Vernon Subutex Three

by Virginie Despentes

  Xavier is faithful. This is no mean feat. He has uncontrollable urges. Elsewhere. During the convergences, he listens to young guys talking about polyamorous relationships. He cocks his ear. Kids of divorced parents who don’t want to repeat their parents’ mistakes. So they are trying to find a way to reconcile desire with a long-term relationship. It’s a typical left-wing idea: it only works on paper.

  Xavier is faithful, but he hasn’t touched his wife in more than a year. He is faithful to their agreement – faithful to their shared apartment, the affectionate gestures every morning, the after-dinner conversations. He is faithful to the family structure of parents supporting their daughter. He knows that it cannot last. And that terrifies him.

  Vernon is racking up conquests and Xavier wonders whether he would enjoy that. He never stops, the dirty bastard. The haughty athlete, the Italian princess who looked like a catwalk model, the fragile little blonde who was so sweet she was irritating but pretty as a picture, the androgynous skinhead with the bee-stung lips and pale eyes who never smiled, the Venezuelan stacked like Miss World who could spend all night talking about Chavez if you let her . . . One after another they came and went with no drama. The latest has lasted a little longer. The girls are surprised that she’s not the prettiest. But the guys all know what Vernon sees in her: she’s chill. Xavier himself would be happy to have a girl like that by his side. Shit.

  *

  They go back to the apartment on the harbour that Pénélope and Sylvie rented on Airbnb. The women commandeer the kitchen. They summarily take the little girl with them and it occurs to Xavier that maybe he would prefer it that his daughter not feel constantly obliged to make food when she grows up.

  He cracks open a beer and, gazing out at the street, he waits for it to be over. They chatter and peel and giggle and one of them puts on an album by Marianne Faithfull and they sing out of tune as they make something vegetarian that’s going to take two hours before it’s edible. He watches the tourists in the street wander around with their road maps. Stéphanie and Max, her ex, show up, raving about the weather and the palm trees. They’ve just come from the beach, trailing fucking sand everywhere. They arrive laden with bottles and packets of crisps, which does something to alleviate Xavier’s distress – he knows that if he tells Marie-Ange he’s just popping down to get some beers, she’ll give him that mournful look she has when he drinks too much and she’s afraid he’ll embarrass her in front of her friends. He’s delighted to see they brought the right crisps, the ridged-cut ones he prefers. He senses Max trying to catch his attention. Ever since they rocked up, he’s been trying to buddy up to Xavier. Bingo: he leaves Stéphanie to scurry into the kitchen and sits down next to him. Even though it’s obvious Xavier is in no mood to chat. He’s only interested in eating. For this to be over. Not that Max could give a flying fuck, he tells Xavier about the problems he’s having with the guy subletting to them, with whom he’s been in an e-mail war all day. “So, yesterday, when we go out, I leave the window open a crack, just to air the place – the apartment is really humid – and when I get back, what do I find? A note telling me not to do it again – fucking gibberish Google translate, to boot – I mean if the guy doesn’t speak French, why write in French? When I talk to him, I speak Spanish. Well, last night, when I found the message, I went and told him exactly what I thought, and not in Spanish, in French, and I swear he understood every word and I bet today he leaves the window open. The cunt is charging us a hundred and fifty euros a night for two rooms, and I’m not allowed to open a window?”

  *

  Xavier doesn’t understand why Max came with his ex-wife. It’s a subject that fascinates Marie-Ange. At night, she loves to debrief him on the state of other people’s relationships. Xavier gets the impression that this is her way of talking about their own problems, in a roundabout way. Last night, she went on for hours. “You think he’s trying to get back with her? They didn’t even take Lucas with them today to do something as a family . . . That’s weird, isn’t it? I don’t think Stéphanie is interested. Or maybe she’s playing hard to get . . . who knows?” Xavier wanted to sleep, but for the third time he had to tell her everything he knew about Max. He doesn’t know the guy personally. But in the rock industry, everyone knows Max’s reputation. He was Alex Bleach’s manager. The legendary first manager, like Malcolm McLaren, Kim Fowley or Marsu . . . the one who turned a two-bit singer into a rock star. He was also a legendary crook. A colourful character Xavier has always avoided like the plague. He was surprised to discover Stéphanie had never told the girls that her ex, the guy who fathered her son, had had his fifteen minutes of fame. Though it does date back to the early ’90s, it has to be said . . . Stéphanie isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, she always has to be the centre of attention, she’s loud, he finds her exhausting.

