Vernon Subutex Three

by Virginie Despentes

  And Aïcha had enjoyed the sense of family. Having never lived with two parents, she felt as though she was being granted access to a privileged haven. She did not think to worry about the special pleasure she felt during such evenings. In hindsight, she knows that she was guilty of inexcusable carelessness. But in the moment, she had not seen the looming evil. She had committed the sin of pride. She had thought herself above common laws.

  *

  During the day, Walid looked for a job, went to see friends and spent the afternoons in his workshop – a small room he had set up next to the children’s bedroom where he fixed things given to him by other expatriates. Usually faulty mobile phones or computers. But sometimes he repaired other things – a vacuum cleaner, a PlayStation, a food processor. He had even updated the firmware on a drone. He did these little jobs cash in hand. He would often pick up his tool bag and go and take a look at a fridge or a washing machine; before setting off, he would look up the machine online, and when he got there, he would sort it out. He was talented. And generous with his time. He would spend hours on the internet looking for the right tutorial, the correct installation manual, the software that he needed. Faïza said that Amazon had made Walid redundant, he had gone through a bad patch. He had been a team leader. He would have liked to get a job at a similar level, but was only offered work as a packer at a derisory salary. He earned more doing repair work here and there. When he was in a good mood, he filled the house with a luminous joy, he played with his sons and joked with his wife. At other times, he scowled and could curdle the atmosphere without uttering a word. He couldn’t help it – it was as though his mood seeped out into the room. Aïcha paid little heed – it had nothing to do with her.

  *

  It was easy to mind her own business: she scarcely had a minute to herself. She woke up in the morning reaching for her socks and collapsed every evening after dinner with an armful of dirty laundry, during the day she didn’t even have time to stop for a coffee. At most, she allowed herself a ten-minute detour when she went to shop for groceries in the morning, and would walk along the banks of the Main. She has always loved walking. During these rambles she did not speak to anyone.

  Every day, she listened to a little German, telling herself that, since she was here, she might as well learn the language, after all Germany was a rich country and it might prove useful. When she was alone in the house, sweeping the floors or folding clothes, she would listen to language lessons on YouTube, softly repeating the phrases she wanted to remember. In the street, she found a German copy of The Little Prince, as though the book had been waiting for her. As she read it, she realised that she could remember certain passages in French word for word, because, when she was little, her father liked to play her a record of Gérard Philippe reading it. She experienced her first linguistic epiphany in the corner shop when she managed to explain that she was looking for milk that was easy to digest and the young Turk running the shop had immediately understood her and she had understood his answer. These were the first words she had spoken in this alien language, aside from her babbling with Yanis.

  *

  And then evil showed its face. Shaitan is patient. He advances his pawns in a leisurely fashion. When she tries to go back in time, to find the first speck of sin slipping into her thoughts, she dates the beginning of the fall to the day she went for a walk . . .

  Aïcha knew that strolling along the banks of the Main by herself was not strictly correct, otherwise she would not have carefully avoided mentioning it to her host family. She granted herself this narrow window of freedom because, she reasoned, she never left the house and she needed to get some fresh air.

  That particular day it was very mild, the weather was pleasant although the sky, as always, was grey. The banks of the river were densely wooded. She was placidly daydreaming when she came nose to nose with Walid walking in the opposite direction. Seeing her, he had slowed and spoken to her, not angry but surprised, “Where are you headed?” and she had felt her cheeks burn with shame. She had not lied, “I just felt like taking a walk,” and Walid had sighed, doing nothing to conceal his annoyance. “I’d rather you didn’t wander the streets. People might see you, they might think all kinds of things, and everyone knows you work for us.” She had not had time to reply before a clap of thunder boomed and an almighty storm broke over them. Seeing Aïcha walk away, Walid had called her back with a loud click of his tongue. He was in one of his foul moods. “Take cover,” he had barked, “you can’t walk home in this downpour.” Her head bowed, she went and stood next to him under a jetty. “What do you want me to say? What choice do we have?” Aïcha’s heart sank. Walid did not say another word but stood, chain-smoking. Then he had jolted, literally, as though an electric shock had shunted him onto a different complete track, because when he did speak again, after some minutes of silence, his tone was amused. “Seriously, what the hell are you doing walking around on your own like that? Have you nothing better to do? I’m surprised at you, Aïcha. I didn’t expect you to be a hypocrite. This is not a nice part of town, there are drug dealers, junkies, flashers, didn’t you notice that it was a disreputable area?” Aïcha had apologised. No, she hadn’t noticed that it was a dangerous area. The rain had begun to ease off. Walid had flicked his cigarette away, saying that it was best to say nothing to Faïza, she wouldn’t understand. “But I don’t want to see you hanging around here again. Is that clear?” Then, as he glanced at her to make sure she understood, he saw that she was on the brink of tears and he softened his tone. “You’re not going to cry on me, are you? I’m just saying don’t hang around the tourist areas, find somewhere else to take your walks . . . Take the kids with you, they need to get out more. I’m not angry with you . . . It’s not like I caught you in a bar whoring around with men, I’m just saying that you don’t seem to realise what kind of area this is, that’s normal, you don’t know the city . . .” He had walked several metres with her. Aïcha was uncomfortable, but did not feel that she was in a position to remind him that it was not proper for them to be walking side by side. Eventually, he nodded to a path. “I’ll go this way. You know how to find your way back, don’t you? You’re so different from the other girls I know, you’re obviously not a city girl. I never really know how to talk to you . . . But I didn’t mean to be cruel . . .” She avoided looking directly at his face, but she could see his hands – the bone of the wrist, the long slender fingers, and, finding this unsettling, she stared out at the water. He had laughed. “I never know what’s going on in that head of yours. Go on, hurry back.”

