He is a pillar of the Buttes-Chaumont group. On the first evening, when they watched Alex’s tape, Xavier had not grasped the poignant nature of the reunion. It was a story he liked to tell his new friends in the park: Vernon with his “total loser” look, filthy, a look in his eyes like a demented fool, unable to string three words together. Stinking so badly that he had to be pushed into a shower, and even then some sour-faced lesbian had had to soap him up. The girls fussing over him as if they hadn’t noticed what was staring them in the face: the guy had blown a fuse. Xavier had felt insulted by this idiotic jollity, these so-called old friends who had all dropped Vernon and were fussing over him now that it was too late. He had not enjoyed the evening. He had sat in the corner drinking beer and bitching to himself. When Alex began to speak, he had felt like throwing up. He peered through the darkness at little Lydia Bazooka, she was probably getting wet at the sight of Alex, that fat lump Émilie on the verge of tears, Patrice, that fucking show-off, pretending to be upset. Nothing of what Alex said had moved him. Clown. Rock music. Talk about an adventure. “I believed in a way of life that was nothing more than a hipster lifestyle.” The whole thing had always been just clowning around. Then came the story of that crazy slut who spread her legs in every producer’s office and then started whining about it—Xavier was thinking, when do we get to the part where we’re supposed to cry?
The evening had been horrible. But he hadn’t left. He had watched them as they put on headphones and listening to “mind-blowing” music that dumb fuck Bleach had written, thinking he was creating healing sounds. When he was passed the headphones, he had put them on, it was nothing surprising: the most mind-numbingly boring music in the world. It made you wonder what drugs would have to be invented to be able to listen to it. Otherwise, Pamela Kant had turned out to be friendly, though it irritated Xavier to see that slut trying to pretend to be a well-adjusted woman. You’re nothing but a cum-bucket, bitch, and you can do what you like but you’ll never manage to convince any man otherwise. Thankfully, that night, he had not realized who Daniel was. He had assumed he was dealing with a coke-addled little queer, the sort of guy who didn’t frighten Pamela—it didn’t surprise him that a woman like her would be intimidated by real men. He had spent the evening watching them all bustle about, wallowing in bitterness and hostility. The woman whose apartment they were in, the Hyena, looked like she was as bored as he was. She sat in a corner, smoking cigarettes, keeping an eye on Vernon, who was wedged between two cushions snoring like a freight train.
Xavier had gone over to ask her: “Why did you do this? Why didn’t you just turn the tapes over to the producer?” She had pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, it was a seductive gesture: “Most of the time, we only understand ourselves after the fact.” He hadn’t insisted. It was obvious that she thought he was an asshole. Then Vernon had left and that had devastated Xavier. The guy was so fucked up that he refused to sleep in a bed. It was pitiful. And the chorus of ass-licking comments about him—as though these people couldn’t see what he was: a sad bastard who’d gone completely wacko. They wanted to turn him into Rimbaud when he was just a deadbeat loser.
Xavier had slept for a few hours and, when he got up, he had made a thermos of coffee and set off for the Buttes-Chaumont to look for Vernon. He could not stand the idea of leaving him to freeze to death, and was convinced that the hypocrites who seemed so concerned the night before would have forgotten him now that it was daylight. He had wandered around for a long time before finding him, sitting on the grass, leaning back on his elbows, with the laid-back nonchalance of a guy just catching some rays.
This was when it happened, Xavier tells anyone who is willing to listen. They had talked about this and that. Then Laurent had come looking for Vernon because he was going to eat at the Restaurants du cœur soup kitchen on the rue du Soleil, and Subutex had done something strange. He had hugged Xavier to him before he left. Xavier could not say how long they had stood, silently pressed against each other. But he would swear that, as he walked home, he felt different. As though a weight had been lifted.
The following day, he had seen the photo of Joyeux on the internet, and, after a fashion, life had begun again. For a start, Marie-Ange, who had thrown a hissy fit when she had found the mutt in the house, had become besotted with the dog in less than an hour—and for the first time in months, he had made his wife laugh, a laugh that was not forced, not self-conscious, but a lovely, tender laugh filled with respect. “You know that if it wasn’t for you, they’d have put him down?” and she scratched the dog behind the ears. “It’s a horrible thought … a magnificent animal like this.” And he had remembered that he loved Marie-Ange more than one ever hopes to love in a lifetime—it was more than passion or commitment, it was everything within him that loved this woman—and how much he had missed the closeness.
Ever since, he regularly gestures to the group and says to Vernon, “You’re a radiator, you know that? That’s why we’re all here.” He argues with pretty much everyone else in the group—regardless of the topic, he always manages to say something that provokes outrage, and in a way, that has become his role: he stirs things up. He still gets along best with Olga, and not just because of the dog. But the most surprising thing is the friendship between Olga and Sylvie. At this stage, you could almost call it love. They are off on their own, sitting on a bench, chatting. They do it all the time.
