thinking about Alex Bleach, about the tapes, about that quote from old Hank: “Forgive me, you have my soul and I have your money.” What is it that stars sell that means they are so generously remunerated?
A deflated ball rolls across the grass quickly followed by an aging poodle who catches it and lies on his belly shaking it frantically, then scampers over to Xavier, who is standing, hands in his pocket, beaming. He adopted him from an animal shelter. He’s called Joyeux. A gray royal poodle. His master picks him up. Xavier spotted a photo of the dog online almost by accident. His master had died in a car crash. The animal was huddled in a cage, and it was the look in the dog’s eyes that broke his heart, Xavier claims. At first he had thought, no, I can’t do it, I can’t get another dog so soon, and besides I wouldn’t dare go outside with something like that. But all day the eyes haunted him and, without a word to anyone, Xavier rented a car and went to fetch the dog. His wife threw a tantrum when he got home. Look at it from her point of view, an aging giant poodle did not complement their interior design scheme. But Joyeux won her over, apparently, that very evening. It has to be said the dog has a handsome face. And he is obsessed with his ball. His master spends entire afternoons throwing it and watching the dog romp in the grass. He has already had to pay multiple fines, and done so with a smile. But even the most hard-bitten cops find it difficult to keep a straight face when they encounter a hulking guy with a shaved head who turns out to be the proud owner of a curly-haired poodle called Joyeux. Olga is the only one who has never commented on the breed he chose. She simply said, “Fuck me, he’s a beauty!” and threw the ball for him.
Xavier had been in a bad way after the accident. When he was released from the hospital, he
was in pieces. His foundations had slipped. He was terrified of being out in the street. Given his height and his build, fear had never been part of his makeup. For the first time in his life, he found himself looking behind him, sizing people up, if he heard footsteps behind him, his heart leapt into his mouth. He did not quite know what to do with this newfound vulnerability. He was hardly going to start writing poetry at his age … The worst thing was, he felt ashamed. Having woken from his coma, delirious, convinced that he was a successful director worried about finishing a film, had left him disconcerted. Especially as it had been two or three days before he completely shook off the hallucinations. The doctor he had asked whether the shock had affected his neural pathways had simply shrugged: “All the tests are clear. You’re fine.” But then, what had caused him to be delusional for two whole days? The guy in the white coat had seemed embarrassed: “These things happen, you know, and it often comes as a surprise to the patient … How long has it been since you went twenty-four hours without drinking alcohol?” The idea was so hazy that at first Xavier did not understand what the man was getting at. The doctor had had to explain: “I think, or rather I believe it is very possible, that you suffered a bout of delirium tremens due to a sudden alcohol withdrawal … the blow had nothing to do with this…” and Xavier had almost stabbed the man with the rod holding up the IV drip. An alcoholic, him? Complete bullshit. Later, in private, he remembers that his first words—before asking for a cigarette or inquiring how Vernon was—had been to ask someone to go get some beers. And everything had returned to normal on the day Marie-Ange had brought him the six-pack that he hid in the bedside cabinet. An alcoholic. He had always taken it for granted that he was a good father. That was the one thing no one could take away from him. But can a good father be an alcoholic? He had never thought about it. He had talked to his mother and she had tried to reassure him: “You’re never drunk. Where’s the problem? You’re a wonderful father. You always put your daughter first. So, you need a little beer before lunch but then … you’re fine … we all have our crutches in this life.” But it did not work. This discovery, which, when all was said and done, was hardly news, left him devastated. He could play the wise guy to his daughter because she was too young to judge him. He could delude himself about his wife, knowing it had been many years since he had made her happy. And he was alone. Utterly alone. Not like a lone wolf. But like an idiot who no longer knows who he is. For the first time in his life, perhaps, he no longer had the energy to lie to himself: other than damaging his liver, he was not much good for anything.
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