The Girl on Paper

by Guillaume Musso

  Her white hair was blowing in the wind.

  Behind us, the langoustine trawlers were coming and going, along with the brightly coloured boats casting their pots into the water to catch shellfish.

  Don’t think about tomorrow. Don’t think about what will happen when she’s not here any more.

  Live for the moment.

  A stroll through the little winding streets of the harbour and along Trescadec beach. A drive from the Baie des Trépassés to the Pointe du Raz, with Billie eager to get behind the wheel. Falling about laughing remembering the sheriff who’d pulled us over for speeding in California. Realising we already shared a lot of memories. Suddenly wanting to talk about the future, but holding back. And then, of course, the rain came down in the middle of our walk over the rocks.

  ‘It’s like Scotland here. The rain’s just part of the landscape,’ she said when I started to grumble. ‘Can you imagine the Highlands or Loch Lomond in the sunshine?’

  *

  Rome

  Piazza Navona

  7 p.m.

  ‘Try a bit of this – it’s to die for!’ said Carole, offering Milo a spoonful of her dessert, a homemade tartufo with whipped cream on the side.

  With a mischievous look in his eye, Milo took a mouthful of the chocolate ice cream. It had a dense texture and a truffly taste, offset beautifully by the cherry centre.

  They were sitting outside a restaurant on Piazza Navona, an essential stop-off for any visitor to the Eternal City. With its array of pavement cafés and ice-cream parlours, the famous square was a gift to portrait painters, mime artists and street vendors.

  As the sun went down, a waitress came and lit the candle in the middle of their table. It was still warm. Milo looked across at his friend and smiled. Though they were disappointed to have lost track of Tom’s book, they’d felt close to one another that afternoon, exploring the city together. Several times he’d nearly told her how he really felt about her, but the fear of losing her friendship stopped him. He felt vulnerable, afraid of having his heart broken. If only she could see him in a different light. He so wished he could show her another side of himself, show her the man he could become if only he felt loved.

  At the next table, an Australian couple were having dinner with their little girl, who must have been about five years old. She and Carole were making faces at each other and giggling.

  ‘Isn’t she adorable?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s good fun.’

  ‘And very well brought up.’

  ‘Do you want kids?’ he asked rather abruptly.

  She was immediately on the defensive.

  ‘Why are you asking me that?’

  ‘Um, because you’d make a great mom.’

  ‘What would you know?’ she barked.

  ‘You can just tell.’

  ‘Whatever!’

  He was taken aback, stung by her angry reaction.

  ‘Why are you being like that?’

  ‘Look, I know you, and I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of thing you say to chicks all the time to get them into bed. You think it’s what they want to hear.’

  ‘No, that’s bullshit. You’re being totally unfair. What is it I’m supposed to have done to make you so hard on me?’ he asked, knocking over a glass as he got worked up.

  ‘You don’t really know me, Milo! You don’t know anything about my life.’

  ‘Well, for God’s sake tell me then! What’s this “dark secret” that’s eating you?’

  She stopped and studied him, wanting to believe he honestly cared. Maybe she’d flown off the handle too quickly.

  Milo picked up the glass and dabbed the tablecloth with his napkin. He felt bad for having raised his voice, but he’d had enough of Carole’s violent mood swings.

  ‘Why did you get so touchy when I started talking about kids?’ he asked more calmly.

  ‘Because I’ve been pregnant before,’ she told him, turning away as she said it. The truth had come out, like a bee escaping from a jar after years of being kept prisoner.

  Milo sat totally still, stunned. All he could see was Carole’s eyes glistening in the darkness.

  She got out her plane ticket and put it down on the table.

  ‘You really want to know about it? Fine. I’ll tell you. But afterwards I don’t want to hear a word from you. I’ll trust you with a secret and then I’m going to get up and take a cab to the airport. The last flight to London leaves at 9.30 p.m., then there’s a 6 a.m. flight to LA from there.’

