Her problem was always the hierarchy. And the internet. She didn’t need to wait for blogs or Twitter to have problems with the online world. One night, coming home from a particularly boozy dinner, she found an e-mail from the head teacher. An all-star arsehole of the kind churned out by the public sector, as obnoxious as he was incompetent. These were different times. Back then, it would never have occurred to anyone to contact a teacher after 9.00 p.m. except in the case of a fire, a dying pupil, or a nuclear threat – you were not on duty, your life was your own. E-mails marked the first change in this rule: senior management realised they could send e-mails at any hour they liked. The head had had the bright idea of sending a short, irritating message, inventing times she was late for the sole pleasure of making her blood boil. She was drunk when she read it. She wrote several pages of insults, entirely deserved and expressed with the honesty that booze inspires. She remembers the circumstances, she was sitting at her black Ikea kitchen table, in front of her apple-green computer with its rounded back, an open can of beer, then another. Not the faintest flicker of writer’s block, she was making up for the years of frustration under this tinpot dictator.
The following morning, the pussy had only to press PRINT, file a police complaint alleging death threats, and notify his superiors. He never thought, she’s a good teacher, we can’t suspend her just like that. No. The e-mail had a greater impact than she could possibly have anticipated . . . the magic of the written word. She had been suspended, permanently. It hadn’t been long coming. Charles loved this story. He scolded her for not keeping a copy of the letter that had screwed up her whole life. He was convinced that it was great art, possibly her masterpiece. It’s not every day you get a chance to tell your direct superior exactly what you think of him.
*
Charles made her laugh with a story about going to find someone called Emilie who works on rue Campagne Première so she could drive him to see his friend Subutex. All that trouble to leave them tens of thousands of euros they’ll fritter away on some preposterous pipedream, whereas Véro, she has big plans. She remembers Subutex well. It hit the old bastard like a sudden urge to piss. He’d made friends down at the park. That was how it started. She never went with him. For a start, she can’t stand parks. Too much greenery. She doesn’t give a toss about global warming and the problems of burying nuclear waste. Her whole life she’s been told that she has to consume to support national production and now, suddenly, at the end, people are giving her a hard time because she buys stuff that’s made in China . . . Make your minds up! Negative growth? She wants nothing to do with it. She has a passion for the sales, for local Chinese bazaars, for cheap knick-knacks.
She has lots of projects. She’s not short of enthusiasm. She’s heard all the stories about undocumented immigrants, and she’d happily build a refuge. She can picture herself, got up like a nun, strolling around the derelict hotel she planned to buy, and since she wouldn’t be able to make love to them, she could at least make food for them, find out whether they needed an aspirin or help filling out a form, she’d be indispensable. She sees them on T.V., boats full of handsome lads, men who’ve survived, men who’ve been through hell and made it this far, trying to stow away on trucks to cross borders – she’d open up a centre and she’d tell them not so fast, there, hang around a little and I’ll put the lead back in your pencil. Just for the pleasure of watching. She can picture them, all those young males, bustling around her, in rooms reeking of testosterone. Those tough, muscular bodies, survivors’ bodies. God almighty, she’d give her right arm to take care of them! If the country wasn’t run by ignorant fucking men, this whole thing could be sorted out. But no-one cares about a woman’s pleasure. She would just like to pamper them for a while. Play lady bountiful among guys who look like something. Now that he’s dead, she feels a great tenderness for old Charles. Given all he’s left her, it would be churlish not to.
She can see herself, Scarlett O’Hara in a roadside camp in Calais. With good healthy food, passionate cuddles and lots of radiators everywhere, she’ll persuade them not to go to England. She doesn’t give a damn whether they’re Muslim or Christian, or from some shithole country where people talk to stones and call them auntie. What matters in a man is not the god he prays to – it’s his ability to make you dream, to make you feel like a woman, to make you quiver at the thought of what might happen if the big lunk took you in his arms.
