He doesn’t want to smoke in front of her. Crack is what heroin used to be in the ’80s – the ultimate taboo drug. He’s always loved grown-up highs. But Mathilde wouldn’t understand. Or she would want to try, and he’s not a sleazebag, he doesn’t want to get her into this shit.
He had a long war of attrition with her over Ecstasy. When he met her, she was taking it all the time. Every time she went out, she “needed her vitamin X”. She was ruining her health. And when she’s off her tits, she goes around kissing everyone. This was how he met her. She was all over him before she even knew his name. So he encouraged her to stop. To cut a long story short, he gets ripped when she’s not there. It balances him out. It’s his one little pleasure. Deep down, he doesn’t even really like it anymore. But as soon as she turns her back, he reaches for his pipe. That’s almost the definition of a hard drug: all you can think about is taking it, and when you do you realise that wasn’t what you wanted. You’re constantly looking for the feeling you got that first time, a memory of that epiphany. That never comes back. So you start over.
He gets on well with his dealer. They’ve known each other a long time. Vince has got to be a police informant. He rides around Paris on a bike with a rucksack full of every pharmaceutical high imaginable. He’s been doing it for years. And he never sweats it. Every year, he takes a couple of months off – he does the music festivals, the ski season. Recently, he’s got it into his head that he’s going to stop dealing and retrain. Talks about upcycling himself. Says he’s careful about his personal use, that he’s been putting money aside. But he still takes more than he sells. Vince’s latest big idea is setting up a contactless payment system. He’s developing it with some guy, probably a client, who first came up with the idea. Like an Apple Watch, but something slimmer, more stylish that can be charged off your mobile phone. Vince is convinced that he could sell the watch and the app at festivals. You pick up your bracelet and you’ve no need to carry cash. Max listens, squirming in pain. Some guys really have no head for business. What the fuck would people want with a bracelet that looks like a tatty third-rate Apple Watch when they can just buy an Apple Watch? Of all the things you could improve about a festival, why focus on something that isn’t a problem in the first place? Either you don’t have a credit card in which case, sure, you could use a contactless bracelet to pay, but if you haven’t got a credit card, that means you haven’t got any cash so you can’t afford the bracelet. And even if he could prove that his dumb idea might work – how would he convince a major festival organiser to manufacture thousands of disposable bracelets? It makes no sense. Typical crackhead logic: neurons whizz around crashing into each other without managing to come up with a coherent idea. Max makes no comment. He’s not about to waste his spit trying to reason with a junkie who won’t remember a word of the conversation by morning. Getting ripped is like waterproofing your brain. Memories just roll off. Nothing interrupts your train of thought. That’s why Burroughs’ theory was spot on: junkies remain the age they were when they first started using. So, every time Vince brings up his idea for a contactless payment bracelet, Max just trots out one of his festival memories. He did them all, back when he managed Bleach – Les Vieilles Charrues, Les Transmusicales, Eurokéennes . . .
*
The last time they saw each other, Vince told him about some skanky happenings. Somewhere in the back end of the Vosges, a kind of free party, a shuttle drops you off a thirty-minute walk from the site. Vince had been invited by a friend and had gone along to sell. He’d been told it wasn’t a good place to deal but he had a rucksack full of whizz and P.M.A., he didn’t believe in the concept of a rave with no drugs. He said, “There’s no such thing as a gathering with no drugs. Except maybe a World Youth Day rally and even then . . . I’m pretty sure if you had the right gear, you could make a killing at a boy scout jamboree . . . But once I was there, you can’t imagine – I was billy no-mates . . . no-one wanted to buy anything. I offered it left and right . . . they weren’t aggressive or anything, they just weren’t interested. Their mantra was: ‘We get a better buzz without taking anything.’ I’d never heard shit like it. It wasn’t rammed, but there were maybe two hundred people . . . Given that I’d had to walk to get there, I wasn’t about to head back in the middle of the night. I figured I’d just crash there. They started playing these weird sounds, they were quite nice really. And people started lying down all over the place, like this was a yoga class. It reminded me of nursery school, when we had to take a nap. Did you do that? Do you remember? I hated napping when I was a kid. I hated sleeping generally. So, anyway, I lie down – what else can I do? And they start in on the poetry. I tell you, it gave me a fucking panic attack. . . I felt like popping a Red Mitsubishi but I figured what with the atmosphere and stuff I’d probably have a bad trip . . . I waited for it to pass, listening to the wash of synth waves and the dopey poetry . . . people around me started dancing, all floppy, not sexy or anything. It was shady. Except that, like, an hour later, I couldn’t tell you how much time had actually passed because I had a sort of blackout . . . I don’t remember getting up, I don’t remember deciding to join them . . . but when I come round, I’m dancing. Like I’ve never danced in my life. My toes were dancing, my hair was dancing, my fucking nostrils were dancing . . . Connected. That’s the only word I can think of. Not spaced-out like when you’re on shrooms, but that kind of trip . . . I could see light streaming from my palms and intertwining with the light of other dancers. I asked them about it the next day and they reckon it’s a kind of mass hypnosis. You feel like you’re completely straight, except that you can hear the sound of blood reaching the heart of a girl thirty metres away. Swear down.
