I walked up to him. “So, spic, had enough?” I said, threateningly.
“You shouldn’t call him that,” the other one said, behind me.
“What are you? A wop?”
“What’s it to you?”
I felt the ground disappear beneath my feet. From where he lay, he’d tripped me up. I found myself on my back. He threw himself on me. I saw that his lip was cut, and he was bleeding. We rolled over. The smell of piss and shit filled my nostrils. I wanted to cry. I wanted to stop fighting and lay my head on Gélou’s breasts. Then I felt myself being pulled violently to my feet and slapped on the head. A man was separating us, calling us punks, telling us we’d end up in the joint. I didn’t see them again until September, when we found ourselves in the same school, on Rue des Remparts, doing vocational classes. Ugo came up to me and shook my hand, then Manu did the same. We talked about Gélou. They both thought she was the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood.
It was after midnight by the time I got back home. I lived outside Marseilles, at Les Goudes, the last little harbor town but one before the string of rocky inlets known as the calanques. You go along the Corniche, as far as the Roucas Blanc beach, then follow the coast. La Vieille Chappelle. La Pointe Rouge. La Campagne Pastrée. La Grotte-Roland. A whole bunch of neighborhoods that were still like villages. Then La Madrague de Montredon. That, seemingly, is where Marseilles stops. After that, there’s a narrow, winding road, cut into the white rock, overlooking the sea. At the end of it, sheltered by arid hills, the harbor of Les Goudes. Less than a mile past there, the road stops. At Callelonge, Impasse des Muets. Beyond that, the calanques: Sormiou, Morgiou, Sugitton, En-Vau. Wonders, every one of them. You won’t find anything like them anywhere else along the coast. The only way to reach them is on foot, or by boat, which is a good thing. Eventually, you come to the port of Cassis, and the tourists reappear.
Like almost all the houses here, my house is a one-storey cottage, built of bricks, wood and a few tiles. It’s on the rocks, overlooking the sea. Two rooms. A small bedroom and a big dining room cum kitchen, simply furnished, with odds and ends. A branch of Emmaus. My boat was moored at the bottom of a flight of eight steps. A fisherman’s boat, with a pointed stern, that I’d bought from my neighbor Honorine. I’d inherited the house from my parents. It was their only possession. And I was their only son.
The whole family used to come here on Saturdays. There’d be big plates of pasta in sauce, with headless larks and meatballs cooked in the same sauce. The smells of tomatoes, basil, thyme, and bay filled the rooms. Bottles of rosé wine did the rounds amid much laughter. The meals always finished with songs, songs by Marino Marini and Renato Carosone first, then Neapolitan songs. The last was always Santa Lucia, sung by my father.
Afterwards, the men would start playing belote. They’d play all night long, until one of them lost his temper and threw down the cards. “Put the leeches on him!” someone would cry. And the laughter would start all over again. There were mattresses on the floor. We shared the beds. We children all slept in the same bed, crosswise. I’d rest my head on Gélou’s burgeoning breasts and fall asleep happy. Like a child, but with adult dreams.
My mother’s death put an end to the parties. My father never again set foot in Les Goudes. Even thirty years ago, coming to Les Goudes was quite an expedition. You had to take the 19, at Place de la Prefecture, on the corner of Rue Armeny, and travel as far as La Madrague de Montredon. From there, you continued in an old bus whose driver had long since passed retirement age. Manu, Ugo and I started to go there when we were about sixteen. We never took girls there. It was just for us. Our hideout. We took all our treasures to the house. Books, record albums. We were inventing the world. A world in our own image, to match our own strengths. We’d spend whole days reading Ulysses’ adventures to each other. Then, when night fell, sitting silent on the rocks, we’d dream of mermaids with beautiful hair singing ‘among the black rocks all streaming with white foam.’ And we cursed those who’d killed the mermaids.
Our taste for books came from Antonin, an old second-hand bookseller, an anarchist, whose shop was on Cours Julien. We’d cut classes to go see him. He’d tell us stories of adventurers and pirates. The Caribbean. The Red Sea. The South Seas... Sometimes, he’s stop, grab a book, and read us a passage. As if to prove that what he was telling us was true. Then he’d give it to us as a present. The first one was Conrad’s Lord Jim.