  Xavier has no desire to hang out with Max. Last night, Max buttonholed him about the convergences, making no secret of the fact that he’d like to be invited, and Xavier had to kick the subject into touch. He’s not the kind of character you want to bring back to the camp. A shady, lying, swaggering, devious manager . . . no thanks. Xavier acts like he’s on the spectrum, sipping his beer and staring out the window. He is watching a group of girls, they seem young, they’re elbowing each other and laughing too loudly. Some of them are wearing short shorts and high heels, they’ve got legs that go on forever, narrow hips and big breasts. They look like characters in manga porn, too much leg, tiny arse, huge tits. They’re all strutting around with their phones, the way people used to strut around with cigarettes – Xavier is convinced that if one of them takes a picture, they’ll each have their little pose: duck face pout, cheeks sucked in, fingers making a V sign. Max is looking at them too.

  “So, it’s the girls down there that have got you in the mood? They remind me of majorettes. Do you remember majorettes? I’ve never said this to anyone, but – did you ever wonder why sex shops sell handcuffs and nurse’s uniforms, but not majorette costumes?”

  MATHILDE HAS BEEN BOMBARDING HIM WITH TEXT MESSAGES. She is furious that he has gone on holiday with the mother of his child without suggesting she tag along. She is too young to understand. Max has tried to explain things to her calmly and gently. But she refuses to listen. He likes the fact that she’s jealous. That she ruins her make-up crying like a spoilt little girl who can’t have everything she wants. She bitches that she hasn’t had a holiday, that she’s always wanted to visit Barcelona, tells him the weather in Paris is grey and adds crying-face emojis. And when she realises he is not going to give in, text her back and say, O.K., darling, I’ll buy the ticket, come join me, she shifts into overdrive, screaming that she knows he’s still sleeping with that old cow, that he prefers his ex to her, that he’s a fucking pervert, and a variety of bullshit accusations she makes up over the course of the weekend. He’s put his mobile on silent. It won’t do her any harm to torture herself a little. That’s how people grow attached. A few days alone in her studio apartment, worrying that he’s cheating on her, reading her cards and phoning her girlfriends will bind her to him more securely than all the gifts he could give her. He knows she’s going to spend all night sending horrible messages, making a fool of herself. And this will break something between them. He will lose a little of the respect he has for her. It’s a pity. He really had to spend this weekend in Barcelona. He can’t go into details, but he had to come. If she can’t understand that a man of his age needs some autonomy, well, too bad for her.

  *

  Mathilde is pretty as a picture. Her legs are a little too short, her nose a little too big, he’s already suggested surgery, she’s afraid it will hurt. She has lots of ambition. But she lacks the essential: grit. She’s been too spoiled. She thinks it’s possible to be a success without getting hurt. He’s very fond of her. But he also needs a bit of air. She lives in a tiny studio tucked behind place Pereire, in a dreary neighbourhood, miles from anything. So, she spends all her time round at his place. It was diffe
rent in the beginning. She was more independent. He had to work to get her. It follows the same arc as all his affairs: he struggles to get the girl he wants and when she gives in he’s embarrassed for her.

  He was happier when she had that little job at the C.S.A. – she watched T.V. shows and ticked boxes on broadcasting authority forms to indicate whether the cast included enough Arabs and women. She did that for a while and then they said thanks, that she’d been on a fixed-term contract for too long and the only way they could keep her would be to make her permanent. When she told him that they had made her redundant and she was going to take up singing full time, it broke Max’s heart. He knew that, from this point, things were going to get ugly. He is twenty years her senior. He knows the music business. She’s with him to further her career. She’s convinced herself that she’s in love because she doesn’t want to admit the truth to herself – a pretty thing like that sleeping with a man his age, it’s always about self-interest. It’s his contacts she’s interested in. He’d like to be able to help her. But she doesn’t have the talent.