  He had taken the path on the left that led uphill, and after a few steps he had turned around and given a little wave signalling her to hurry up. Seeing him from a distance, it occurred to her for the first time that he was attractive. And Aïcha, who had never been rash, never been flighty, had greeted this notion as though it were familiar. As though it were something with which she could play without risk of getting burned. But now, when she thinks back to when it all began, it was in that moment. His hands as he told her that she was different from other girls. His breath as he stood next to her. His height. His scent, which she could smell. And his silhouette, on the hill, waving to her.

  She had not made the connection between this embarrassing encounter and the strange light-heartedness that washed over her and Walid. Suddenly, she was bathed in light. It was warm, a gentle breeze caressed the nape of her neck. She could still pretend that she was simply in a good mood. And we give less thought to what puts us in a good mood than to what annoys us. She paid little attention to the extraordinary pleasure she felt the following day when she heard Walid moving around upstairs. She did not immediately notice her ability to capture his every movement, out of the corner of her eye, as she pretended to go about her chores, the thrill of hearing his voice, the quiver when she recognised him standing at the gate of the park . . . This intoxication at his very presence seemed natural to her: she worked for him, she cared for his children, she tidi
ed his home, it was hardly strange, she thought, that she enjoyed his company.

  She was convinced that she was trustworthy. This was what led her to fall: head first, without even a flicker of doubt. It was a powerful urge, firm yet gentle. The lure of joy and of light. An ecstasy. She could find no other word to describe it.

  *

  Then everything happens at once. One evening, in the park, Walid comes to collect Jafa. He spends a little longer than usual gathering up the boy’s things and he gazes at Aïcha, who pensively picks up Yanis. Then a huge smile breaks over his face and she notices the whiteness of his teeth even as she pretends to look elsewhere. He says, “You’re good for us, you know that.” It was not his words that should have alerted her, but the joy she felt when she heard them.

  *

  Another day, early afternoon. A sweltering heat, but a sky that is leaden, overcast, lower than usual, making it difficult to breathe. Aïcha was cleaning the living-room windows and had decided that, this time, they would be spotless – she had watched a number of YouTube tutorials because each time she cleaned the windows, she left streaks. The weather was so muggy that she had taken off her blouse and was working in her T-shirt, she was concentrating on her task, wondering whether this trick of using newspaper was the best solution. The living room windows look out onto a broad avenue, the dust gets in from the traffic, but the building is not overlooked so she did not think to cover her bare arms. She was fighting the urge to slump into a chair with a tall glass of cold water, and listen to a TED talk on the family computer which she had turned up so that she could hear it while she stood on the stool, polishing the glass.

  Walid always rang the doorbell before coming in, to give her time to vacate the communal rooms. But that day, she had not noticed him coming in when she heard his voice behind her: “I’m no window cleaner, but your technique is . . . how can I put it? It looks to me like you’re getting them dirtier.” He was laughing. Knocked off balance by the surprise she had teetered, he had taken a step forward, arms outstretched, laughing as she flailed wildly to stop herself from falling. They had not touched. But that step forward, those eyes meeting hers, briefly, that casual complicity. As he left the room, Aïcha was still giggling. Like a ninny. She had had time to notice his mouth. And if she thought about it, the image triggered a thunderclap in her chest. The contour of his lips, the roundness, the deep red, the apparent softness. This time she knew that something was not right. But she had simply dismissed the image from her mind. She had thrown away the newspaper and washed the windows as she usually did, with soapy water, before wiping them with a cloth.

