Vernon Subutex Three

by Virginie Despentes

  *

  The death of Charles has changed everything. His legacy has changed everything. That amount of money. A sudden switch. A loop-the-loop. The inverse movement to that produced by convergences: a destabilisation, but not towards something better. Certainly not towards greater harmony. And that was only the beginning.

  Pamela’s imagination got carried away before she even had time to realise what was happening. The improvements they could make, the logistics, the comfort, the time saved . . . And when the Hyena brought up the idea of not touching the money, she dug her heels in.

  For weeks, she had been completely exhausted. Jésus was saying, “Get some rest, stop being a good little soldier.” Daniel was saying, “I’ll give you my keys, go spend a couple of weeks in Paris – I can crash with Elodie. You need a change of air.” Vernon was saying, “You and Jésus take the car, go to the seaside. You’re the one with all the contacts, you must know someone in Brittany who can put you up for ten days . . . We’ll get by.” Sylvie didn’t say anything, but every time she showed up at the camp, she went looking for oranges to make Pamela some juice. Everyone, in fact, has been telling her she needs to take it easy. But Pamela hasn’t been listening. She can’t see how anything would keep running if she stopped dealing with it.

  She is changing. She used to love managing the storeroom, for example. Whenever they pitch camp, they set up a little shack where convergents can leave whatever they want. It’s part of the trip. This is how the permanent residents have food to eat. And more new socks and T-shirts than they could ever wear. You can find just about everything at the depot. An eiderdown, a rose quartz as big as a fist, Himalayan salt, batteries, a box of paracetamol, tins of food, a bottle of mezcal, candles, chocolate, a pair of scissors, a fountain pen, a harmonica, a tiny statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe . . . Pamela sorts through things, boxes them up, makes an inventory. She takes a childlike pleasure in managing these cardboard boxes. When Laurent still came to the camp, they used to do the inventory together, as though they had V.I.P. access to Ali Baba’s cave. He would roll up his sleeves, crack open a bottle of wine, tuck a pencil behind his ear and jot down everything Pamela was putting into the boxes. He never really attended the convergences – dancing in the dark wasn’t his thing. But he seemed happy around them. He talked too loudly, he drank too much, he played pranks on the girls that weren’t always funny. But he never made Pamela feel uncomfortable when they were alone in the stores together, and it was a very cramped space. This boorish guy who was perfectly capable of groping the arse of some girl he didn’t know never stepped out of line when he was with her. She misses him. She was upset when he left. The piles of tinned sardines made them laugh like drains. They speculated as to which idiot kept rocking up to the camp with crates of tinned sardines. They never found out. Laurent isn’t around to help her with the storeroom now. She doesn’t find it fun anymore. She could ask someone else to look after it. Anyone – it’s hardly brain surgery. Olga would happily do it. Her obsession is dealing with the crisps and the peanuts. Someone told her peanuts belong to the haricot family and are really good for your health. On nights before a convergence, she stations herself outside the door of the stores and, to everyone who comes to drop something off, she whispers, “Next time, think about bringing peanuts. The nutritional value is off the charts!”

  When Vernon announced how much Charles wanted to leave them, Pamela wanted to go to the supermarket. She would never have guessed that this would be the first thing to flash into her mind: a full shopping trolley. Not filled with strange, random things – but with things that she had chosen and paid for. She realised that, ever since she quit the porn business, she had never walked into a shop and just let herself go wild. Suddenly, she misses it. She wanted to spend time in the city, to watch television, to put on a beautiful dress. To buy a second vehicle, so there would be no need to go looking for cars to transport the participants before every convergence or argue over who is taking the stuff from the stores and everything else when they break camp. Not having to rack her brains to work out how to transport the duvets, the cushions and everyone’s bags. A little van that could also be used to shuttle people to and from the train station. Cut down the list of things to be done. Cut short the arguments. Frankly, buying a second vehicle is the least they should do. And a new sound system, one that meant they didn’t have to rely on the girls from Bordeaux anymore. They do a good job at mixing, but the camp could get along without them.

