“Bitch!” he cried at last.
The word was meant for Sophie. For all the Sophies in the world, who dressed in Chanel or Dior, and drove Rovers or Xsaras or station wagons, like that stupid cow with her ten francs!
How long was it since he’d last felt anger? Years. The years on the street. These three years of learning resignation. Indifference to other people. To the world.
Why be angry with the woman for her charity? Standing there, in the middle of the road, what he looked like was what he was. A homeless man. A bum. And it was all Sophie’s fault. Sophie was the one he was angry with. The only one.
“Bitch!”
Because of her coldness. Her contempt.
“Bitch!”
How could she forget how much they’d loved each other? How could she deny that he was the father of her child? How could she bring up Julien in total ignorance of him?
“Bitch,” he said in a low voice, and started to cry.
It took Rico a long time to recover from that grim morning. He walked for hours around the center of town. He felt like a stranger, even though he had lived here for years. It was as if the town and its people were hostile to him.
At five-thirty, he was again outside the school. In the same place.
“I want to give him a hug,” he said to Sophie, when she got out of the car.
She said nothing and crossed the street. When the children came out, she said something in Julien’s ear and he saw her nodding in his direction. They started walking toward the car. Rico stepped forward.
“Do you want to give your father a hug?” she asked Julien.
He didn’t reply. He didn’t take his eyes off Rico. He had his mother’s eyes. Blue eyes, which had once been so gentle.
Sophie opened the back door and Julien got in, followed by Armel, who had been standing motionless behind the two of them, staring at Rico as if he was a Martian.
“You see, he doesn’t want to give you a hug.”
Angrily, she drove off. Through the rear window, Rico thought he saw Julien turning to look at him. But he couldn’t be sure.
5.
TOO MUCH NOISE FROM THE PAIN AND TEARS
Now Rico was freezing his balls off with Dédé in the entrance to an apartment building in Neuilly, and he hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d gotten here. Everything he’d said and done in the last part of the day seemed to have vanished into a black hole.
He’d been looking at Jeannot, Fred and Lulu wolfing down the paella as if it was their last meal. That much he did remember. And he also remembered Dédé holding out the bottle of Valstar and asking him again, “Where were you, for fuck’s sake?”
Rico had taken a long swig of beer, then lit a cigarette. He hadn’t yet recovered from his day in Rennes. Julien’s indifference. Sophie’s contempt. It was as if his heart was in a vise. Remembering himself standing there in the middle of the road with that fucking ten-franc coin in the palm of his hand made his stomach heave as if he was about to vomit.
“I just bummed around, that’s all . . . Titi’s death,” he had added, stupidly, as if that was an excuse.
“Fucking bastards! I told the TV people that transit authority guy left him to die.”
“I know, I saw it on the news.”
“And you know what? They replaced him.”
“Who?”
“The bastard who was there the other night!”
Rico had regretted mentioning his friend’s death. He hadn’t come to talk about Titi. Just to announce that he was leaving. But the pain and tears were making too much noise in his head. He had grabbed the Valstar and taken another long swig.
Jeannot had been the first to belch. “Insh’Allah!”
Fred and Lulu had quickly done the same. It became a game. Like farting.
“Come on!” Dédé had said to Rico. “Let’s have a coffee at Les Tonneliers. I’m paying.”
“Where are you two going?” Fred asked.
“To get some air. We’ll be back.”
It was great at Les Tonneliers. A warm, smoky atmosphere, like a real neighborhood bistro, which seemed to belong to another era, another Paris.
“Poor Titi. To think he could still be here.”
“I don’t think so,” Rico had murmured, more to himself than to Dédé.
“You don’t think so? Is that what you said?”
“Yes . . . I’m sure Titi didn’t want that. In his head. Don’t you see? In his head, he’d decided it was over.”
“Maybe so . . . But hell, he could have died in a hospital bed all the same. Somewhere clean . . . Instead of there, like a mangy dog . . .”
“Isn’t that what we are? Mangy dogs?”
Dédé had shrugged.
“Titi went back to Ménilmontant to die,” Rico had continued. “That station was his last home. The place where he met his friends . . . I’m getting out of Paris, Dédé.”
“Hell, man, where are you going?”
“South. Marseilles.”
Rico had seen the surprise in Dédé’s eyes.
“You have something lined up down there?”
“No . . . Just a few good memories . . . But I can’t stick around here anymore, it’s too painful.”
Dédé had nodded. “Want a smoke?”
He had Camels.
“Shit, good smokes.”
“Hey, just because you have nothing doesn’t mean you have to deprive yourself.”
They had both laughed.
Rico didn’t know how Dédé got by on the street. If he begged, or if he had a little job on the side. The one thing for sure was that, of the whole gang, he was the one who looked least like a bum. He wore what looked like an almost new black coat, over a black leather jacket and black corduroy pants. He was almost elegant.
The only thing he knew about Dédé was that he’d spent five years in the Foreign Legion, and then had worked as a sales manager for a printing works whose main customer was the Crédit Lyonnais bank. When the bank started having problems, the printing works downsized its workforce and he was one of the first to be fired. Dédé was the only member of staff not in a union.
