He remembered the Vamping, overlooking the Catalan beach. Amazing decor, like something out of a Scorsese movie. The singer and the band behind stands full of spangles. Tangos, boleros, cha-chas, mambos, that kind of thing.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
She shrugged. “I’ve never been sure what you were planning.” Her smile made clear she wasn’t expecting a reply. “Are you going to see Fabio?”
He’d thought she’d ask him that. He’d asked himself the same thing. But he’d dismissed the idea. Fabio was a cop. That had drawn a bit of a line under their youth, their friendship. He’d have liked to see Fabio again, though.
“Later. Maybe. How is he?”
“The same. Like us. Like you, like Manu. Lost. None of us have known what to do with our lives. Cop or robber, it makes no difference...”
“You liked him a lot, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I liked him a lot.”
He felt a pang in his heart. “Have you seen him again?”
“Not in the last three months.” She picked up her bag and a white linen jacket. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off her.
“Under your pillow,” she said at last, and it was clear from her face that his surprise amused her. “The rest is in the sideboard drawer.”
And with that, she left. He lifted the pillow. The 9mm was there. He’d sent it to Lole, in an express package, before he left Paris. The subways and railroad stations were swarming with cops. The French Republic had decided it wanted to be whiter than white. Zero immigration. The new French dream. There might be checks, and he didn’t want any hassle. Not that kind. Having false papers was bad enough.
The gun. A present from Manu, for his twentieth birthday. Even then, Manu had been a bit crazy. He’d never parted with it, but he’d never used it either. You didn’t kill someone like that. Even when you were threatened. That had happened to him a few times, in different places. There was always another solution. That was what he thought. And he was still alive. But today, he needed it. To kill a man.
It was just after eight. The rain had stopped, and the warm air hit him in the face as he left the building. He’d taken a long shower and put on a pair of black cotton pants, a black polo shirt, and a denim jacket. He’d put his mocassins back on, without socks. He turned into Rue du Panier.
This was his neighborhood. He was born here. Rue des Petits-Puits, two streets along from where Pierre Puget was born. His father had lived on Rue de la Charité when he first arrived in France, fleeing poverty and Mussolini. He was twenty, and had two of his brothers in tow. Nabos—Neapolitans. Three others had gone to Argentina. They did the jobs the French wouldn’t touch. His father was hired as a longshoreman, paid by the centime. “Harbor dogs,” they were called—it was meant as an insult. His mother worked packing dates, fourteen hours a day. In the evenings, the nabos and the people from the North, the babis, met up on the streets. They pulled chairs out in front of their doors, talked through the windows. Just like in Italy. Just like the good old days.
He hadn’t recognized his house. That had been redeveloped, too. He’d walked on past. Manu was from Rue Baussenque. A dark, damp building, where his mother, already pregnant with him, moved in with two of her brothers. His father, José Manuel, had been shot by Franco’s men. Immigrants, exiles, they all arrived full of hope. By the time Lole appeared on the scene, with her family, Manu and he were already grown up. Sixteen. At least, that’s what they told the girls.
Living in the Panier wasn’t something you boasted about. Ever since the nineteenth century it had been a neighborhood of sailors and whores. A blight on the city. One big brothel. For the Nazis, who’d dreamed of destroying it, it was a source of degeneration for the Western world. His father and mother had lived through the humiliation. Ordered to leave in the middle of the night. January 24th 1943. Twenty thousand people. Finding a wheelbarrow quickly, loading a few possessions. Mistreated by the French gendarmes and mocked by the German soldiers. Pushing the wheelbarrow along the Canebière at daybreak, watched by people on their way to work. At school, the other kids pointed the finger at them. Even working class kids, from Belle de Mai. But not for long. They simply broke their fingers! He and Manu knew their bodies and clothes smelled of mildew. The smell of the neighborhood. The first girl he’d ever kissed had that smell at the back of her throat. But they didn’t give a damn. They loved life. They were good looking. And they knew how to fight.
