A Sun for the Dying

by Jean-Claude Izzo

“There’s no hurry,” Rico replied.

  “I guess so. But there’s nothing left to see that I haven’t already seen, and what I see in the evening on TV doesn’t made me want to hang around . . .”

  He was driving slowly, in the right-hand lane. His head low over the wheel.

  “I might be able to get a train at Vienne.”

  “I can drop you there. But it would have been easier at Lyons. Vienne’s only a small station.”

  Rico had no desire to tell him about his encounter with the cops. “We can’t always do what we want.”

  “That’s what my wife always said. But where does that get you?” He turned to look at Rico. “I don’t mean that in a nasty way. Louise and I were happy. But we might have lived a different life . . . if we had wanted more.”

  Rico thought the old man was right.

  “Anyway,” the man went on, “I still have my dog. We’re growing old together . . . As long as she’s around . . .”

  He threw a glance at Rico, then concentrated on the road.

  “You O.K.? You’re not afraid?”

  “I’m O.K.”

  There was a train. In half an hour. At 9:06 P.M. He would have to change at Valence. Thirty-eight minutes’ wait, and then he could get a high speed train in the direction of Montpellier. Rico had no other choice. Either he spent the night in Vienne. Or in Avignon. It was easier to travel at night. The ticket inspectors were less of a hassle then. Sometimes, you didn’t even see them. And Avignon was only an hour from Marseilles. He chose the second of the two options. He wanted to get as close as possible to Marseilles.

  14.

  AFTER THE SNOW, THE MISTRAL,

  AND THE COLD, ALWAYS

  It wasn’t snowing in Avignon, but the mistral was blowing. Rico had no sooner set foot on the platform than he felt the cold go through him. He hurried to get to the underground passage to take shelter. There, in the corridor, he got his breath back.

  There weren’t many people in the lobby. Everyone was in a hurry to get home. Rico hesitated. Should he stay here and sleep in the station or head out into the mistral to find somewhere to crash until the first train for Marseilles? He became aware of eyes watching him. A group of young vagrants, with their dogs. Six of them, including two girls. All of them with shaven heads. Lounging near the phone booths, in the passage that led from the lobby to the station cafeteria.

  Rico did not react quickly enough. One of the girls, a cigarette dangling from her lips, extricated herself from the group and came toward him, followed by one of the dogs, a mongrel with a face like a wolf. The girl stopped in front of Rico. She was wearing small gold rings in her ears and eyebrows and between her nostrils. She stank of grime and beer.

  “Got a cigarette for me?” she asked, blowing her smoke into Rico’s face.

  The dog sniffed at Rico’s shoes and the bottom of his pants. He’s going to piss on me, he told himself. He had seen that happen once, at the Gare Saint-Lazare. There were vagrants who trained them to do it. They found it more amusing to see their dogs piss on someone’s leg than against a tree.

  He took out a pack of Fortunas, which he had bought in Lyons. They weren’t expensive, but you couldn’t find them everywhere. He held it out to her, but avoided looking at her. Her eyes were a dull blue, like dishwater. As dirty as her body must be. The girl took a cigarette, and stuck it behind her right ear.

  “Can I take one for my friend?”

  Now the dog was sniffing his crotch. Ready to bite him in the balls. Thing could easily turn nasty, he knew. Four guys, two dogs. If they decided to jump him, he wouldn’t have anything left. And no one would come to his rescue.

  “Yeah, O.K.,” he said finally.

  With the same action, the girl stuck the cigarette behind her left ear. There was a smile on her narrow, almost black lips. A smile as inviting as a razor blade. She looked just as degenerate as the dog, which was still glued to his private parts.

  “You wouldn’t have a hundred francs?”

  “Have you taken a good look at me?”

  One of the vagrants —the girl’s boyfriend?—left the group and walked unsteadily toward them, a bottle of Valstar in his hand. He must have been about six and a half feet tall and weighed about three hundred and thirty pounds. A giant.