“How are you getting down there?”
“By train. At night.”
The high speed trains were too much hassle. They were O.K. for short distances like Paris-Rennes. But on long journeys, things often didn’t work out so well. He’d talked about it with a few of the backpackers. As soon as the ticket collector spotted you, he made you get off at the first stop, where the cops were usually waiting for you. Often it was some of the passengers who told the ticket collector about you before he’d even come by to check the tickets.
“I’ll come with you part of the way, if you like. An old friend of mine lives in Chalon. We can eat and sleep at his place. I also need a change of scenery.”
Rico had liked the idea. It was always better not to travel alone.
“How about tonight? Is that O.K. with you? We’ll meet at the Gare de Lyon. At the buffet, opposite the information desk. We’ll find a train.”
Rico’s bag was ready. Under the tarp in his crash pad on Rue de la Roquette. That morning he’d said goodbye to Hyacinthe and had insisted on paying for the coffee and croissants this time. To thank him. Bébert, who always heard what they were saying, had offered them a calvados.
“Great!” Dédé replied. “How about a beer to celebrate? Hey, it’s like we were going on vacation, isn’t it?”
They’d gone from coffee to beer, then from beer to spirits. Dédé paid for every round. The warmth and the alcohol had gradually gone to Rico’s head. It assuaged his hunger, and soothed his mind. The words had started to come more easily, like when he used to talk to Titi. Rico had no idea what they had talked about, especially not what he could have said to Dédé. All he remembered was that after a while Dédé had said, “Right, shall we go?”
“O.K.,” Rico had replied. “I’ll follow you.”
Outside, it was already dark.
Now h
ere they were in the entrance to this fucking building, on the corner of Rue Poincaré and a frontage road parallel to Avenue de Neuilly, not far from Sablons metro station. The snow had been falling more heavily, and was starting to settle on the ground. Rico felt the cold go right through him even though, apart from his eyes, none of his body was exposed.
From his coat, Dédé took the half-bottle of rum he’d bought as they left Les Tonneliers, and took a swig.
“What are we doing here, Dédé? Can you tell me that?”
“We’re waiting, dammit! I already told you. Here!” He held out the bottle.
Rico knocked back a mouthful, then two, then three. His body temperature went up several degrees.
“But what are we waiting for, for fuck’s sake?”
A red Clio drove slowly past them and parked a little way up the street. A young man in a black parka got out and ran to the ATM at the corner.
“That’s what we’ve been waiting for. The fall guy! Come on!”
Quickly, they came up behind the young man. Rico heard the click of a pocket knife. Dédé placed the blade against the young man’s neck.
“Watch the car and the street,” he ordered Rico.
The young man hadn’t moved a muscle.
“How much can you take out? Three thousand?”
He shook his head. “One thousand five hundred,” he stammered.
“One thousand five hundred? That’s pathetic!”
“It’s all I have. I’m telling the truth. I’m a student and—”
“Go on, put the card in and ask for two thousand.”
“It won’t work.” His voice was shaking.
“Do as I tell you, dammit!”
A message came up on the screen. “One thousand two hundred!” Dédé screamed. “Is that all you can take out?”
“I’ve already withdrawn two hundred and four hundred. I’m only allowed one thousand eight hundred a week.”
Dédé sighed. “Shit, man! You hear that? He can only take out one thousand eight hundred a week! This is a guy who lives in Neuilly, dammit!”
The machine spat out the bills, which Dédé quickly pocketed.
“O.K., the woman who’s with you, does she have a card as well?”
The young man summoned up enough courage to say, “Leave her alone.”
“I don’t think you understand. You see my friend here? He doesn’t say much, but he has a bit of a temper. So now he’s going to fetch your girlfriend, and as long as no one does anything stupid, everything’s going to be all right.” He turned to Rico. “O.K.! Go get her!”
Rico obeyed, mechanically. He was completely out of his depth. He’d have liked a swig of rum, but Dédé had taken the bottle back.
He opened the door of the car. Rock music hit him in the face. A guy was singing:
O.K., boys, let’s go to hell
Just have to throw the dice in the air
“Follow me,” Rico said to the girl.
His tone of voice was all wrong, more of an invitation than an order.
“What?”
Rico grabbed her wrist. It was warm and soft. So slender, his fingers encircled it. The touch of it gave him the shivers. A woman’s skin. Images flooded into his mind. Sophie. The whiteness of her body. He increased the pressure slightly, just so that his fingers could be in more contact with her skin.
Every night I count the days
Every night I count the days
“What?” the girl repeated, panicking now.
“Come with me. And there’s no point in screaming!” He had almost found the right tone now. “And bring your bag.”
He pulled her over to the ATM.
“Jacques,” she whined, when she saw Dédé’s knife being held against her friend’s neck.
“It’s all right, Camille. Take out your credit card.”
“Withdraw as much as you can,” Dédé ordered.
“Nine hundred,” Camille replied softly.
“Fuck, what is this place, skid row?”
The ATM wouldn’t give out nine hundred francs. There were no hundred-franc bills left, and it would only dispense multiples of two hundred francs.
Dédé collected the four bills. “Take her back.”