That was where we also listened to Ray Charles for the first time. On Gélou’s old Teppaz. It was a 45 of the Newport concert. What’d I Say and I Got a Woman. Fantastic. We played the record over and over again, at full volume, until Honorine finally cracked.
“My God, you’re going to drive us crazy!” she cried from her terrace, her fists on her fat hips. She threatened to complain to my father. I knew perfectly well she hadn’t seen him since my mother died, but she was so furious, we believed she was quite capable of doing it. That calmed us down. And anyhow, we liked Honorine. She always worried about us. She’d come over to see ‘if we needed anything.’
“Do your parents know where you are?”
“Of course,” I’d reply.
“And didn’t they make you a picnic?”
“They’re too poor.”
We’d burst out laughing. She’d smile, shrug her shoulders, and leave. She understood us. She was like our mother, and we were the children she’d never had. Then she’d come back with a snack. Or fish soup, when we slept over on Saturday night. The fish was caught by her husband Toinou. Sometimes, he’d take us out in his boat. Each of us in turn. He was the one who gave me my taste for fishing. And now, I had his boat, the Trémolino, beneath my window.
We came regularly to Les Goudes until the army separated us. We were together at first, during training. At Toulon, then at Fréjus, in the Colonial Army, among corporals with scars and medals up to their ears. Survivors of Indochina and Algeria who were still spoiling for a fight. Manu had stayed in Fréjus, Ugo left for Nouméa, and I left for Djibouti. After that, we weren’t the same anymore. We’d become men. Disillusioned and cynical. Slightly bitter too. We had nothing. We hadn’t even learned a trade. No future. Nothing but life. But a life without a future is worse than no life at all.
We soon got tired of doing shitty little jobs. One morning, we went to see a Greek guy named Kouros, who owned a construction business in the Huveaune valley, on the road to Aubagne. We weren’t very keen, but this was one of those times when we had to make up our losses by working. The night before, we’d blown all our funds in a poker game. We had to get up early, take a bus, fake our way out of paying, scrounge smokes from a guy on the street. A real nightmare of a morning. The Greek offered us 142 francs and 57 centimes a week. Manu went white. It wasn’t so much the pitiful wage he couldn’t swallow, it was the 57 centimes.
“Are you sure about the 57 centimes, Monsieur Kouros?”
The boss looked at Manu as if he was an idiot, then at Ugo and me. We knew our Manu. It was obvious we’d gotten off to a bad start.
“It isn’t 56 or 58, is it? It’s really 57? 57 centimes?”
Kouros confirmed that. He really didn’t get it. He thought it was a good wage. 142 francs 57 centimes. Manu landed him a well-placed punch. Kouros fell off his chair. The secretary gave a cry, then started screaming. Some guys charged into the office. A brawl. It was a good thing the cops arrived when they did, because the fight wasn’t going our way. That was it, we told each other that night, we had to get serious. We had to start working for ourselves. Maybe we could reopen Antonin’s shop. But to do that, we needed money. So we made up our minds. We’d hold up an all-night drugstore. Or a tobacco shop. Or a gas station. That was the only way we could put a bit of money together. We’d done plenty of shoplifting. Books from Tacussel on the Canebière, records from Raphaël’s on Rue Montgrand, clothes from the Magasin Général or the Dames de France on Rue Saint-Ferréol. It was
like a game. But we didn’t know anything about holdups. Not yet. We’d soon learn. We spent days working out how to do it, searching for the ideal place.
One evening, we went to Les Goudes for Ugo’s twentieth birthday. Miles Davis was playing Rouge. Manu took a package out of his bag and put it on the table in front of Ugo.
“Your present.”
A 9mm automatic.
“Where did you get it?”
Ugo looked at the gun, but didn’t dare touch it. Manu laughed, then put his hand back inside his bag and took out another gun. A Beretta 7.65.
“Now we’re all set.” He looked at Ugo, then at me. “I could only get two. But that’s no problem. You’ll do the driving. When we go in, you stay in the car, be our lookout. There’s no risk. The place is deserted after eight o’clock. The guy’s an old man. And he’s alone.”