Sylvie had freaked everyone out when she showed up after a few days. They all assumed that the period of blissful harmony was at an end, that she would fly into a screaming frenzy, burn down every tree and plow up the earth until the park once more resembled the gypsum quarry it had been. This was especially true of Vernon—who had snapped out of his torpor the moment he recognized her. But having publicly threatened him with the most agonizing tortures, she had simply given him a little kiss, relaxed and friendly, as though nothing untoward had happened. He realized that she had skillfully grilled Émilie to find out what they were up to—and had invited herself to the park. She had reacted to her exclusion from the group as a joke with good humor, and had assumed that they would all be pleased to see her—because she had changed her mind: what Vernon had done, she now decided, was not so serious after all. In its own way, life had paid him back by making him homeless. At first, she had firmly planned to take him back to her apartment and get him back on his feet, but, faced with his refusal, she had adopted a different strategy: she preferred to sow discord in the group by her mere presence. The only person who opens up to her is old Charles, who comes to join them every evening at the same time. In her own way, Sylvie has become very fond of the group, and regularly brings homemade cakes. She can be a royal pain in the ass, but she is also a fucking good baker. Which means that when she shows up, people are happy to see her show up, and just a little worried: she likes to bawl out her neighbor while offering him cupcakes.
Lydia, Patrice, and Daniel are discussing whether Daniel Craig has revolutionized James Bond. Charles appears next to them carrying a plastic bag full of beers in his hand, greets them, but does not linger—he gives a smile when he sees that Olga and Sylvie, his two favorite girls, are lying on the grass. Vernon cannot get used to the idea that they get along so well, he feels it is almost dangerous. Olga allows herself to be meekly guided so as not to annoy her girlfriend, while offering just enough defiance and brutishness so that things remain tense, the way Sylvie likes them. From a distance, he hears Sylvie say: “Personally, I believe in intestines. You’ll see, one of these days people will realize they don’t give a shit about psychology, it’s the intestines that control everything,” and Olga reply, “So you’re saying you believe in intestines more than you do in destiny?” which makes both of them howl with laughter.
A dozen girls are sitting by the stream at the bottom of the slope. Vernon recognizes Aïcha, who is talking to one of them without that stubborn, suspicious air she usually adopts with groups of people. Pamela joins them, they look as though they
are having a whispered conversation. Then he recognizes the slim figure of the Hyena, there is something surreal, something otherworldly about her. Ever since she undressed and showered him, he has felt a particular gratitude toward her. From a distance, she gives him a conspiratorial wink about some subject that escapes him. It is her mannish way of letting him know that she is fond of him. Their relationship goes no further than that—they rarely speak to each other. As though their intimacy prevents them from engaging in small talk. She has still not turned the tapes over to the producer, she is letting him sweat. Her decision is as impenetrable as Vernon’s to carry on living in the park—and he suspects that she herself does not really know what is guiding her actions at the moment. The women on the banks of the stream have an anti-globalization look, but more punk. Daniel chats with them, then comes over to Vernon, sits on one of the roots of the chestnut tree, plucking blades of grass. Vernon says:
“They look amazing, your girlfriends. They look as though they’ve been listening to Manu Chao and Pantera and are trying to find a happy medium.”
“They’re Bolivian. Indigenous, lesbian feminist punk shamans.”
“Fuck … must be good to be young … So what do you talk about?”
Daniel flashes him a half-smile.
“Life, death, madness. They’re super woke.”
Like Pamela, he has been more affected than the others by Alex’s confessions. They often say, “They can snuff us out, just like that,” with a click of their fingers, “and no one will bother to wonder what happened because in people’s minds, we’re zombies, in fact we belong to a category of human beings less protected than others,” and Laurent, who never misses an opportunity to try to get closer to Pamela, always gets fired up: “They treat you like they treat the homeless. We’re pariahs—we’re not even considered an adjustment constant. Do you know how many of us die every year? Do you know how easy it would be for them to house us all during the cold weather? No one gives a damn about the names of those who die on the streets.” He perches on a low branch, feet dangling just above the ground. “We live like dogs, we die like dogs,” is Daniel’s usual response and Olga shakes her head. “No. Dogs have masters who mourn them.”
Vernon can no longer tear his eyes away from the group of girls down the slope—they’re plotting something. He asks Daniel again: “What were they talking to you about just now?” He looks at Pamela, standing, motionless, hands on her hips, face turned to the sun, eyes closed, a faint smile he has never seen before lighting up her face. He turns to look at Daniel perched on his branch, he too has a strange look on his face. He is still happy, smiling, but his features are more relaxed. Something about him has changed. Realizing that Vernon is staring at him, Daniel points to a panther he has just had tattooed on his arm.
“It’s healing really quickly, it’s insane. I hardly had to put any cream on it at all.”
“Did Céleste do it?”
“Yeah, she’s so talented.”
“You really like her, don’t you?”
Daniel has already been twice to have himself tattooed by Céleste.
“Yeah, I do.”
“You think she feels the same way?”
“I think so, yeah … But I need to talk to her first. I haven’t found the right moment.”
“Talk to her about what?”
“Let her know that if we fuck, I’m not going to get out a big swinging dick. I’d rather let her know in advance.”
“I slept with a girl who hadn’t had the op. Just to let you know that I didn’t find it strange—at least not in a bad way. I was crazy about her.”