She could open a school, too. She might even name it after Charles, because it would be a beautiful gesture. A private school. She’d found a school where pupils wore grey smocks and clogs, the boys would love that. Kids love to suffer. It is in their D.N.A. The school would be free, but there would be an entrance exam. The best pupils, trained to conquer. She feels she would be capable of creating an elite, a true elite. Not that posh neighbourhood bilge where the only thing that matters is who your father is. She has no shortage of ideas. She’d make it a training camp, she’d have the kids crawling through mud every morning to the sound of the Marseillaise, you’ll see, the boys would lap it up. Four hours of Latin every morning, then a study of Arabic literature, sprinkle a bit of algebra and a solid grounding in history over the top and you’ll see the sort of boys who would graduate from her institution. When you see the state of the elite today, you realise you need to create a new one. Based on merit. The rich brats and the trustafarians are in for a shock when her pupils enter the job market. The country needs new blood. Just look at the elite we’ve got now – if it wasn’t bad enough that they’re corrupt to the bone, they’re dumb as pot plants. They’re obsessed with ripping up workers’ rights, you stupid fuck, if you don’t have a clue how to run your company, go ahead, hire slaves, your turnover will never take off . . . She will open a school. Boys who have walked the length of Africa and crossed the Mediterranean on a raft, she’ll choose the best among them to create European capitalism. We’ll see what happens, not that she has the means.
Shit, if someone had told her that Charles would one day give her a gift like this. She’s also considering a rehab clinic in Switzerland. She’s looked it up online, it costs an arm and a leg, but the clinic is really beautiful. She’ll reread Thomas Mann, high in the mountains, she’ll be a bit like a senior-citizen Heidi. And she’ll leave the place perfect, her complexion immaculate, her mind rested. All set to organise all the things she needs to organise to do something beautiful and important with this money. Now she’s scared of being ill. Of having drunk too much, screwed up her insides so badly that she won’t have time. She needs to get help, to deal with this. But with all this money, she doesn’t need to stop drinking completely. Stability will come naturally. In the meantime, she’ll focus on little – what do they call them? – biodynamic wines. It’s not good to stop abruptly. Besides, wine is good for what ails you.
Why do you think that banlieues are shit factories? It’s the Debré law supporting private schools that’s to blame. Back then, it wasn’t secularism they used to intimidate immigrants, it was the battle against alcoholism. Politics was thrashed out in bars. And in the 1960s, no-one wanted Arabs involved in politics. People felt guilty, but it was better not to talk about it too much. So, in bars all over France it was decided that alcoholism was patriotic. But not for the Arabs. No social life. No card games, no jokes propping up the bar, no space for you when you got out of the factory. And this is the result. It worked, it has to be said. As alcoholics go, they’re not alcoholic.
In the advanced school for integrating those who have escaped destitution that she’s planning to open, wine will be served in the school canteen every night. She doesn’t believe that it’s such a good thing, abstinence. This is one point where religion can be criticised. You don’t build a nation with men who are teetotal. No war, no big business. You need wine, you need beer, you need aperitifs in order to weave the social fabric. How can a man prove that he’s a man if he can’t demonstrate that he can hold his booze? This is why those kids end up planting bombs. Men need b
ooze. It’s always been that way in a country that suffers from harsh winters. You live in France, you drink. It rains too much to get through the days without a little snifter in the evening.
As it happens, she is just about to open a second bottle when the doorbell rings. She has no intention of answering. She never picks up the phone either. She doesn’t need people bothering her with condolences. She tiptoes as far as the spyhole to have a gander, careful not to make any noise. Her movements are approximate. She’s had a lot to drink. She trips on her own feet and bangs against the door as she’s leaning forward for a peep. The guy on the other side hears her. She recognises him instantly. She knew he was bound to show up. She’s convinced that he knows what’s going on. The vulture. Charles probably told them. Subutex has found out that the old man is dead and has come to claim his pound of flesh. She shouts, go away, I’m tired, and he says, “I’ve been calling Charles for hours, and I can’t find him in any of the bars, I’m starting to get worried. Is he sick?” He’s quite a handsome man. It’s mostly about the eyes. And his long legs. There’s something of Johnny Hallyday about him in those boots that make him look a little sleazy. If he made a move, she wouldn’t go sleep in the bath, as they say.