“The sun comes up and I’m still dancing, I hadn’t stopped, except now and then to take a piss, and even then . . . and everyone was in the same state. Even when the music stopped, I was still inside their heads, under their skin, in their belly, and in every note, in every instrument, I could hear the silences that create the notes . . . It was wild. They’ve hit on something. And the next morning: fucking Woodstock, man. Lots of kissing, hugging, a crowd of teddy bears, that’s what we were like. The D.J. was better than decent, he’d come up with completely unexpected tunes, but they worked – but if I think back to the setlist it was, like, a decent set, but nothing that could explain the state we ended up in . . . Subutex, he’s called, have you heard of him? The folk at the camp worship the guy. Good feels. Good-looking, like if you spliced Bruno Mars with Keith Richards. Never saw anything fucking like it. Just as well, you’ll say, otherwise I’d be out of business. Can you imagine? Getting lit up with no need for pharma? Worse: you get completely ripped and the best thing is the comedown . . . that’s not just competition, that’s a whole new freaking concept . . . I’d love to go again, but you’ve got to get yourself invited and the guy who brought me last time has disappeared. Sound that’s a drug, can you fucking believe it? That’s what we’re talking about, man. We’re gonna live it. People mixing sounds that modify the prefrontal cortex. Unless maybe they’re pumping gas or something into the air. But if it was gas, there’d be a comedown. I swear, in the future, people are going to be selling U.S.B. flash drives pre-loaded with a mix. And the speakers to go with them.”
*
Max lets him burble on. As long as Vince hung around, they were smoking his rocks . . . Max didn’t believe the story about this rave where no-one takes anything. There was a simple explanation: Vince was so drug-fucked that he had a flashback from something. But he had given a little start when he heard Vince mention the name Subutex. He remembered the record dealer. Alex loved to surround himself with losers. Vernon was one of his friends. The sort of guy who hits you up for an Access All Areas pass when he hasn’t got the swank to raise the level backstage . . . Max particularly remembers Vernon because of a pretty lesbian, slightly shop-soiled, just his type, who rocked up a couple of years ago because she was combing Paris trying to find Subutex . . . Strange that he remembers
her name. She called herself the Hyena. God, he would have liked to give her one . . . he’s always had a thing for lesbians. He’s already had two girls in bed prepared to feel each other up for his viewing pleasure. But never two genuine lesbians. With strap-ons, fisting and all that sleazy shit. It’s a dream he often strokes to. He has thought about the Hyena since. Imagined scenarios where they would go to a party, choose some little lipstick lesbian, the Hyena would seduce her, bring her back to him, in his fantasies, the Hyena is his dog, she fetches for him. Right in front of him, she’d get the girl hot and horny, fuck her while he lay back and enjoyed the show, then he’d give a sign, just one, commanding her to present him with the girl’s arse, or her mouth. There were variations of this scenario, but it all came down to the same thing: it was epic.