“You? I’d have thought you were more of a macho bastard…”
Pamela, flanked by two women, interrupts their conversation:
“We’re going to make a move, Daniel, you coming?”
And, seeing Daniel immediately jump down and go to join them, Vernon thinks—they’re up to something that they don’t want to tell him about.
The tallest of the women is staring at him. She is as tall as Olga and at least as beefy. She tramps through the damp grass as though her red shoes with vertiginously high wedge heels were rubber boots, she is wearing a long black dress, a studded leather jacket that is several decades old, a pink boa of moth-eaten feathers around her throat, her hair is shaved at the temples and the extraordinary collection of rings on her fingers gives the impression that she has steel fists. She looks like nothing on earth. She eyes Vernon with such astonishing boldness that he should feel uncomfortable, but the girl has a strange charm. He recognizes in her the self-confidence of beauty. And that self-confidence trumps her appearance: she is attractive. Vernon is the first to be disconcerted by this thought: his libido has long since been running on empty.
Pamela musters her troops. It takes some time for the group to get moving. The girl is still staring at him. As Daniel wanders off, she comes over to him: “Tu, te quiero besarte.” Vernon smiles and pretends he does not know what the words mean—he does not know how to politely decline the invitation. She leans against the trunk of the chestnut tree, she waits. Someone from the group calls to her in Spanish and she waves for them to get lost. The women exchange a few words and, clearly unsurprised, do just that.
She turns to Vernon, takes his hand, and says: “Ven conmigo.” No one is looking at them. She gestures for him to follow her, leading him gently by the hand, and he follows without offering any further resistance. They walk up the grassy slope to a densely wooded area; she seems to know the place and guides him toward the shade of a towering fir tree. Intrigued and strangely bewitched, he allows her to slip her tongue between his lips—it is the kiss of the century. Later, he will wonder what drug she could possibly have passed from her mouth to his that could have worked so quickly and so spectacularly—an electric shock shudders through his body. He just has time to think—your lips are amazingly soft—before liftoff. He is a tree whose roots delve so deeply into the earth that they touch the fiery core, through the soles of his feet he feels the empty space of tunnels, electrical cables, grains of sand, and the woman is a huge serpent coiled around him, the warmth of her reptilian belly comforts every pore of his skin-bark. The kiss lasts only a few seconds—Vernon experiences an eternity. She takes a step back, “Quieres más?” and he does not move. She removes the ring he wears, a Mexican death’s-head someone gave him more than twenty years ago, kisses it, licks it, then slips it back onto Vernon’s finger, “Ahora estas mío,” and he takes off again. He is a bird, he can clearly feel wings emerging from his shoulder blades, their weight as he unfurls them, the muscles involved in moving them. The woman is on her knees now, she kisses his ankles, his knees—for a moment he comes back to himself and remembers the Hyena soaping him under the shower—but quickly loses consciousness again, he is gliding above the park, above the city, he is high above the fields, there is an extraordinary pleasure in feeling the wings bearing him up and the air beneath his belly supporting him, his pelvis is spread wide and thrust forward, it is a powerful, languid wrench. He does not know how long it lasts, this brutal ecstasy—when he comes back to himself, the woman places her hand on the nape of his neck and says, this time in his own tongue, “You are the shaman of Europe.” A sudden urge to weep shudders through his chest. She walks away. He has been a tree, he has been a bird, he has felt his beak, his wings, his broadened field of vision. He has completely lost his mind and, for the first time in weeks, that knowledge terrifies him. He stands for a long moment, racked by sobs, sitting alone beneath this tree. Then, amid this paroxysm of despair, he feels something else encroach, a feeling of boundless joy that triumphs over his tears.
CÉLESTE CUTS THE STENCIL with scissors and positions the waves around the carp. She worked on them while studying a Hokusai drawing on the internet. They are listening to Sia. The guinea pig is squealing in his cage, he wants some cucumber and he wants it now. The giant internet TV is streaming a live feed of jellyfish rising and falling from a Canadian zoo. The customer
is rolling a spliff, she rips out the innards of a cigarette filter with her teeth and replaces them with a cardboard roach. Then she takes the flint barrel from a Clipper lighter and tamps the joint. The hash, the weed, the cigarette papers, and a few crumbs of tobacco are arranged on a small pink plastic tray decorated with tiny flowers that probably came from China. She is chatting with her friend who is sitting on the sofa, resting on an electric massage mat bought from Nature & Découvertes. Wondering whether she should set it to rolling massage or shiatsu. Céleste pulls on her black gloves, the customer changes the music: “You into electropop? I’ve got a shit-hot playlist … perfect for tattooing. It’s perfect for everything.”
She says that she can hold out for two and a half hours. After that, she starts to feel the pain. Céleste is sitting on a pouffe. She doesn’t have a stool. Over time, she has crippled her back. She really should go to the swimming pool so she can relax and build up her muscles, but she can never find the time. Between the job at Rosa Bonheur and the hours she spends tattooing, she would have to set an alarm for 6:00 a.m. if she wanted to go swimming, but she gets to bed too late to do that.
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