Standing on the forecourt outside the Gare du Nord, Pamela Kant lights her third cigarette of the day. She is wearing a figure-hugging pantsuit and stiletto heels. The men insulting her do not even know who she is. It is not the fact that she is a porn star that bothers them. It is her appearance, it is overly sexual. It is only 7:30 a.m. They are already irritable. Men have changed. Not long ago, men were delighted to catch a glimpse of long legs and a plunging neckline. Now they are infuriated. Pamela thought she looked elegant when she saw her reflection in the elevator. But men are force-fed images of sexually attractive women. All they feel now is frustration that they are unattainable. They know they are not going to get any, so they would rather women walked around in moon boots and anoraks. But Pamela likes funerals. And she wouldn’t miss this opportunity to wear her Corsican widow outfit for the world. She looks stunning in it. She did not know Loïc well, but she believes that when a woman has lewdly rubbed her pubis against the engorged penis of a man the night before his death, custom dictates that she attend his funeral and take a modicum of care in choosing her outfit. There was something about Loïc that she found attractive. Apparently he was a fascist dickhead. Worse than Xavier. Which would take some doing, because when Xavier gets going … you had better be in a forgiving mood. But she didn’t have a conversation with Loïc. She danced. There was a certain reticence about his movements. She thinks he would be pleased to see that she has made an effort for him. But as the thirtieth knuckle-dragger says something insulting, she feels like planting a bomb in the train station and going home. This will teach her to be punctual. She was first to arrive. She thrusts her chest out and stands bolt upright, a smile playing on her lips. If you’re going to infuriate, you might as well do it with style. She is the only one who knows her hands are trembling.
Daniel arrives to join her. No one gives him shit. He hardly bothers to say hello before remarking, “I’m so over this.” He doesn’t quite understand what the hell he is doing going to Loïc’s funeral. “I bet there’ll be loads of neo-Nazis,” he says. “There’s bound to be trouble.” In fact, what is bothering him is that, on the day Loïc died, the Hyena visited everyone in the group in turn to explain that Aïcha and Céleste had overplayed their hand, allowed themselves to be seen, and were leaving the city to lie low for a while, and that the rest of group should suspend any further actions and avoid the parc des Buttes-Chaumont as much as possible. Daniel had really gotten into this whole graffiti tactic, it was a spectacular revenge. Playing commando by night, having to be stealthy when it came to spray paint and materials, always paying cash, never buying too many cans at once, the messages summoning him to secret meetings that sometimes took place in the catacombs beneath Paris, it had been exciting, this double life. It made no sense, but it felt like being in a movie, group action, an eye for an eye. “Like an act of psychomagic,” Lydia said, and she was right. The adrenaline rush when they all scattered. Meeting up the next morning and saying: “Your turn to eat shit.” And wherever she was now, Vodka Satana could see them: the living have not forgotten her.
Sylvie pays the cab driver, a man she imagines must be at least seventy, he has a well-groomed gray mustache in the old style and emerald green eyes. She had not noticed his eyes until she saw them in the rearview mirror. She had not wanted to come. Loïc was a hateful bastard. Dead or alive, her opinion has not changed. She is not about to shed a tear for him. When he beat up Xavier, he had left him for dead on the sidewalk. Certain kinds of individuals are beyond forgiveness. You’d have to be dumb as ten gallons of shit in a five-gallon bucket to mix with the far right when you’re working class, like he was. She is not about to feel sorry for him. Though she can understand how people like her might profit from the rise of the far right. Many set themselves up with extremely lucrative posts that would otherwise have taken them years to reach. When the day comes that they can accuse union leaders of terrorism and shoot them, it would be easier to avoid paying taxes. But a pathetic prick like Loïc, what did he expect? A job in the militia? Why should she feel sorry? Because he’s dead? She slips on her black gloves. She has come because everyone is coming. And because she feels that they are hiding something from her and she wants to find out what. Where have Céleste and Aïcha gone, for example, and why does Sélim look so devastated. She likes Sélim.
She joins Pamela and Daniel. She will never get used to the idea that Daniel wasn’t always a boy. When she was young, testosterone didn’t even exist. It’s amazing, when you think about it, it seems so easy now. Sylvie thinks about some of her girlfriends, the Plain Janes who always had a hard time getting boyfriends. These days, bam, a quick dose of hormones and they could have been decent-looking guys. Being ugly doesn’t matter so much when you’re a guy. She takes Pamela by the arm. For once, the woman is well dressed. It changes everything. She’s a fine specimen, there’s no denying. Pity she brought that tacky black leather purse, anyone can see it’s plastic. But she’s a decent woman when you get to know her. Batshit crazy, but a heart of gold. Though you can’t count on her to help stop Vernon from sliding into madness. If he says to her, “I think I’m connected to the trees,” she just says, “Some tribes believe that stones have souls.” Nothing surprises her. People her age are like that. The Illuminati, conspiracy theories, witchcraft—on the basis of “They’re covering up things they don’t want you to know” you can get them to believe anything. Vernon needs help. He’s not the same man. But Pamela doesn’t understand that. She thinks he’s on some kind of trip. It reminds Sylvie of the lyrics from an eighties song: “Max is free, some people even say they’ve seen him fly.” It’s true that it is difficult to worry about Subutex. He seems so serene … Sylvie sees him coming now, flanked by Charles, Olga, and Laurent. The Buttes-Chaumont dream team. She gives a little wave. She is always surprised that she is so happy to see them.