  ‘Are you sure you—’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’ll tell you and then I’m going. And, after that, don’t call me or ask to sleep on my couch for at least a week. It’s that or nothing.’

  ‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘Whatever you want.’

  Carole looked around her. Surrounding the obelisk in the middle of the piazza, the huge statues of the Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi stared down at her forbiddingly.

  ‘The first time he did it,’ she began, ‘was the night of my birthday. I was eleven.’

  *

  Brittany

  Plogoff – Pointe du Raz

  ‘So, think you know how to light a fire, do you?’ Billie chuckled.

  ‘Um, yeah, I think I can manage it, thanks!’ I replied edgily.

  ‘Fantastic, well go right ahead, big man. I’ll just sit back and watch adoringly.’

  ‘If you think you’re going to put me off…’

  To Billie’s delight, a storm had been unleashed on Finistère, rattling the shutters and sending torrential rain to lash against the windows of the house. Inside, conditions were arctic. It seemed the French expression ‘charme rustique’, used in the ad for the house, could be translated as ‘lack of radiators’ and ‘poor insulation’.

  I struck a match and tried to light the pile of dead leaves I’d positioned under the logs. The little heap burst quickly into flames… then died out almost immediately.

  Billie watched, trying not to smile. ‘Hmm, very convincing.’

  Wrapped in her dressing gown with a towel around her head, she bounded over to the hearth.

  ‘Could you grab me some newspaper, please?’

  Rummaging through the drawers of a Bigouden sideboard, I came across an old copy of L’Equipe dated July 13, 1998, the day after France won the World Cup. The front page was headed ‘POUR L’ÉTERNITÉ’, above a picture of Zinedine Zidane throwing himself into the arms of Youri Djorkaeff.

  Billie unfolded the sheets one by one before crumpling them up into a loose ball.

  ‘You have to give the paper room to breathe,’ she explained. ‘My father taught me that.’

  Then she sorted through the kindling, selecting only the driest bits and placing them on top of her pile of scrunched-up paper. The larger logs were then laid over the heap to make a sort of tepee.

  ‘OK, now you can light it,’ she said proudly.

  Two minutes later, a good fire was crackling away.

  The howling wind shook the windows so violently I thought they were going to shatter. Then a shutter slammed, just as a power cut plunged the room into darkness.

  I tinkered about with the fuse box, hoping the lights would come back on.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to sound like I knew what I was doing. ‘Must be the circuit breaker or a fuse—’

  ‘Might well be,’ she said, sniggering, ‘but that’s the water meter you’re fiddling with. The fuse box is in the hall.’

  I smiled, taking her amusement at my expense in good part. As I started to cross the room, she grabbed hold of my hand.

  ‘Wait!’

  She unwrapped the towel from around her head and undid the belt of her dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor.

  Then I took her in my arms and our distorted shadows embraced on the wall.

  *

  Rome

  Piazza Navona

  7.20 p.m.

  Speaking in a low voice, Carole confided in Milo the ordeal of her traumatic childhood. She told him abo
ut the nightmarish years when her stepfather came to her bed. Years which had taken everything from her: her smile, her dreams, her innocence and her lust for life. She told him about the nights when, as the voracious animal crept from her room, his appetite satisfied, he’d repeat, ‘Now you won’t say a word to Mommy, will you? Don’t tell Mommy.’

  As if Mommy didn’t already know!

  She spoke about her feelings of guilt, how she’d had to keep it all in, while wanting to throw herself under a bus every day as she walked home from school. And then she told him about the abortion she’d had in secret at the age of fourteen, leaving her torn apart, drained of life, with a pain inside that would never heal.

  She talked for a long time about Tom, who’d helped her keep her sanity by conjuring up the magical world of the Angel Trilogy for her, bit by bit.

  Then she explained why she found it hard to trust men, how she’d lost faith in life and never quite regained it, and was still sometimes overcome by dark feelings when she least expected it.