She mutters for him to wait two minutes, and, without hurrying, she slips on her dark red cardigan and a pair of Crocs she wears even in winter, with socks – this isn’t a fashion show, does he really think she’s going to put on her glad rags for him?
“EVERYONE’S BEEN TALKING TO ME ABOUT YOU, SUBUTEX!”
*
Even if he were in a fit state to say something, Vernon would not know how to respond. Blinded by the dazzling glare, his mouth wide open, he emits a strange sound from his throat. Hands gripping the arms of the dentist’s chair, he is hoping that the antibiotics have done their job and this guy will be able to pull out this fucking tooth. He doesn’t ever want to hear about it again. Hopefully, it will come out in one piece and not shatter into little splinters. He dreads the sound of the implements drilling into his mouth as though he were a stubborn shelf a workman is trying to repair. There’s a little of everything in Vernon’s mouth, crowns, bridges, implants of porcelain and of various exotic alloys . . . If you add up all the money he’s spent, there’s the equivalent of a Porsche stuck into his gums. The dentist frowns as he continues his examination.
“It’s like a building site in here . . . You’re lucky I’m good at my job, a less-experienced colleague would have tachycardia just surveying the lay of the land . . . We’ll fix you up pronto – Kiko has explained your situation. But I’m warning you, if you don’t get this sorted, you’ll be hopping off the walls again pretty soon. There’s damage everywhere.”
*
With the money old Charles left them, he could suggest to the others in the group who need dental work – he’s not the only one with a mouthful of rotten teeth – that they make a group trip to Hungary and get treated. They should hire a camp dentist, with a mobile surgery, that way they wouldn’t have to worry. A dentist and maybe a decent physio, that would be useful – they’re constantly putting their backs out lugging heavy loads around.
The previous night, he had rung the doorbell and kept ringing, assuming Charles was too drunk to hear, or that he had a bad cold, something to explain why he was taking so long to answer . . . He couldn’t understand why he had disappeared. Without a word. A guy who had been with them from the very beginning and had never missed a single convergence. It had occurred to Vernon that Charles might have problems with his health. He had not imagined the worst. Charles was the doyen of the group and it could hardly be said that he kept himself in shape by eating green vegetables and steamed fish. He was a sedentary, alcoholic smoker who loved meat in rich sauces and Haribo sweets . . . There is an urban legend that true alcoholics are never drunk. The ones Vernon knows get themselves into apocalyptic states. Charles was like that. A day that didn’t end with him falling flat on his face was a day wasted. He didn’t drink to stay standing.
Véro is more resilient, though the difference is marginal: when she came to the door, she was bumping into the furniture and he had to make an effort to work out what she was saying, but, once decoded, her words made sense. She was not happy to see him. He wasn’t surprised. She had never liked Vernon. During the few nights he spent sleeping at Charles’ place, she’d say – without troubling to close the door so that he didn’t hear – that his pretentious clowning bored her rigid and that she hoped he’d soon skedaddle because having to look at his ugly mug was ruining the view. Charles would call her a mad bitch and try to give her a kick to shut her up, miss his target, stumble, try to steady himself on the dresser, and end up sprawled on the floor. She was laughing. They were the sort of couple who could have been on any number of reality T.V. shows and been successful, because their relationship was a non-stop vaudeville act.
Vernon had still been standing on the doorstep when Véro said: “You’re hardly likely to run into Charles: he’s dead. You lot didn’t even come to his funeral, miserable little shits, after all the things he did for you . . .”