He turned onto Rue du Refuge, to walk back down. Some distance away, six Arab kids, aged between fourteen and seventeen, stood talking, next to a gleaming new moped. They watched him coming, warily. A new face in the neighborhood spelled danger. A cop. An informer. Or the new owner of a renovated building, who’d go to the town hall and complain about the lack of security. The cops would come and check them out. Take them down to the station. Maybe rough them up. Hassle them. When he drew level with the kids, he gave the one who seemed to be the leader a short, sharp look, then walked on. Nobody moved. They’d understood each other.
He crossed Place de Lenche, which was deserted, then walked down toward the harbor. He stopped at the first phone booth. Batisti answered.
“I’m Manu’s friend.”
“Hi, pal. Come by tomorrow, have a drink. About one, at the Péano. It’ll be great to meet. See you, kid.”
He hung up. A man of few words, Batisti. No time to tell him he’d rather have gone anywhere but there. Anywhere but the Péano. It was the bar where the painters went. Ambrogiani had showed his first canvases there. Then others had come along, influenced by him. Poor imitations, some of them. But journalists went there, too. From right across the political spectrum. Le Provençal, La Marseillaise, Agence France Presse, Libération. Pastis knocked down the barriers between them. At night, they waited till the papers were put to sleep, then went into the back room to listen to jazz. Both Petruccianis had played there, father and son. With Aldo Romano. There’d been so many nights. Nights of trying to figure out what his life was all about. That night, Harry was at the piano.
“All you need to figure out is what you want,” Lole said.
“Yeah. And what I want right now is a change of scenery.”
Manu had come back with the umpteenth round. After midnight, they stopped counting. Three scotches, doubles. He’d sat down and raised his glass, smiling beneath his moustache.
“Cheers, lovebirds.”
“Shut up, you,” Lole had said.
He stared at the two of you as if you were strange animals, then turned his back on you and concentrated on the music. Lole was looking at you. You’d emptied your glass. Slowly. Deliberately. Your mind was made up. You were leaving. You stood up and went out, unsteady on your feet. You were leaving. You left. Without saying a word to Manu, the only friend you still had. Without saying a word to Lole, who’d just turned twenty. Who you loved. Who you both loved. Cairo, Djibouti, Aden, Harar. The itinerary of an eternal adolescent. That was before you lost your innocence. From Argentina to Mexico. Ending up in Asia, to get rid of your remaining illusions. And an international arrest warrant on your ass, for trafficking in works of art.
You were back in Marseilles because of Manu. To take out the son of a bitch who’d killed him. He’d been coming out of Chez Félix, a bistrot on Rue Caisserie where he liked to have lunch. Lole was waiting for him in Madrid, at her mother’s place. He was about to come into a tidy bit of cash. For a break-in that had gone without a hitch, at a big Marseilles lawyer’s, Eric Brunel, on Boulevard Longchamp. They’d decided to go to Seville. To forget Marseilles and the hard times.
You weren’t after the guy who’d whacked Manu. A hitman, for sure. Cold and anonymous. Someone from Lyons, or Milan. Someone you wouldn’t find. The guy you were after was the scumbag who’d ordered the hit. Who’d wanted Manu killed. You didn’t want to know why. You didn’t need any reasons. Not a single one. Anyone attacked Manu, it was like they’d
attacked you.
The sun woke him. Nine o’clock. He lay there on his back, and smoked his first cigarette. He hadn’t slept so deeply in months. He always dreamed that he was sleeping somewhere other than where he was. A brothel in Harar. A Tijuana jail. On the Rome-Paris express. Anywhere. But always somewhere else. During the night, he’d dreamed he was sleeping at Lole’s place. And that’s where he really was. It was as if he’d come home. He smiled. He’d barely heard her come back and close the door of her bedroom. She was sleeping in her blue sheets, rebuilding her broken dream. There was still a piece missing. Manu. Unless it was him. But he’d long ago rejected that idea. That would have been to put himself in too good a light. Twenty years was a hell of a long time to mourn.
He stood up, made coffee, and took a shower. The water was hot. He felt much better. He closed his eyes, and imagined Lole coming to join him. Just like before. Clinging to his body. Her pussy against his dick. Her hands gliding over his back, his buttocks. He started to get a hard-on. He turned on the cold water, and screamed.