  “Want a drink, friend?” he said, holding the bottle out to Rico.

  Should he take it? Was the man trying to provoke him into a fight? The hand holding the bottle was broad and thick, the knuckles green with crusted dirt. Rico took the bottle and drank. He felt the girl’s dirty eyes on him, the dog’s muzzle sniffing at his crotch, from behind this time.

  The giant laughed. “Welcome to Avignon, friend!”

  The taste of the beer, and the fear gnawing at his stomach, aroused a craving for alcohol. He wanted to take another swig, but thought better of it. He had to get out of this station as quickly as he could. He gave the bottle back to the giant.

  “That feels better,” he muttered, adjusting his hat on his head.

  “What’s your name?” the giant asked.

  “Rico.”

  The giant took the cigarette from the girl’s left ear and stuck it between his lips. “Got a light, Rico?”

  Rico took out his lighter and handed it to him.

  “Know where you’re going?” the girl asked.

  “Drop it, Vera!” the man ordered, giving Rico back his lighter.

  “Fuck you!” she cried. “I can do what I like! If I want to go with this guy and fuck him, I’ll do it.”

  Things could blow up at any moment.

  “You really piss me off!” the girl cried.

  “I’m going,” Rico said, as calmly as he could.

  And, without looking at them, he walked to the exit. The dog went with him, its face against his calf. It let go of him when he opened the door and it sniffed the icy air. The man and the girl hadn’t moved. They were still arguing.

  Rico lowered his head and walked down the station steps, ready to brave the mistral.

  Rico didn’t know Avignon, so he had no idea which direction to go. He walked straight ahead. As far as the ramparts opposite. Porte de la République. He saw a sign: Town Center. The ideal thing, he thought, would be to find the entrance to an underground parking garage. Once past the ramparts, he walked along a gloomy, deserted avenue lined with plane trees.

  The wind was so strong, it kept blowing him off his feet. Even with his mouth buried in the collar of the parka, he was getting out of breath. His eyes were tearing up. Every step required a considerable effort. He wouldn’t get far like this, he told himself.

  He saw a hotel sign: the Bristol. He set himself that as a target to aim for. He needed to stop and take a breather.

  There were several bars still open on the avenue. Rico entered the first one he came to. The Régence. The light inside was yellow and harsh. He put his rucksack on the floor and sat down. He was gasping for breath. A waiter came up to him almost immediately.

  “A draft beer,” Rico ordered.

  Apart from him, there were only seven customers in the place. All men on their own. He lit a cigarette and stared out at the street. He hoped this bar closed late. As late as possible. With the help of the beer, he could hold out all night. By the clock, it was midnight thirty. He had five hours to kill, or something like that, until the first train.

  “Eighteen francs,” the waiter said, placing the glass on the table.

  “Eighteen francs for a draft beer?”

  “Night rates.”

  “What time do you close?” Rico asked.

  The waiter shrugged. “When the boss says so. If it was up to me, we’d already be closed.” He gave Rico his change. “I’d rather be in bed.”

  “Sure,” Rico said.

  He took four Dolipran with his first swig of beer, and again stared out through the window. That was when he saw the girl crossing the street. Her head sunk between her shoulders, her hands in her pockets. Tight-fitting leather miniskirt, red pantyhose,
and a matching blouse under an open suede jacket. Her long hair flying in every direction, covering her face.

  Outside the bar, she straightened up, tossed back her hair in an angry movement of the head, then walked past the window of the terrace, looking in turn at each of the customers inside. Reaching Rico, she stared in at him with a kind of anger in her eyes. Without knowing why, Rico smiled at her. The girl went calmly on her way. As if the mistral didn’t bother her.

  Rico lit another cigarette and started thinking about the girl. About the anger he had seen in her eyes. He knew she was a hooker. But one who wasn’t resigned to being a ­hooker. Or was still too young to resign herself to the idea that her life would consist of nothing but getting fucked by lots of guys. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.