*
With a smooth, practised kick, the dentist rolls his chair backwards, spins around and studies the X-ray for a long moment, elegant and sophisticated. Vernon has noticed that chairs dentists use seem more comfortable than ordinary chairs. Now that he’s got the means, he thinks, he should ask for the name of the furniture shop so he can get one just like it. For the sheer pleasure of gliding around the room with a little flick of his heel. He can already picture himself, the turntablist in his fancy chair, spinning around the room, arms in the air, happy and aerodynamic.
*
“The amoxicillin has done its job. We’ll take another quick X-ray just to check, but I’m pretty sure we can get it out.”
*
The guy is wearing a pair of Pumas. Blue. Brand new. He’s got the look of a fighter about him. Virile, comfortable in his skin. Reassuring. Or completely sociopathic, you can never tell with people you don’t know. He might be the type who hunts ancestral giraffes in Africa. A bloodthirsty maniac. He’s definitely a biker. Vernon can’t imagine him taking the métro, or driving around for years looking for a place to park. There is too much Indiana Jones in him for that.
The dentist wedges a little piece of white plastic between his jaws, pushes it a little too hard. It’s amazing how enormous things seem when you’re expected to put them in your mouth. He must remember to raise the subject with Pamela. When girls give blowjobs, do they feel like they’re sucking off the Empire State Building?
The dentist and his assistant step out of the room for a second, while the optical arm takes the X-ray. The dentist reappears, jabs at the computer screen, gesturing at the inflamed root like a weatherman trying to banish a low-pressure system.
*
Vernon avoids looking at the implements he uses. Objects that have absolutely no business being in his mouth. He closes his eyes when he sees the fat anaesthetic syringe looming. He tries to think about something else. It’s not exactly complicated. His mind is already elsewhere.
*
He must have pulled a peculiar face when Véro announced that Charles was dead, because she instantly softened. She took a step back and ushered him inside. She was listening to Christophe, cranked up to eleven, “Les Paradis Perdus” echoed through the house and Vernon found it strange because Charles was the only person he knew who didn’t like music. At the camp, he was the only one who wore noise-cancelling headphones at the convergences. At first, he was happy with earplugs. Then Sylvie talked to him about noise-cancelling technology and everyone was shocked to see him rock up wearing a pair of eye-wateringly expensive Bose headphones that he loved, though they made him look like a Teletubby when he tottered around the camp with them perched on his head. Today, Vernon has a better sense of where Charles came up with the money to fund his caprices.
*
Véro poured him a glass of white wine. This was hardly the time to refuse a d
rink and explain that he was taking antibiotics. She wouldn’t even have made the connection between the two pieces of information. Without thinking, he took a small sip, and even Vernon, who knows nothing about such things, was instantly aware: this was an exceptional wine. He glanced at the label, a Chablis, and noticed that she had several more bottles stocked next to the sink. No expense spared.
The widow was on the defensive. Even allowing for her grief, her cantankerous nature and her animosity towards him, she was overdoing it. Vernon suspected she was a little jealous. He and Charles adored each other. A great friendship invariably entails an affinity, an intimacy, an alchemy as inexplicable as physical desire. They liked to sit next to each other and comment on what they saw. Together, they were never bored. The pain Vernon felt at Charles’ death was too overwhelming for him to worry about Véro’s bad mood.
She didn’t throw him out. She got muddled up in reproaches Vernon didn’t understand, she kept saying that they had taken advantage of Charles, the bastards, and that they needn’t think that the money would keep flowing, she was sure that they had already had much more out of him than was decent, and she touched on the terrible problems of abuse of the elderly. She worked herself up into a rage as she tugged at the yellow oilcloth covering the table. Vernon allowed her to rant, increasingly concerned about her mental health. It was true that Charles had bought them a lot of beer, and he had made them laugh when he showed up one day with a huge crate of tinned sardines because he thought there was nothing better for their health. And Vernon had already said to him that he shouldn’t keep spending so much money, that they had everything they needed. But it was a long way from that to accusing them of taking advantage of an old man’s kindness.
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