*
Max would have moved on to something else but for the fact that, a few weeks later, Stéphanie told him the same thing. One Sunday when he was dropping Lucas off at her place, he came up to the apartment so she could sample the Japanese whisky someone had just given him – and that he didn’t want to drink with Mathilde, who drinks too much for someone who can’t hold their liquor. Stéphanie had the glow of a woman who’s spent the whole weekend doing the horizontal mambo. With Stéphanie, you’ve got to be wary – she’s capable of setting up house with an ex-con with a dozen rapes on his rap sheet and not seeing why it might be dangerous.
It took some time for them to work things out after the breakup. They both made an effort, for the sake of the kid, and eventually things sorted themselves out. Stéphanie has a lot of problems, she’s unstable, she’s ungrateful, she spends all day playing the martyr, she’s a rattlebag of tics and neuroses . . . but she’s the mother of his child. He refuses to write her off. The hardest thing, when you split up with someone, is seeing the other person unable to be happy. She’d like them to get back together. That’s never going to happen. It’s too late. He feels sorry. For her. Often, when he brings Lucas home, he’ll come upstairs and chat with her. She is so lonely.
That night, he had to worm the information out of her – “What have you been up to that you’re so radiant on a Sunday night?” When she started telling him about this amazing night she spent dancing in the middle of a field, he pricked up his ears. O.K., she’s certified batshit crazy. But she doesn’t do drugs. And here she was giving him the same spiel as Vince: the numinous convergence, the darkness, the feeling of entering into the body of the group, and so on. He was careful not to mention that his dealer had already talked to him about these raves. Tell Stéphanie you’re interested in something and she’ll make sure you don’t get near it. She is still in love with Max. Unsurprisingly, she’s never met another guy of his stature. She’s still a little bitter. He doesn’t completely trust her.
So, when she mentioned this weekend in Barcelona, when she asked if he remembered Xavier – fuck no, he doesn’t remember all the nobodies who went to the same gigs he did back in the ’90s – and, listening to her, he realised that this Xavier was part of the group that organised these weird raves . . . he jumped at the chance. Instinctively. He said: “Barcelona? Why don’t I come with you? It would be good to hang out together for a bit, wouldn’t it?”
Xavier is not the friendly type. He’s been giving Max the cold shoulder all weekend. He eats like a pig, hunched over his plate, with his stubby fingers. He has the face of your typical inbred French peasant. Nose like a potato, thin hair, teeth like tombstones. The sort of physique Max finds physically repellent.
Max tried various approaches, attempted to soften him up. He patiently exhumed various topics of conversation that might appeal to this fat fractious fuck. And after a couple of cans of beer, he hit on it: Xavier let slip that he’d spent a long time working on a biopic of Drieu la Rochelle, but now he was thinking of ditching it for a biopic on Bernanos. And Max said, “I love Diary of a Country Priest.” Not only had he never read it, but he had no idea what it might be about – he only knows about Bernanos because of Pialet and the scandal he caused at Cannes: “You don’t like me, and let me tell you, I don’t like you either.” But it was at this point that the miserable fuck started to soften. He was so desperate to talk about his projects that all you had to do was listen for him to think he’d made a new friend.
That night, Max dragged him to a vast nightclub on the outskirts of the city where a D.J. called Black Madonna whipped the crowd into a frenzy. “A boys’ night out.” Xavier was shitfaced so he tagged along, relieved to get away from the giggling girls. They wandered around the heaving club for a while, then Max scored a wrap of speed and they headed for the toilets – a little line can create a bond. Xavier never stopped prattling. They found themselves on the rooftop, smoking a cigarette. “It’s just like being in New York,” declared the ignoramus who had probably never set foot in New York. They talked about Bob Dylan, whom they both hated. But every time Max tried to talk about the convergences, the fuckwit dodged the subject.
Then, the miracle happened. It was still pitch dark, not even a sliver of moon. They were on the rooftop bathed in an orange glow. And Max was starting to give up hope. Then he saw Xavier’s expression change as he stared at a group of girls holding forth just behind them. Cute little chicks, tattooed, sassy, boisterous. One of them was staring at Max. Max fished out his phone. He assumed Xavier wanted to hook up with her and was trying to give him some space. Much good it did him.