  When the Hyena said, “Let’s not touch the money,” Pamela felt as though she had just been slapped. In front of everyone. She should have realised that her reactions were no longer in keeping with events. She knows that no-one was trying to humiliate her. No-one opposed her. And yet she felt threatened, and betrayed. She knew that what she was thinking was rubbish. But this did not stop her throat tightening, her heart hammering and her eyes welling with tears – though she could not have said whether what she felt was rage, sadness or fear. Vernon did not come to her defence. No-one said the words that she had expected: “Pamela is the person who works hardest here to make sure things run smoothly. She should be the one to make the decision.” The issue of the importance of individual voices in the group had never been raised. The most heated arguments were usually about the day’s menu. It was manageable. The most voluble person carried the day: if they wanted potatoes, they would eat potatoes. When Pamela and Jésus went scouting for locations – going to visit campsites that had been suggested to them – no-one ever questioned their decision. Discussions took place in darkness. You are more aware of the person next to you in the dark. She could make out Vernon – slightly withdrawn. Usually, he was a weightless presence, capable of moving easily from one person to another, as though gifted with sensitive antennae. The evening when the inheritance was announced was in the past. In the end, she had cleared her throat and muttered, “All this is a lot to take in, I’m gonna crash, good night,” but no-one was taken in. Nor did she feel as she normally did. She was seeing red.

  She went and found Jésus, who was with Mariana, smoking some weed she had brought back from Paris. They were listening to “Jardin d’Hiver”, singing along with Luz Casal. Véro was sitting next to them, legs apart, elbows on knees, manspreading. Pamela was sure she saw a malicious smile play on Véro’s lips as she watched her approaching. As though she knew. And she was happy about it. And for the first time in a very long time, Pamela wondered what her role was. She did not feel like slipping an arm around her boyfriend’s waist – he was doing his own thing, hanging out with Vernon’s girl. She had nothing to say to them. Without a word, she went to bed. An invisible millstone tied around her neck.

  *

  The following day, Pamela got up feeling rested. Then, over breakfast, she listened as Xavier went into raptures about an idea he had just come up with: grants to ageing rockers – the people who worked for the cause, who had spent their lives on tour, making records, giving interviews, the ones who have a fanbase but never hit the jackpot, now pushing sixty, finding it difficult to make ends meet, and still touring. Xavier was full of his idea. He planned to draw up a list of ageing musicians who had never really made it, so he could distribute the cash. A sudden, powerful urge to smash Xavier’s jaw made Pamela realise that she was feeling no better.

  The Hyena came and sat next to her. She said: “You left a bit abruptly last night . . . What I said last night, it wasn’t a dig at you, Pamela, you know? All I was trying to say was – right now, we’re fine as we are. This thing is fragile. We need to protect what we’ve created.” But Lydia cut into the conversation. She had been smoking. It was eleven o’clock in the morning. She was completely stoned, her voice slurred, her eyes vacant. Blitzed. “We’re, we’re like too fucking poetic . . . let the rain come down. Why don’t we all treat ourselves to a couple of weeks in a palace and blow the lot and toast the old bastard?” “Because we’ve got a brain,” Pamela retorted and got up from the table. Lydia didn’t take it badly, s
he giggled. “Charles would agree with me, don’t you think?”

  Vernon was defending his idea of making the movie Charles was always talking about with the porn “stars”. Girls who had shot three video clips and proclaimed themselves porn stars on Facebook. A zombie movie. No-one had ever taken the idea serious. The only funny thing about it was that it gave the girls an opportunity to do their zombie shtick. To suggest a bunch of porn stars pull faces, make horrible noises and contort themselves is to open Pandora’s box: everyone inside is a gifted bullshit artist.

  Pamela was prepared to negotiate: a second vehicle, then, sure, fine, use the rest of the money to shoot the film. Let’s assume that Charles really cared about the project. Xavier pumped the brakes: “You’ve no idea of the work involved, we’ll end up wasting all our energy on it. And you don’t seem to realise what it would cost – we’ll get, what? Four hundred grand, max? You’ll never shoot a feature film on that budget.”