It was a drugstore on Rue des Trois-Mages, a side street not far from the Canebière. I was at the wheel of a Peugeot 204 that I’d stolen that morning on Rue Saint-Jacques, in the rich part of town. Manu and Ugo had rammed sailor’s bonnets down over their ears and had put scarves over their noses. They leaped out of the car, just like they’d seen in the movies. First the old guy put his hands up, then he opened the cash register. Ugo collected the money while Manu was threatening the guy with the Beretta. Half an hour later, we were drinking at the Péano. On us, guys! Drinks all round! We’d bagged one thousand seven hundred francs. Not bad for the period. The equivalent of two months working for Kouros, including the centimes. It was as easy as that.
Soon, our pockets were full. Money was no object, and we blew it on girls, cars and parties. We’d end our nights with the gypsies in L’Estaque, drinking and listening to them play. Relatives of Lole and her sisters, Zina and Kali. Lole often went out with her sisters now. She’d just turned sixteen. She’d stay in a corner, huddled and silent, with a vacant air. Hardly eating, and drinking only milk.
We soon forgot about Antonin’s shop. We told each other we’d see about that later, that it was OK to have a good time for a while. And anyway, maybe the shop wasn’t such a good idea after all. What kind of money would we make? Not much, seeing how poor Antonin had ended up. Maybe a bar would be better. Or a night club. I went along with it. Gas stations, tobacco shops, drugstores. We covered the region, from Aix to Les Martigues. We once even went as far as Salon-de-Provence. And still I went along with it. But I was becoming less enthusiastic. It was like playing in a rigged poker game.
One evening, we did another drugstore. On the corner of Place Sadi-Carnot and Rue Mery, not far from the Vieux Port. The druggist made a move. An alarm went off. There was a gunshot. From the car, I saw the guy fall to the floor.
Manu got into the back seat. “Step on it,” he said.
I drove to Place du Mazeau. I thought I could hear police sirens not far behind us. On the right, the Panier. No streets, just steps. On my left, Rue de la Guirlande, a one-way street. I turned onto Rue Caisserie, then Rue Saint-Laurent.
“Are you crazy or what? It’s a rat trap this way.”
“You’re the one who’s crazy! Why did you shoot him?”
I stopped the car on Impasse Belle-Marinière. I pointed to the steps between the new apartment buildings.
“We split that way. On foot.” Ugo hadn’t yet said anything. “OK, Ugo?”
“There must be five thousand. It’s our best job ever.”
Manu left via Rue des Martégales, Ugo by Avenue Saint-Jean, me by Rue de la Loge. But I didn’t join them at the Péano as usual. I went home, and vomited. Then I began drinking. Drinking and sobbing. Looking at the city from the balcony. I could hear my father snoring. He’d worked hard all his life, and suffered a lot, but I didn’t think I’d ever be as happy as he was. Lying on the bed, completely drunk, I swore on my mother, whose picture I had in front of me, that if the guy pulled through I’d become a priest, and if he didn’t pull through I’d become a cop. I was talking crap, but it was a vow all the same. The next day, I enlisted in the Colonial Army, for three years. The guy didn’t die but he didn’t exactly pull through either: he was paralyzed for life. I asked to go back to Djibouti. That was where I saw Ugo for the last time.
All our treasures were here, in the cottage. All intact. The books, the record albums. And I was the only survivor.
I made you some foccaccia, Honorine had written on a little piece of paper. Foccaccia is made with pizza dough, filled with whatever you like, and served hot. Tonight, the filling was cured ham and mozzarella. As she had every day since Toinou died, three years ago, Honorine had made me a meal. She’d just turned seventy and loved to cook. But she could only cook for a man. I was her man, and I loved it. I sat down in the boat, with the foccaccia and a bottle of white Cassis—a Clos Boudard 91—next to me. I rowed out, in order not to disturb the neighbors’ sleep, then, once past the sea wall, I started the motor and set course for Île Maïre.