  Rico was now the only customer sitting at a table. He had just ordered a second draft beer when he saw the girl walk past him again on the sidewalk. She came into the bar, and went and sat down at a table, not far from his.

  “Lousy weather, huh?” the waiter said to her.

  “Fucking weather, you mean!”

  Her voice sounded weary, and she had an accent Rico couldn’t place.

  “Want a coffee?”

  “A cognac. I’ve had my fill of coffee.”

  “We’re closing soon, you know.”

  “Yes, I thought so.”

  She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs. Rico looked at her. From where he sat, she was in profile. She had a long face, but nice features. High cheekbones. Quite full lips. And a mass of shoulder-length ash blond hair.

  She slowly turned to Rico and looked him in the eyes. Her own eyes were very dark blue, almost black.

  “Like it?”

  “What?”

  “What you see. Me.”

  Rico smiled. “Yes . . . I do . . .”

  The girl stood up, came to his table and sat down.

  “Want to come to the hotel?” she asked, tossing back her hair.

  The waiter placed the cognac in front of her. “Fifty francs,” he said.

  The girl did not move. The waiter looked from her to Rico.

  “That’s fifty francs,” he said again, to Rico this time.

  Rico counted out fifty francs from the coins he had in his pocket. His remaining money was in his left shoe, and he had no intention of taking it out like that in front of them.

  “You been robbing a church or what?” the waiter asked, amused, as he watched him.

  “No,” he replied. “Just begging.”

  The waiter gathered the coins and walked away.

  The girl raised her glass. “Cheers.” She drank down half her cognac with her eyes closed, without drawing a breath. “You’ll feel better afterwards.”

  “After what?”

  “After we go to the hotel. If you want to come. It’s not far. Rue Aubanel . . . It’s just around the corner. Two hundred francs. Including the room.”

  “I don’t think so . . .”

  Rico saw anger in her eyes.

  “Something wrong with me?”

  “No, no . . . Not at all . . . But . . .”

  She leaned toward him, and he felt her hair brush his cheek. It smelled of incense.

  “A hundred for a blowjob. I know somewhere quiet we can go.”

  “I don’t have money to throw away,” Rico said, quite curtly.

  The girl stiffened. It wasn’t a nice thing for him to say. But he wanted her to give it a rest. He wished they could just talk. She knocked back the rest of her cognac and stood up.

  “I’m wasting my time with you! Fucking bum!”

  On her way to the door, she turned to the waiter, who had been watching them for the last few moments. “Bye, Max!”

  “Bye, gorgeous.”

  Rico watched the girl as she went out. A gust of wind rooted her to the spot as soon as she was out the door. She sank her head between her shoulders, as she had earlier, and strode purposefully across the street. In a few moments, she was out of sight.

  “We’re closing,” the waiter said.

  Rico stood up slowly. It was only one o’clock. He’d have liked to sit here quietly in the warmth and have another beer. The lights in the bar went out as soon as he was outside. As he still had no idea where to go, he crossed the street, like the girl, and walked back along the deserted avenue.

  He came to Rue Aubanel. A dark, narrow street. He turned onto it and looked for the hotel the girl had mentioned. Where she turned tricks for two hundred francs, including the room. Maybe he could get a room for a few hours. He’d made up his mind that sleeping in a decent bed would do him good. He felt exhausted. He was ready to blow a hundred francs just to sleep.

  Furnished hotel. Rooms by the day, the week, the month. He was standing outside an old building with peeling walls. All the lights were off. Above a bell black with grime, a notice read: Please ring.

  “You following me or what?”

  The girl’s voice. He turned, and there she was. Her back against the wall, on the opposite sidewalk. Her head sunk between her shoulders. Her two hands deep in the pockets of her jacket, which she had finally buttoned.

  “I was thinking I could sleep here for a few hours . . .”

  “Oh! I really thought you were following me.”

  And she set off again for the end of the street, less energetically, Rico noted, than when she had left the bistro.

  “It’s filthy in there,” she said, without turning around.