  And from the incandescent rage she felt with every new comment, Pamela knew she was starting to lose the plot. She was not usually like this. Otherwise, why come and live here? She was being visited by old demons she had not seen for a long time. Vernon, who was washing his coffee cup in the sink, nodded to her and said:

  “Don’t stress out over this inheritance thing. Let it go. We don’t know whether we’ll even get a cent.”

  “Has Véro said something?”

  “No, but she’s thinking about it. I can understand: a last wishes letter isn’t legally binding, technically the money’s all hers.”

  And Véro had packed her bags. That same night. Without a word of explanation. She had spent the afternoon with Jésus and Olga getting hammered on Zubrowka. Seeing her staggering, laughing, having to be propped up by her drinking buddies every time she went for a piss so she didn’t knock down the tents, Pamela had thought that Vernon was wrong, that Véro was acclimatising. She’d even thought, I hope she doesn’t decide to live with us full time, because she was troubled by Véro’s presence. There was a maliciousness to her sadness. But she was a cheerful drunk, grabbing anyone who came within reach and covering them with slobbery kisses and protestations of love. She overdid everything. She had to be the centre of attention. Even her happiness was aggressive.

  At dinnertime, she was nowhere to be found. At first, everyone assumed she had passed out somewhere and was sleeping off the booze. But Xavier had searched the whole camp – her bag and her suitcase were gone. She had to have left on foot. Or she had hung on to her mobile phone and called a cab.

  They talked about the incident amongst themselves. It was as though, like Pamela, they all felt ashamed of the thoughts that had been going through their minds of late. It was like a collective hangover. Everyone had slept badly that night. They needed time before they could admit that they had got carried away for nothing.

  *

  The two girls from Bordeaux were there for two days before they started shit-stirring. They made the most of the fact that Olga and the Hyena were not at the camp, having taken one of the dogs to a vet in town. Pamela knows that, if they’d been there, the atmosphere would have been different. She hates herself. She was the weak link.

  The girls were sitting on the terrace, preparing salad, when Pamela showed up to make herself a coffee. The girls exchanged a knowing look and said:

  “Hey, d’you think it’s possible Vernon cut a deal with Véro so she would split and he could pocket the cash for himself? Everyone’s wondering, but no-one has the guts to ask you.”

  “Who exactly is ‘everyone’?”

  “We don’t want to snitch. I mean, we don’t believe a word of it. Why would Vernon do something like that?”

  Pamela should have ignored them. But she had sat down at the table, picked up a knife and helped them out. The worst thing was that, in that moment, she felt she needed to reassure them.

  “How did you dream up a scenario like that? It doesn’t sound like the Vernon I know . . .”

  “That amount of money can change a man.”

  “Then why did he stay? If you’d just trousered four hundred grand, would you hang around, camping with the friends you’d just screwed over?”

  The girls had shrugged, feigned indifference, as though this was just idle conversation.

  “I don’t know . . . The time it takes to get the money into an account in his name, he gets to avoid any arguments. And because he didn’t do a runner, no-one’s going to suspect him . . . Just saying. I’m only repeating what’s being said around the camp . . .”

  *

  Pamela knows exactly why the girls from Bordeaux are accusing Vernon. In the months they have been studying, mixing and reworking Alex Bleach’s sounds, they’ve come to the conclusion that they are the secret of the convergences. That Vernon is just a third-rate D.J., some boring old guy exploiting a gullible group. They’re convinced that anyone could do what he does. That it’s a waste to hinge the convergences on some slacker they think is too weak. Not manly enough. Too passive.

  The girls have gone on the offensive in the hope of splintering the group. They want to use Bleach’s tapes for other club nights. They’ve already tried to get around Kiko. Persuade him to dump this gang of morons and their fuckwit guru and shift into top gear. They made a mistake when choosing their first target. The former stockmarket trader is fanatical about Vernon. But they refused to accept defeat. They want to exploit the idea of the convergences. They want the mythic happening without having to deal with the dipshit D.J.