THERE IS NOTHING CHEERFUL about Garges-lès-Gonesse, especially when you arrive in the rain. Ringed by gray, forbidding high-rises, the town center has a provincial feel: low houses, red-tiled roofs, no aesthetic pretensions. At first glance, it is obvious it has never been a wealthy place; no one here has ever thought I’ll just build myself a little architectural gem. The trip by RER is short, it is the connecting bus that makes the journey feel interminable.
As they arrive outside the church, Gaëlle says: “There’s no way I’m going in. After everything the Catholic Church has done to us, I wouldn’t set foot in the place. Every time we held a demonstration, people would leave piles of homophobic tracts next to the font and the priests would turn a blind eye. I’ll wait for you out here.” Pamela looks puzzled, she’s accustomed to feeling at home in places where by rights she should not even exist. “If you think that’s going to stop Christ from being with you…” Daniel licks a gummed cigarette paper and says: “And since when has Christ been with you?” Pamela looks in the river, arranges her veil in the side mirror of a truck: “He died for me too, didn’t he? You think I get burdened with my sins just because I’m a blow job goddess?”
Gaëlle is wearing skin-tight black leather trousers that make her look even thinner and more fragile. Her belt buckle is a skull and crossbones. She has bags under her eyes and she got caught in a shower. Her hair is soaking wet. Vernon is thinking that it suits her, the drowned-rat look. She spent a lot of time dancing with Loïc the other night. When she heard that he was dead, she went pale. Her jaw is clenched as she mutters, defensively: “And anyway, just from an aesthetic point of view, I can’t abide this style of architecture. Is it a church or a factory? It’s impossible to tell.” Ever since they passed La Courneuve, she has been wearing a mask: she has never ventured so far beyond the périphérique—the idea never seemed rewarding. Sylvie, wearing a magnificent black dress, holds her huge gray umbrella over Gaëlle’s head and says: “I’ll wait out here with you, I don’t much like churches myself. I wasn’t baptized, and I hate anything to do with religion. If you want my opinion, they’d be better off installing swimming pools. T
here’s a terrible shortage of them in Paris.” The church is gradually filling up. Laurent and Olga exchange a look and shrug, they want to go to the service. “We’ll meet you here afterward, besides, we’re all going on to the same place later.” Daniel stands next to Xavier, who did not say a word while they were on the train. He is the only one whose eyes are red. Lydia protests, she doesn’t want to attend the Mass either, so why did they arrange to meet up so early, they could have gone directly to the cemetery and had a couple more hours’ sleep. Vernon takes a toke from the spliff she proffers. Charles emerges from the church to tell them that the place is already packed and they’re bound to be bored senseless, it’s freezing cold and the priest looks like a sinister goon; when he hears that Sylvie has decided not to attend the service, he gleefully rubs his hands. “I didn’t like to say, but I’m gagging for a little beer.”
Patrice comes over to say hello. He arrived earlier with the others. In a black bomber jacket, he bustles in and out of the church as though he were responsible for the order of service. He has reserved several seats, and ushers Olga and Laurent inside, then comes back out and says: “What the hell are you still doing here? What do you mean you don’t want to go in?” He makes a face: “Have you even thought about his widow?” But, convinced by Gaëlle’s arguments, he says: “You can’t wait out here in the churchyard. There’s a bar a little way over there.” Pamela waits until he has gone before raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Am I a prude, or is there something strange going on between him and Loïc’s ex-girlfriend?” Vernon nods, he too has noticed: Patrice has put a lot of effort into this funeral.
At first, no one could understand why he felt obliged to call her to offer his condolences. It is not as though they were friends. But he has become so protective with Xavier that he started taking responsibility for things his friend should be doing. He had asked Pénélope, the ex-girlfriend, whether she needed anything, and found himself dealing with a woman who was utterly overwhelmed. She was receiving requests for interviews, condolences from complete strangers, and anonymous insulting messages. Patrice became her attentive escort.