  He still finds her just as attractive. Except that she smothers him. She is completely transparent. She thinks that if there was a problem, he’d talk to her about it. It infuriates him that he enjoys it, her puppy love. Her faith in him. She is completely untainted, and her huge eyes gaze at him adoringly. He’s got bad breath. She pretends not to notice. Her smile is worthy of an Oscar. She says: “You’re handsome.” He knows that he’s ugly. He is touched that she makes the effort to lie. How could he believe her? Looking like he does. Bloated, old, decrepit. But he swells with gratitude. She turns to him with her big green eyes, a very particular green. Which have such a profound effect on him. He’d love to have the nerve to ask if he can tie her up, put a ball-gag in her mouth and trample her on the shitty carpet in the living room. He knows that she would say no. She’s not very talented when it comes to sex. She has trouble letting herself go. And it’s not because she’s too cerebral. He longs to see carpet burns on her knees from being fucked too hard. He has rarely come across a girl who rations sex so much. That’s something else he’s tired of. It’s humiliating to have to beg all the time. In her, everything is repressed.

  Max would love to delude himself, to think that, in her, he has got something, that he could make a great singer of her. She has a sweet voice. The way she moves is cute. Her songs are fine, but not incredible. She’s very much of her time. She doesn’t know how to start a song. She can’t write lyrics but she doesn’t want to ask anyone else to write them because she wants the publishing royalties. On her computer, she picks out tunes that aren’t terrible. But she doesn’t have what it takes. She doesn’t have the talent or the mindset of a great artist. She thinks all you have to do is a quick booty pop, pout your lips like you’re sucking cock and hey, presto, you’re Beyoncé.

  Max has known better days. Alex was an amazing performer back when Max managed him. During gigs, he would go down into the crowd and whoop with joy between songs. He would let out long, deranged howls and it wasn’t about hype, it was completely sincere: he was crazy about the guy. If you’ve got an ear for it, talent is easily recognised, it’s obvious. He feels nostalgic for that period of his life.

  Even when Mathilde tries to play the slut, she lacks the depravity. She’s not even lewd. Just docile. She checks out hot moves on YouTube and mimics them. And she’s headstrong. Clueless and headstrong. Max tries to convince her to do cover versions. She might make something of Lio’s “Bébé vampire”. Everyone’s forgotten that amazing first song. Maybe one of the best French singles ever. Mathilde wants him to help her, but refuses to take his advice.

  Audiences have changed. God, what a fucking blast it was back in the day! Kids who were supercharged, savage, uninhibited. They’d come away from a gig completely drained. Because it takes two to put on a gig. Alex Bleach was great because he had a great audience. He had a following to die for. Max had a hand in it too, he took care of the fans. Kids who were political but not parochial, always listening to whatever was exciting, always on the lookout for a new album that would blow them away. You should have seen them after a gig, gangs of them hanging around the backstage door waiting for a wave from Alex.

  With Mathilde, it’s more difficult . . . her following is mostly young girls, fifteen tops, naively cynical, difficult to read for a man his age. A volatile, demanding audience, proud of what they don’t know. For an artist, breaking out of the YouTube tsunami is no mean feat. Oh, he’s invested a couple of hundred euros buying “likes” and followers to boost the little video she made. It’s done manually in Bangladesh, apparently. Talk about a McJob. But it’s not enough for an artist to take off. That would be too easy. He managed to get a couple of articles to highlight Mathilde’s online success – he still has a few press contacts – but he couldn’t generate a buzz. It’s no secret: if you want to be a success, you’ve got to have something to sell . . .