Pretending to listen to his voicemails, he slipped behind them. He could hear what they were saying. It made no sense to him, but he did not miss a word. Xavier was obviously too drunk to worry that someone might be eavesdropping. The girl’s name was Céleste. She wasn’t supposed to be in Barcelona. She obviously knew the famous group, and Subutex’s name was mentioned. It seemed very important to Xavier that he had run into her here. And Max’s instincts rarely failed him: it was very important that he was also here, at that moment.
A SCURRYING ANT ZIGZAGS ACROSS A BLANK PAGE OF HER notebook. Pamela is having trouble concentrating. She gazes at the leaves quavering in the light. She found this wooden table abandoned by the side of the house a few days ago. A little rickety, but still solid, covered with dense, vivid green moss. Jésus helped her carry it a few hundred metres downhill to the edge of the forest. Pamela went down with her notebooks tucked under one arm and some cold bitter coffee in a black mug with the “Star Wars” logo emblazoned in silver. Facing her, serried ranks of identical trees as far as the eye can see. She has to look up to find the light. She has watched too many horror movies. She knows what happens to girls who find themselves alone in such isolated places. She flinches at the slightest noise whose source she cannot determine.
She increasingly feels the need to stay on the sidelines. To keep out of the quarrels and the possible consequences. The group seems to her like a mane of hair that has to be brushed every morning to untangle the knots that have formed during the night by simple contact and friction. She spends most of her time listening to people, preventing minor squabbles from escalating. It’s something she is good at. It is what she liked most about the camp, until now: she has found her niche; she knows what she has to do. Everyone talks about magic, the magic of the convergences, of nights spent dancing, the magical harmony of the group. But behind that magic there is this gruelling, practical effort. Scullery jobs, rolled-up sleeves, elbow grease. Woman’s work. Invisible and essential. Never rewarded. Much as Pamela mistrusts feminists, over time their ideas have found their way inside her head. All ideas find their way inside her head. This was something she enjoyed, at first. But now she is tired of this, too. Her thoughts are full of noises. Like being deep in the forest: noises whose source she cannot determine.
In the distance, she hears the two girls from Bordeaux who have arrived earlier than they usually do, as though they sense something. Two poor little rich girls of staggering stupidity, full of themselves and without a flicker of self-doubt. One of them recently said, “I think I’ve just OD’d on sugar, I’m, l
ike, bare depressed, you know?” She’d eaten about half a croissant. They’re obsessed with their weight. They talk about nothing but food. Carbs, fats. Organics. Gluten. They refuse to eat at the common table. When they see Pamela eat a piece of white bread, they make faces like she was flicking the bean right there at the table. How do you go about creating such dumb airheads? How do you go about instilling that class superiority complex? Pamela has no idea, her own mother was a crazy bitch, incapable of hanging on to the same apartment for a year. Pamela never saw her work. When she was young, it seemed to her that getting into porn was a reasonable way of being more integrated than her mother. It only lasted for a while. It had been a relief when she cleared out her apartment, handed back the keys and dropped out of circulation. Paying the bills every month is beyond her abilities. She can’t understand how other people manage.
*
This year has passed without her really noticing. She slipped into the rhythm. Scouting out a new campsite, preparing the convergence, welcoming people, clearing up, packing up, starting over. She is listening to Tuxedomoon. “Bombay Tension” on a red Discman. She is too young to remember portable C.D. players like this. But someone left it behind – a battered old Discman. She listens to The Nomads, The Saints, And Also the Trees. Groups she had never heard of and is gradually getting used to. She got along well with the shy, nervous boy who left behind his C.D. collection. He wore a black Teddy jacket and brand-new black Converse high-tops. He spent two hours talking to her about London in the 1980s when he was working in a restaurant in King’s Cross. He was anxious about not being able to drink at the camp. He was looking for some beer, and Pamela found a couple of cans to reassure him. New arrivals are often panicked at not being able to drink. They quickly adapt. The convergences transform people.
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