Émilie stubs out her cigarette before heading toward the church, commenting to those still hanging around outside: “Someone should make sure to let Loïc’s ex know that she’s getting involved with a wife batterer.” And Vernon wonders how she knows this. And why she has never said anything. All the time they spent in the park together, and she never once broached the subject. Xavier and Lydia go into the vast modern building just before the doors close. Charles says: “So where is it, this bar?” and Vernon follows him. On the opposite side of the street, they run into Sélim. He was not supposed to come. “Hurry up, you’ll miss the service.” “I’m not going to the Mass. I just didn’t want to be alone today.” Vernon slows his pace, and the two of them lag a little behind. “Any news?” “Not directly, no. But apparently she’s fine. What can I do, I have to believe it? So I wait. I think about all the things that I’ve never had the chance to say to her. It wasn’t up to her to avenge her mother, it was up to me. But I don’t believe in revenge. I believe in forgiveness.” His face has changed, it is sapped by grief. As they are about to step into the bar, he grabs Vernon’s sleeve. He needs to talk a little longer before he has to pretend to the others that everything is fine. “If the police come looking for her at my place, I’ll tell them we had a fight and she walked out. She’s over eighteen, she has every right. Maybe I’ll say I told her in the name of secularism: for as long as you live under my roof, I won’t have you covering your hair, you pathetic weakling. What would they charge me with? Being a staunch republican? But if the police actually do come looking for her, I don’t think I could say something so cynical. I’m afraid of betraying her again by lying unconvincingly.” Vernon says: “The Hyena says that Dopalet is not going to press charges. The anti-terrorist brigade aren’t going to come and kick your door down anytime soon…” and Sélim shrugs. “I need to be prepared for something, you get that?” And in silence they push open the door of the bar.
It is neither a seedy local dive nor something that has been completely renovated, the décor of the bar is reminiscent of a small town in the Eastern Bloc before the fall of the Berlin wall. Vernon finds the honest tang of bleach at once unsettling and reassuring—is it the childhood smell of cleanliness, the smell of his mother keeping house. The bartender is in his sixties. He does not look hospitable. Thick mustache, two black eyes, he has the ruddy complexion of the marathon drinker, but with none of the vitality one sometimes finds in alcoholics. He watches blackly as they invade his space, as though serving coffee and beer was not among the duties he had in mind when he opened up this morning. Sullenly, he takes their order, avoids making eye contact while he serves them, then stands, leaning over the sink, ready to kick them out should their attitude leave anything to be desired.
Sylvie is whispering, repeating what she heard on the radio this morning, news from Syria, the austerity regime in Greece, the tons of radioactive water spilling from Fukushima since the earthquake. Laurent and Olga join them, to whoops of joy from Charles, who is already on his second beer. In the near-empty bar, under the reproachful eye of the bartender, they push two tables together. Lydia shows up, her hair still wet: “I’ve been calling after you since the church, you could at least have waited! Jesus, it’s freezing in there … I couldn’t stick it out. I haven’t been to church since my First Communion, and I can tell you now that I won’t be getting married in one. Five minutes in there and you’re bored witless…” Olga roars that she’s never seen so many knuckle-draggers crammed into such a tiny space. Hanging with a bunch of idiots like that, non merci—to think she took a train out into the suburbs for this. Sylvie giggles as she pictures Olga, in the church, seething. “What about you, Laurent, why did you leave?” “I was parched.” And Olga shouts: “Champagne!” Sylvia stares at her, speechless, then slaps her forehead with perfect comic timing: “You’re right, that’s what we need,” and turns to the bartender. “Barkeep, a bottle of your finest champagne!”
He is just setting the champagne flutes on the table when Pamela and Daniel make their entrance, dragging Xavier, who doesn’t look at all well. “I see you’re on the champagne?” but he takes the proffered glass just as Vernon raises his: “To Loïc” while Laurent, in a deep, self-assured voice that no one knew he possessed, sings: “Don’t fuck around Manu, don’t go opening a vein, one new girlfriend lost, is ten old friends regained.” Xavier stares at him, dumbfounded. His first impulse is to yell shut up, what the fuck are you thinking, but then he feels somehow touched. And he sings in his turn. His voice is less confident, but the thought is there. It is around about this point that everything goes to hell in a handbasket. It is difficult to say what changes. Perhaps it is when the bartender accepts a glass of champagne Lydia offers him from the third bottle, and he says in a surly voice that she can put on some music, there is a USB port. The voice of Nick Cave rings out, “Push the Sky Away.” Sylvie says: “Fuck, that’s depressing, what is it?” while Lydia closes her eyes, “I love this song.” Vernon feels the grief of the morning slip away. He gets up and begins to dance slowly, glass in hand, in front of the bar. He imagines he is a palm tree swayed by a light breeze. Olga, who has never come to the sessions at Rosa Bonheur with them because dancing isn’t her thing, comes and stands next to him, shy, motionless, then she lets herself go, her huge body swaying, a strange, slow-motion choreography that is half Apache, half grunge. Those still sitting at the table hesitate for a moment: this is it, the bartender is going to blow a fuse. But, on the contrary, this prehistoric female resolutely undulating against the rhythm in front of his bar sends him into a state of unexpected euphoria. He brandishes a fourth bottle, declaring, “This one’s on me,” and when he has filled the glasses, as Big Mama Thornton rolls out the first notes of her version of “Hound Dog,” he takes up position to the left of Olga and begins to jiggle his hips, knees bizarrely bent, throws his hands in the air, and—
in their own fashion—they do the twist.
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