  Carole stopped talking, but made no move to get up.

  Milo had kept his word and hadn’t opened his mouth. But a question slipped out of its own accord.

  ‘But when did it all end?’

  Carole paused. She turned round and saw that the little Australian girl had left with her parents. She took a sip of water and pulled on the sweater that was draped over her shoulders.

  ‘That’s the other part of the story, Milo, but I’m not sure it’s mine to tell.’

  ‘So whose is it then?’

  ‘It’s Tom’s.’

  *

  Brittany

  Plogoff – Pointe du Raz

  The fire was starting to die down, casting a flickering light around the room. Our bodies were wrapped around each other under the same tangled blanket and we kissed like teenagers.

  An hour later, I got up to stoke the embers and put another log onto the grate.

  We were starving, but the cupboards and fridge were bare. In the sideboard, I found a bottle of cider, ‘Made in Quebec’ strangely enough. It was cidre de glace, made from apples picked frozen off the trees in the depths of winter. I opened the bottle and looked out of the window. The rain showed no sign of letting up and you could see barely a few feet ahead.

  With the blanket wrapped around her, Billie came and stood next to me at the window, holding two cider bowls.

  ‘Would you tell me something?’ she began, kissing my neck.

  She lifted my jacket off the back of the chair and took out my wallet.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  I shook my head. She pulled the half-unpicked lining apart and turned the wallet upside down until a metal cartridge case fell out.

  ‘Who did you kill?’ she asked, holding up the spent case.

  *

  Los Angeles

  MacArthur Park neighbourhood

  29 April 1992

  I’m seventeen years old. I’m studying in the library at high school, when a kid comes in shouting, ‘They’ve been cleared!’ Everyone in the room knows he’s talking about the verdict in the Rodney King case.

  A year earlier, this twenty-six-year-old black guy was pulled over for speeding by the LAPD. He was drunk and wouldn’t cooperate with the police officers, so they tried to restrain him using a taser. When he resisted, they began beating him violently, unaware the whole incident was being filmed from a nearby balcony by an onlooker, who sent the tape to Channel 5 the following day. The images were quickly picked up and shown in a continuous loop by TV stations the world over. Anger, shame and indignation followed.

  ‘They’ve been cleared!’

  Every conversation comes to an abrupt end, to be replaced by insults flying in every direction. I can sense the disbelief and hatred growing. Black people are in the majority in this neighbourhood. I can see right away that things are going to turn nasty and I’m better off going home.

  Out on the streets, news of the verdict is spreading like a virus. There’s a buzz in the air and a sense it can’t go on like this. Of course, this isn’t the first police screw-up or the first time justice has fallen down, but this time it’s been caught on camera, and that changes everything. The whole planet has seen four out-of-control cops laying into this poor guy: striking him more than fifty times with a baton and also kicking him. This incomprehensible acquittal is the last straw. The worst-off have suffered terribly during the Bush and Reagan years. People have had enough. Enough of unemployment and poverty. Enough of the scourge of drugs and an education system that entrenches inequalities.

  When I get home, I switch on the TV and grab a bowl of cereal. Riots have broken out all over the place and I’m looking at the first of three days of images showing looting, arson and clashes with the police. The blocks around the intersection of Florence and Normandie are in total chaos. Guys are running off with crates of food stolen from shops. Others are pushing trolleys or rolling pallets to carry off furniture, sofas or electrical appliances. The authorities are calling for calm, but I can tell this isn’t going to stop. Which actually suits me pretty well…

  I gather up all the savings I’ve stashed inside my radio, pick up my skateboard and skate over to Marcus Blink’s.

  Marcus is a local thug, a ‘good guy’ who doesn’t belong to any gangs and just flogs the odd prescription, deals a bit of weed and sells on a few firearms. We were at elementary school together and I was on the right side of him, because I’d helped his mom fill in her welfare papers a couple of times.