Lole put on a record. Pura salsa. One of Azuquita’s first recordings. Her tastes hadn’t changed. He attempted a few dance steps, which made her smile. She moved forward to kiss him. As she did so, he caught a glimpse of her breasts. Like pears waiting to be picked. He didn’t look away quickly enough. Their eyes met. She froze, pulled the belt of her bathrobe tighter, and went into the kitchen. He felt wretched. An eternity passed. She came back with two cups of coffee.
“A guy asked after you last night. Wanted to know if you were around. A friend of yours. Malabe. Frankie Malabe.”
He didn’t know any Malabe. A cop? More likely an informer. He didn’t like them approaching Lole. But at the same time it reassured him. The Customs cops knew he was back in France, but not where. Not yet. They were angling for leads. He still needed a bit of time. Two days maybe. Everything depended on what Batisti had to sell.
“Why are you here?”
He picked up his jacket. Don’t answer, he told himself. Don’t get involved in a question and answer session. He wouldn’t be able to lie to her, and he wouldn’t be able to tell her what he was going to do. Not now. But he had to do it. Just as, one day, he’d had to leave. He’d never been able to answer her questions. There were no answers, only questions. That was the only thing he’d learned in life. It wasn’t much, but it was more certain than believing in God.
“Forget I asked.” Behind him, she opened the door. “Not asking questions has never gotten me anywhere.”
The two-storey parking garage on Cours d’Estienne d’Orves had finally been demolished, and what had once been the prison canal was now a lovely square. The houses had been restored, the fronts repainted, the ground paved. An Italian style square. The bars and restaurants all had terraces, with white tables and parasols. People wanted to be seen, just like in Italy. The only thing missing was elegance. The Péano also had its terrace, which was already full. Young people mostly. Very clean-cut. The interior had been refurbished. The decor was hip but cold. The paintings had been replaced by crappy reproductions. But he almost preferred it this way. It helped him keep the memories at arm’s length.
He sat down at the bar and ordered a pastis. In the room, there was a couple who looked to him like a hooker and her pimp. He might be wrong, of course. Although they were talking in low voices, their discussion seemed rather animated. He leaned an elbow on the brand new zinc counter and watched the front door.
The minutes passed. Nobody came in. He ordered another pastis. He heard the words “Son of a bitch!” followed by a sharp sound. Eyes turned to the couple. Silence. The woman ran out. The man stood up, left a fifty-franc bill, and went out after her.
On the terrace, a man folded the newspaper he’d been reading. He was in his sixties. A sailor’s cap on his head. Blue cotton pants, a white short-sleeved shirt over the pants. Blue espadrilles. He stood up and came toward him. Batisti.
He spent the afternoon staking out the place. Monsieur Charles, as he was known in the underworld, lived in one of the opulent villas overlooking the Corniche. Amazing villas, some with pinnacles, others with columns. Gardens full of palms, oleanders and fig trees. After the Roucas Blanc, the road winds across the little hill, a crisscross of lanes, some of them barely tarred. He had taken the bus, a no. 55, as far as Place des Pilotes, at the top of the last slope. Then he’d continued on foot.
He could see out over the harbor. The whole sweep of it from L’Estaque to Pointe-Rouge, with the Frioul islands and the Château d’If. Marseilles in Cinemascope. Beautiful. He started on the downward slope, facing the sea. He was only two villas away from Zucca’s villa. He looked at his watch. Four fifty-eight. The gates of the villa opened. A black Mercedes appeared, and parked. He walked past the villa, and the Mercedes, and continued as far as Rue des Espérettes, which cuts across the Roucas Blanc. He crossed the street. Another ten paces, and he’d reach the bus stop. According to the schedules, the 55 passed at 5:05. He leaned against the stop, looked at his watch, and waited.
The Mercedes reversed along the curb, and stopped. Two men inside, including the driver. Zucca appeared. He must have been about seventy. Elegantly dressed, like all these old gangsters. He even had a straw hat, and a white poodle on a leash. Preceded by the dog, he walked down as far as the crossing on Rue des Espérettes. He stopped. The bus was coming. Zucca crossed to the shady side of the street, then came down the Roucas Blanc. He passed the bus stop. The Mercedes set off, at a snail’s pace.