  Rico followed close on her heels. She turned her head.

  “You see, you are following me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.”

  “Let’s walk together.”

  She stopped dead. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing. I have a few hours to kill, and I don’t know where to go.”

  She started walking again. He followed her. They turned right onto another street, and eventually came out onto a square. A bearded guy in a ragged coat stood outside a pizzeria, taking red, sticky spaghetti out of a garbage can and putting it in an aluminum container. He looked up as they passed, then put his head back inside the garbage can.

  Now the mistral was behind them, and the girl was walking faster. Rico couldn’t keep up with her. He was out of breath from walking so fast. She turned.

  “Are you coming?”

  The wind was tiring him out. Every gust seemed to penetrate his skull, freezing it from the inside.

  “You’re going too fast. I can’t follow you.”

  “We’re not there yet. It’s a good fifteen minutes to my place.”

  15.

  A PASSIONATE CLOSENESS,

  LIKE BROTHER AND SISTER

  Her place was a former hosier’s shop. On Rue des Fourbisseurs. Rico had seen the street sign and had noted the name in passing, mechanically. As if it would help him to get his bearings in this town. Following the girl, he’d had the feeling they were going around in circles. Right now, he would have been quite incapable of finding his way by himself back to the main road—Rue de la République—along which he’d come when he arrived.

  “It’s here,” she said, coming to a halt outside the old shop.

  Rico was panting from having walked too much, too quickly, in the cold wind. He didn’t immediately understand what she meant.

  “It’s here,” she repeated. “I live in here.”

  There were big wooden shutters over the windows. Judging by their state, they hadn’t been opened in ages. The varnish was peeling, almost obliterating the words painted on them, although you could still just about make them out: Au Bon Chic Provençal—Established 1867.

  The girl entered the building through a little door to the right of the shop, and reappeared almost immediately.

  “Are you coming or what?”

  Rico joined her. He was a little disoriented. All he wanted was to put down his rucksack and go to sleep. Before the pain that was starting up again in his back got any worse and stopped him getting any res
t.

  “Push the door. The lock’s broken, but I don’t like to leave it open. You never know. There’s no one in the building except an old couple on the first floor.”

  They entered the shop through what must have been the storage area. A corridor filled with shelves, now empty, which rose all the way up to the ceiling. The girl took a candle from one of the shelves and lit it.

  “Wait, I’m going to switch the light on,” she said, walking off with the candle.

  Light appeared in the shop. A dim light, coming from a naked bulb that hung at the end of a wire above an old ­wooden counter.

  “Romantic, isn’t it?” she said ironically.

  Against the wall, on the floor, a small mattress covered with a couple of army blankets. A canvas suitcase beside the bed. On it, a thick book, with a white cover, now yellowed. In the middle of the room, an old electric heater. And that was all.

  “I’ve seen worse,” Rico replied.

  “Yes . . . Me too.” She shrugged, then bent and switched on the heater. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back.”

  She disappeared into the corridor.

  Rico relieved himself of his rucksack, then took off his parka and placed it carefully on the wooden counter. The heater emitted a series of cracking sounds as it grew hotter and the element turned red. He started to feel the heat, which was soothing after that walk in the cold wind. From the pockets of the rucksack, he took out the six cans he still had left. He opened one and took four Dolipran with a long swig of beer.

  He looked around the room again. It was as sinister and depressing as his crash pad in Paris. But there was electricity, and a heater . . . What a strange girl, Rico thought. He had always supposed prostitutes had homes to go to, even when they had pimps who took almost all their money. Not her, and that intrigued him. But he was too exhausted to think about it. What did it matter anyway?

  He again noticed the book on the suitcase, and couldn’t help picking it up. Books reminded him of Titi, who often used to go around with a book in his pocket, which he’d either found in a garbage can or bought from a second hand bookseller. The last one was The Théotime Farm by Henri Bosco. He remembered it well, because Titi hadn’t had time to tell him the story.