  Pamela knew all this. She carried on preparing the salad, a smile still plastered to her face, convinced that the girls’ machinations were having no effect on her. She was wrong. Since then the idea has been going round and round inside her head. What if. What if. What if Vernon did cut a deal with Véro?

  *

  There is no way to distinguish between a run-of-the-mill day and one in which everything changes dramatically. In hindsight, Pamela reviews the hours that preceded the incident. Vainly, she tries to pinpoint some detail that might make it possible to better understand what happened. But what is most striking is that everything seemed completely normal. Except that the poisonous suspicion was now coursing through her.

  *

  She was the one who summoned Vernon. He was not expecting it. He was sitting with his headphones and his little bag of batteries, his charger and his collection of obsolete iPods – people love to leave him old iPods preloaded with their favourite tunes. He was busy jotting down the songs he found interesting. Lying on her stomach, Mariana was engrossed in a novel by Zadie Smith. Pamela had come to fetch him. “We’re making tea, we have a few things to talk about, do you want to join us?”

  Supposedly, she just wanted to clear up the situation. People invent virtuous motives for themselves and wear them like masks – so they don’t have to face the sordid reasons driving them. Jésus had warned her: “You can’t let people go around wondering whether this is true or not. You have to talk to Vernon, in private, he’ll explain why this is all bullshit.” But Pamela hadn’t listened. “No, he has to respond to the rumour in front of everyone, otherwise people will carry on talking behind his back for weeks.”

  Though she would not realise it until after she had provoked this awkward confrontation, what she actually wanted, deep down, was revenge. In the discussions about the inheritance, Vernon hadn’t supported her. She wanted to hurt him. Everyone gets a turn.

  *

  Vernon didn’t suspect anything. He listened to the question, realised that they had been talking about it for a while. He did not reply immediately. He is slow. None of them can tell whether it’s because he’s an idiot, or because he is too wise to charge in. He was hurt. Seeing his expression change, Pamela was ashamed that she had put him in this situation. She barely recognised him; in all the months they had spent living together she had never seen him troubled. In a preternaturally calm voice he said, “You’ve brought me here, in front of everyone, to say I didn’t do some shady dea
l with Véro behind your backs? Are you for real?” then, without answering the question, without looking at anyone, he got to his feet and walked away.

  Silence is one of the good qualities of the camp. The silence of people who feel no need to talk when they’re together. But the silence that followed was new. Even the girls from Bordeaux did not dare break it. Everyone knew something had just happened, something ugly. Most of all Pamela, who considered following Vernon to his crash pad to explain herself, but didn’t. You can’t engineer this kind of clusterfuck and instantly claim that you regret it.

  *

  She has cut herself off from the others. In the distance, she hears forced laughter – it’s like those couples who kiss in public to prove their relationship is solid. She hears someone call her name, recognises Lydia’s voice. From her tone, it’s clear that there is something wrong. Every action has its consequences. She knows, she has known since her eyes met Vernon’s during that grim lesson in humiliation that he would not be able to pretend that nothing had happened.

  VERNON TRAVELS ON SOMEONE ELSE’S PASSPORT. HE LONG since lost his own papers and is hardly likely to apply for a new one, as he has none of the necessary documentation. These days, when he catches a flight, his name is Nicholas Nil. The guy came to one of the convergences, he said, I love the way you layer your sounds, and two minutes later, since they were talking about techno raves in the desert and Vernon was saying, that must really be something but I can’t leave the country so I’ll never get to find out what they’re like, Nicholas suggested lending him his passport. The guy is super-intense, and although Vernon declined the offer, thinking it was too much, the following morning the passport was there and the guy was gone. He’d left a note explaining that the passport had nearly expired and that he’d get a new one when he needed it, and, in the meantime, “Enjoy.” It is not the first time that Vernon has been stunned by the insane generosity of strangers the morning after a convergence.