Rico walked Camille back to the car, but this time he didn’t dare grab her wrist. He squeezed her arm instead. He opened the door for her.
“Have a nice evening,” he said.
He meant it. He looked at her one last time, then slammed the door. When he straightened up again, he realized that he was gasping for breath.
Dédé appeared, pushing Jacques in front of him and carrying Jacques’ black parka under his arm.
“Now get out of here, and don’t try anything stupid, like calling the cops on your fucking cellphone. I have your name and address. I can find you again, trust me.”
Jacques put the car into first gear, stalled, restarted the engine, and finally managed to drive away.
“Here, present for you,” Dédé said, handing the parka to Rico. “I saw right away it was your size.”
“You’re crazy, you know. Completely crazy.”
“Don’t jerk me around, Rico. Let’s go.”
“I’ll walk. I need to walk, Dédé.”
His breath was coming in rapid, wheezing gulps, as if he had just climbed the Himalayas.
“Hey, you O.K.?”
“Don’t worry. Ten o’clock, Gare de Lyon.”
“I’ll be there. We’ll divide up the money then.”
Dédé went down into the metro and was gone.
Rico started walking slowly down the street. He had an intense pain in the small of his back, on the right hand side. A month earlier, a doctor from Médecins du Monde had diagnosed pleurisy. But Rico hadn’t gone back to have it treated.
He felt as if he was suffocating. He stopped in a doorway, and waited for it to pass. He’d never done anything like that in his life. Even when things had been really hard on the street, it had never occurred to him to mug anyone. What surprised him was that he felt no remorse, no shame for having robbed those two young people. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.
He wondered what Titi would have thought. If Titi were still alive, would he even have followed Dédé? No, of course not. No . . . Although maybe . . . Everything was getting mixed up in his head, as usual.
He thought again about the girl, Camille. The touch of her skin. That was what had really shaken him. The last woman he had touched was Malika. That was three years ago. Since then . . . Since then, women had kept coming back to the surface of his mind. The vivid memory of Léa. The desire he still felt for Sophie . . . The ghosts of his loves.
His breathing gradually returned to normal. The pain in his back was wearing off. He remembered what Dédé had said. “If you’re going to travel, it’s best to have a little money, don’t you think?”
Of course, Rico had thought. Especially as he had barely fifty francs in his pocket.
“I don’t like the idea.”
“Shit, Rico, just come with me, and wait there nice and quiet. That’s all you have to do, O.K.? We do it and then we go.”
“O.K.,” he’d said at last. “O.K. I’ll go with you.”
The softness of Camille’s skin. If only for that, he’d been right to follow Dédé.
He suddenly realized how warm the parka, which he was holding against his stomach, really was. It was new, or almost new, with a hood folded into the collar. He took off his military greatcoat and put on the parka. He zipped it right up and pulled the hood over his head, without taking off his hat. Within a few seconds, he felt his whole body warm up. “Fantastic!” If Dédé gave him half the money, as he’d suggested, this would turn out to be his best day since that first night on the street.
6.
A NIGHT IN WHICH NO ONE GIVES A DAMN
ABOUT ANYONE ELSE
During the journey, Rico had a nightmare. He was strangling Sophie. It was the day after she’d announced her decision to leave him. “I
’ve really thought long and hard about it.”
Rico’s nightmare began in the morning, very early. He was standing in the doorway. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, just like that, without a word. As if they’d said everything that had to be said. After a slight hesitation, he walked back into the bedroom. He wanted to talk to Sophie again, tell her how much he loved her. But also to ask her to spend the week giving it some more thought. Not to rush into things. To take her time. What had happened between Alain and her didn’t matter. All that mattered was them. Her, Julien and him. Their little family. Such a nice family. All these words were in Rico’s mouth as he opened the bedroom door.
Sophie was sleeping peacefully, with a smile on her lips. She seemed so calm, so remote from all the drama. The proposed separation. The end of their marriage. The end of that life he had wanted, that life he had sacrificed everything for.
Then he was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette and watching her sleep. He liked watching her sleep. He often did that, especially when he woke in the middle of the night, anxious about something. He always felt the same emotion as he had when they were first together. The same love. The years of marriage hadn’t changed anything. But this morning, seeing her sleeping like that, peaceful and smiling, blew a hole in all his certainties. Why was she smiling like that? What was she dreaming?
So he stubbed out his cigarette, and started shaking Sophie angrily. The humiliation of knowing he’d been deceived, knowing she’d cheated on him, had turned to rage.
“You were dreaming about him, weren’t you, you bitch?” he screamed, spitting out the words
The first thing he saw in her eyes was fear. She wanted to scream. But she couldn’t, because Rico’s fingers were around her throat.
“Let go of me,” she breathed.
He was sitting astride her now, pressing down with all his weight on her hips. She was struggling, throwing back the sheet and trying to push him off. He was strangling her, filled with hate but also enjoying it. There was terror now in Sophie’s eyes. Her heavy, wonderfully white breasts jiggled from side to side under her pajama top. He wanted to rip it off her. To rip the sheet too. And to make violent love to her naked body. To fuck her to death.
A Sun for the Dying Page 4