That was where I wanted to be. Between the sky and the sea. The whole bay of Marseilles stretched in front of me like a glow-worm. I let the boat drift. My father had put away the oars. He took me by the hands. “Don’t be scared,” he said, plunging me into the water up to my shoulders. The boat tipped in my direction, and I had his face above mine. He was smiling. “Good, huh?” I nodded, though I was still very nervous. He plunged me back in the water. He was right, it was good. That was my first contact with the sea. I’d just turned five. I remembered the incident as having taken place near Île Maïre, so that was where I went every time I felt sad. The way you always go back to your first image of happiness.
I was certainly sad that evening. Ugo’s death was weighing on my mind. I felt suffocated. And alone. More alone than ever. Every year, I ostentatiously crossed out of my address book any friend who’d made a racist remark, neglected those whose only ambition was a new car and a Club Med vacation, and forgot all those who played the Lottery. I loved fishing and silence. Walking in the hills. Drinking cold Cassis, Lagavulin or Oban late into the night. I didn’t talk much. Had opinions about everything. Life and death. Good and evil. I was a film buff. Loved music. I’d stopped reading contemporary novels. More than anything, I loathed half-hearted, spineless people.
A fair number of women had found that attractive. I hadn’t been able to hold on to any of them. It was always the same story. No sooner had they settled into our new life together than they’d set about trying to change the very things they liked about me. “You’ll never change,” Rosa had said when she left, six years ago. She’d tried for two years. I’d resisted. Even more than I had with Muriel, Carmen and Alice. And I’d always find myself alone again one night with an empty glass and an ashtray full of cigarette butts.
I drank the wine straight from the bottle. Another one of those nights when I wondered why I was still a cop. Five years ago I’d been assigned to the Neighborhood Surveillance Squad, a unit of untrained cops given the job of keeping order in North Marseilles. I had plenty of experience, and I could keep a cool head. Just the guy to send to the front line when the shit hit the fan. Lahaouri Ben Mohamed, a seventeen-year-old, had been shot dead during a routine identity check. The anti-racist organizations had protested, the left-wing parties had mobilized their members. The usual thing. But he was only an Arab. No reason to care too much about his human rights. In February 1988 on the other hand, when Charles Dovero, the son of a taxi driver, was gunned down, the city was in turmoil. Goddammit, this one was a Frenchman. This time, the police had made a real mistake. Something had to be done. That was where I came in. I took up my post with my head full of illusions. I was going to explain, to persuade. I was going to find answers, preferably good ones. I was going to help. That was the day I’d started down what my colleagues called the slippery slope. The day I’d started to become less of a cop and more of a youth counselor or social worker. Since then, I’d lost the trust of my superiors and made myself a fair number of enemies. True, there hadn�
��t been anymore mistakes, and petty crime hadn’t increased, but the tally was nothing to boast about: no spectacular arrests, no big media stunts. Routine, however well managed, was just routine.
The reforms—and there were lots of them—increased my isolation. Nobody new was assigned to the squad. And one day I woke up and realized I’d lost all my power. I’d been disowned by the anti-crime squad, the narcotics squad, the vice squad, the illegal immigration squad. Not to mention the squad waging war on organized crime, led so brilliantly by Auch. I’d become just a neighborhood cop who didn’t get any important cases. But, since the Colonial Army, being a cop was the only thing I knew. And nobody had ever challenged me to do anything else. But I knew my colleagues were right, I was on the slippery slope. I wasn’t the kind of cop who could shoot a punk in the back to save a colleague’s skin, and that meant I was dangerous.
The message machine was flashing. It was late. Everything could wait. I’d just had a shower. I poured myself a glass of Lagavulin, put on a Thelonius Monk album, and went to bed with Conrad’s Between the Tides. My eyes closed. Monk kept going, solo.
2.
IN WHICH, EVEN WITH NO SOLUTION, TO WAGER IS TO HOPE
I drew up in the parking lot of La Paternelle. A largely Arab housing project. It wasn’t the toughest, but it certainly wasn’t the best. It was barely ten o’clock and it was already very hot. The sun had free rein here. No trees, nothing. Just the project, the parking lot, and a patch of waste ground. In the distance, the sea. L’Estaque and its harbor. Like another continent. I remembered a song by Aznavour: Poverty isn’t so hard in the sun. I don’t suppose he’d ever been here, to this pile of shit and concrete.
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