  The alchemy between him and Alex is something he’s never found again. They held all the cards, and together they were a phenomenon. They were epic. Jesus fuck, they made a killing! And winged it when they had to. Max had the patter, the brilliant ideas, the vision and a real rapport with producers, journalists, tour managers . . . and Alex had the beauty, the voice, the lyrics, the swagger. An insolence that wasn’t fake – the kid was dangerous. He was determined to succeed, he’d have lopped off his right hand with a chainsaw if it meant filling Bercy stadium. But betraying your roots is never easy, and he hated himself for his success. That tension made everything he did interesting. Seven years they spent riding the wave together – every door opened for them. And then Max, who’d given 110 per cent, hit a bad patch. He made a few minor slip-ups. But managers are forgiven nothing. The artist can get away with whatever he likes. But a manager makes one little mistake, and they’re calling for his head on a platter.

  Max committed a few minor budgetary indiscretions . . . Not that he’s looking for an excuse. He owns his mistakes. He managed to get hold of Alex’s banking details and made a few insignificant transfers to his own account without telling anyone. Bupkis. Alex blew it out of all proportion. In his paranoid state, he forgot a few details that mitigated in his manager’s favour. Like the fact that Max was underpaying himself and basically starving to death, that he simply couldn’t live on the pittance he was drawing from their partnership. Not in Paris. Not with the lifestyle he was obliged to lead. In contracts he had drawn up, Max had made the mistake of not making sure that he got a decent percentage. He was making peanuts. There he was, sweating blood. Anyone else would have done a lot worse than siphoning a few hundred thousand euros from his protégé’s account.

  He never, never signed anything that might taint the singer’s image, even when it might have been favourable to him. He always put the kid’s career first. And in fact, from the day Alex gave him the axe – he was fucked. Oh, he kept going for a while, managed to put out a couple of records that did well – but the gravy train was running on empty. All that fury because of a couple of bank transfers . . . Not even to him – to other people! He had been looking for an excuse to get rid of his manager so he could sell his soul to a big tour promoter. On the advice of his record label. The cretin didn’t realise that the reason they all wanted rid of Max was that he was doing too good a job, and was stopping them from growing fat off his protégé. They all had a vested interest in getting shot of him. He was tough, loyal and demanding. He was a visionary. But Alex had fallen for their scheme.

  A manager is the architect of a work he is never allowed to sign. In the fashioning of Alex Bleach, the songs and the singer were merely a component – simple raw material. Artists understand this. And it makes them furious. Obviously, without good raw material, there’s nothing the manager can do. But without his expertise, his synchronising of all the elements and his ability to create a story, to bend fate to his will – nothing happens. What he did for Alex Bleach was absolutely extraordinary. But these days he app
ears in biographies only as a minor con artist. As though he was just some anonymous nobody who was fortunate to ride on the coattails of his friend, the artist. And he never tried to get in touch with him again. He skulked away like a whipped dog. He never phoned to say he was sorry.

  *

  Mathilde shows no interest in the story. She should realise that it’s important to understand other people’s career trajectories so she can better understand her own and not fall into the same traps. But as far as she is concerned, Alex is just some tacky, forgotten singer. He doesn’t interest her.

  Max never takes anything when he’s with her. That’s another reason why he needs to take a breather every now and again. Willpower is all very well for a couple of minutes . . . When they’re in Paris, he patiently waits until she has a meeting somewhere, gives her a little wave from the balcony to make sure she gets into the taxi. By the time she slams the door, he’s already contacting his dealer, Vince, and he’s preparing the rock pipe and the baking soda while he waits. One little pipe, just for tonight, so he can chill. It’s partly her fault that he smokes whenever he gets the chance – she doesn’t realise that she is smothering him. She doesn’t have keys to his place. If she happens to get back early, he rushes out onto the landing and sends the lift to the twentieth floor before answering the entry phone. That way he knows she’ll have to wait at least five minutes before the lift arrives at the ground floor – giving him a little time to hide his gear. She’s a naive little girl. She’s not suspicious when she sees him crawling on all fours looking for a nugget he might have dropped. It’s a crack smoker’s tic. He knows that he hasn’t dropped a rock behind the furniture. But he can’t help himself. So, Mathilde goes to bed, convinced he’s looking for his glasses.