Batisti’s information had been worth the fifty thousand francs he’d paid. It was all there in writing, without a single detail missing. Zucca took the same walk every day, except Sunday, when his family visited with him. At six o’clock, the Mercedes drove him back to the villa. But Batisti didn’t know why Zucca had gone after Manu. He’d gotten no farther toward understanding that. There had to be a connection with the break-in at the lawyer’s. That was what he was starting to think. But the truth was, he didn’t give a damn. All he was interested in was Zucca. Monsieur Charles.
He hated these old gangsters. On intimate terms with the cops and the judges. Never done time. Thought they were better than anyone else. Zucca had a face like Brando in The Godfather. They all had faces like that. Here, in Palermo, in Chicago. Everywhere you went. And now he had one of them in his sights. He was going to take one of them out. For friendship’s sake. And to give vent to his hatred.
He was looking through Lole’s things. The chest, the closets. He’d come back slightly drunk. He wasn’t searching for anything in particular, just looking, thinking maybe he’d uncover a secret. About Lole, about Manu. But there was nothing to uncover. Life had slipped through their fingers, faster than money.
In a drawer, he found a whole bunch of photos. That was all they had left. He was disappointed. He almost threw everything in the trashcan. But there were these three photos. The same photo taken three times. Same time, same place. Manu and him. Lole and Manu. Lole and him. It was at the end of the big pier, behind the commercial port. To get there, they’d had to slip past the guards. We were good at that, he thought. Behind them, the city. In the background, the islands. The three of you came out of the water, breathless and happy. You feasted your eyes on boats leaving in the setting sun. Lole read aloud from Exile by Saint-John Perse. The wind’s militias in the sands of exile. On the way back, you took Lole’s hand. You dared to do that. Manu never had.
That night, you left Manu at the Bar du Lenche. Everything had turned upside down. No more laughter. None of you had spoken. You’d all drunk pastis in embarrassed silence. Desire had distanced you from Manu. The next day, you had to go pick him up from the station house. He’d spent the night there. For starting a fight with two legionnaires. His right eye wouldn’t open. He had a cut lip. Bruises everywhere.
“I got two of them! I really did!”
Lole kissed him on the forehead. He hugged her and started sobb
ing.
“Fuck,” he said. “This is hard.”
And he fell asleep, just like that, on Lole’s lap.
Lole woke him at ten o’clock. He’d slept soundly, but his tongue felt furred. The smell of coffee pervaded the room. Lole sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hand brushed his shoulder. Her lips rested on his forehead, then on his lips. A furtive, tender kiss. If happiness existed, he’d just come close to it.
“I’d forgotten.”
“If that’s true, get out of here right now!”
She handed him a cup of coffee, and stood up to get hers. She was smiling and happy. As if the sadness hadn’t yet reawakened.
“You don’t want to sit down. Just like before.”
“I prefer—”
“To have your coffee standing up, I know.”
She smiled again. He couldn’t get enough of her smile, her mouth. He clung to her eyes. They shone the way they had that night. You’d taken off her T-shirt, then your shirt. You’d pressed your bellies together and stayed like that without talking. Just breathing. Her eyes on you all the time.
“Don’t ever leave me.”
You’d promised.
But you’d left. Manu had stayed. And Lole had waited. But maybe Manu had stayed because someone needed to take care of Lole. And Lole hadn’t followed you, because she’d thought it was unfair to abandon Manu. He’d started to think these things, since Manu died. Knowing he had to come back. And here he was. Marseilles had caught in his throat again. With Lole as an aftertaste.
Lole’s eyes were shining more brightly. She was holding back the tears. She knew that something was going down. And that whatever it was would change her life. She’d had a premonition after Manu’s funeral, during the hours she’d spent with Fabio. She could sense it now. She was good at sensing when something was going to happen. But she wouldn’t say anything. It was up to him to speak.
Total Chaos Page 2