  The whole neighbourhood’s on edge. Everyone knows the gangs are going to make the most of the disorder to settle a few scores.

  In return for my $200, Marcus fetches me a Glock 22; they’re all over the place these days, with heaps of crooked cops selling on their weapons after reporting them lost. For another $20, he throws in a round of fifteen cartridges. I go back home, feeling the cold metal heavy in my pocket.

  *

  I don’t get much sleep that night. I’m thinking about Carole. There’s only one thing I care about, and that’s making sure the abuse stops for good. Fiction is a powerful thing, but it has its limits. My stories allow her to escape to an imaginary place for a few hours, far from the physical and mental torture her tormentor is putting her through. But it’s not enough. Living in a made-up world isn’t a long-term solution, any more than getting high or getting drunk to forget your problems.

  There’s no getting around it: sooner or later, real life always catches up with you.

  *

  The next day, the violence returns with a vengeance, and the area’s in a state of complete lawlessness. Helicopters chartered by TV stations hover over the city, broadcasting live footage of LA under siege: more looting, beatings, buildings on fire and gun battles between law-enforcement officers and rioters. Numerous reports reveal the disorganisation and inaction of the police, standing by while the stealing goes on.

  With the death toll rising, the mayor goes in front of the cameras to declare a state of emergency and announce he intends to call on the National Guard to enforce a curfew from dusk to dawn. But it backfires: knowing the party’s nearly over, the looting only cranks up a gear.

  In our neighbourhood, it’s mostly the Asian-run shops that are ransacked. Tensions between blacks and Koreans are running high, and on this second day of rioting most of the small businesses, mini-markets and liquor stores run by Koreans are pulled apart and looted, with the police nowhere to be seen.

  It’s almost midday. For the last hour I’ve been balancing on my skateboard, staking out Carole’s stepfather’s grocery store. He’s opened up this morning in spite of the risks, hoping he’ll manage to avoid the looters. But now he’s feeling under threat too and I sense he’s about to bring down the shutters.

  That’s when I choose to come out from my hiding place.

  ‘Need a hand, Mr Alvarez?’

  He doesn’t bat an eyelid. He knows me and I seem like a reliable kind of kid.

  ‘OK, Tom! Help me brin
g these boards in.’

  I take one under each arm and follow him inside. It’s a pretty lousy grocery store, of which there are dozens in the area. The kind of place that really only stocks the bare essentials, and which will soon be driven out of business by the arrival of a local Walmart.

  Cruz Alvarez is medium height, quite stocky, with a big, square face; the right kind of build to play a bit-part as the pimp or night-club owner in a movie.

  ‘You know, I always said one day those fucking—’ he starts, before turning round to see the Glock 22 aimed at him.

  The store’s empty and there’s no CCTV. All I have to do is pull the trigger. I don’t want to say anything, not even, ‘Drop dead, you piece of shit.’ I’m not here to dish out justice or apply the law, or to hear his excuses either. There’s no glory, no heroism, no courage in what I’m about to do. I just want Carole’s suffering to end and this is the only way I can find to do it.

  A few months ago, without telling her, I gave an anonymous tip-off at a family planning centre, but nothing came of it. I sent a letter to the police which was never followed up. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in fate. All I believe is that this is where I should be, standing behind this pistol with my finger on the trigger.

  ‘Tom! What the hell’s got into—’

  I move closer so I can fire from point-blank range. I don’t want to miss and I don’t want to use more than one bullet.

  I shoot.

  His head explodes spattering blood all over my clothes. I’m alone in the store, alone in the world. I can hardly stay upright. My arms are shaking.

  Get out of here!

  I pick up the cartridge case and put it in my pocket with the gun. Then I run home. I take a shower, burn my clothes, carefully clean the pistol and throw it into a trash can. I hold on to the cartridge so I can turn myself in one day, if an innocent man is accused of the crime. But would I really be brave enough to do it?

  I’ll probably never know.