  All these fleeting memories whose importance she had refused to acknowledge at the time . . . But the feelings she allowed to stir could not be tamed.

  Walid is always relaxed around her. Another day, she is in the kitchen. He knocks, and without waiting for her to answer, he comes in and makes himself some coffee. She is washing the breakfast dishes. She feels a man’s eyes on her. Self-conscious, she instinctively adjusts the veil around her face, and from the tone of his voice she knows that he is smiling. “Yeah, yeah, you’re pretty, stop tugging at your veil, don’t worry, you’re beautiful exactly as you are.” She turns to him, surprised and offended, but he is completely calm. He behaved as though he didn’t see the harm. As though he didn’t realise that it is wrong for a man to seek pleasure in looking at a woman other than his wife. She should have protested, but she went back to doing the dishes, waiting for him to leave the kitchen.

  *

  Walid is almost forty. He lived in France at a time when Muslims had little respect for their religion. A time when they had been stripped of everything – their history, their culture, their god. They were not good enough to be French, but nor should they behave like Arabs. They were expected to be invisible. It was in this no-man’sland that Walid grew up. He has three sisters – Aïcha knows this from Faïza. He probably didn’t see anything wrong in coming into the kitchen while she was there alone. This, at least, is what Aïcha chose to tell herself.

  *

  And, a few days later, in the little windowless room where she does the ironing, at precisely eleven o’clock – she had just glanced at the old clock-radio on the white plastic shelf where the cleaning products are kept – Walid had wandered in with a cup of coffee, as though getting into the habit of seeking her out to chat for a couple of minutes whenever he takes a break. He had pushed aside the pile of crumpled shirts and sat, facing her, on the little red stool. The spoon tinkled against the glass coffee cup. He had sat in silence for a moment, and then said, “I can’t seem to work today, I can’t concentrate.” If she had been watching this scene, she would have known the correct attitude to adopt. Without hesitation. She should have immediately left the room, making it clear that she was uncomfortable with the lack of respect shown her by Walid. But she had not reacted as she should have. She thought taking him to task might be hurtful. And perhaps misplaced – he could have burst out laughing and said, who do you take yourself for? Improper. Surely you don’t think I’m flirting with you? Don’t worry, I don’t even think of you as a woman!

  She had stammered, “Some days it’s harder than others,” and Walid had smiled. “I like watching you iron. I find it relaxing. It reminds me of my mother, she was always ironing something. I’d be doing my homework and I’d hear that sound, you know, tssss,” and he had made a little whistling noise while Aïcha stared down at the duvet cover, at the pattern of blue flowers she had been ironing now for ten minutes. “What about you, did your mother spend her time ironing?” he had asked and Aïcha had felt as though she had to keep her composure and answer: “No, it reminds me of my father. He used to iron his shirts, they were perfect – you should have seen them, better than when they came back from the dry cleaners,” and Walid had said, “Strange home you grew up in. What was your mother doing, hanging out in bars?” And Aïcha, realising that she had said too much and eager to put an end to the conversation, explained, “My mother died when I was little.” Walid had apologised for prying and left it at that. Tears welled in her eyes at the image of her father setting up the ironing board with a deft movement, one he had mastered by dint of habit. And it was of her father that she had thought that day, with a particular intensity. It was a tender, pleasant sorrow – she indulged the feeling. She thought about the sadness of being separated from her family and friends only to avoid facing what was happening. It is possible to prepare oneself to do something irreparable while manoeuvring one’s conscious mind so that it does not know what it is doing. Nothing in her routine of devout thoughts was troubled or concerned. Nothing could have derailed her train of thought: if she had been asked about her mood, she would have honestly replied, I’m thinking about my poor papa. Looking back, this is what she finds most devastating: the skill with which she manipulated her conscience so that she did not see what was coming. Because, from that day, though always hoping that it would not happen, she began to wait for Walid to appear with his coffee and exchange a few words with her.

  He did not return until some days later. She was topping and tailing a punnet of runner beans she was intending to use in a salad. He told her about a recent incident when an arsonist had torched a refugee centre and a crowd of Germans had gathered round and sung for joy. Walid’s features had hardened as he talked about the incident and Aïcha had thought that this was not the moment to say that he should not come and sit in the kitchen when she was there alone. A dozen times, she had the opportunity to do what was right and proper. A dozen times, she made the wrong choice.

  She enjoyed listening to him talk. Not that he was particularly brilliant. In fact, compared to the conversational skills of students she usually spent time with, his reasoning was somewhat crude. It was not what he said that pleased her, it was his tone. That kindly reassurance. And the smile that hovered over everything he said.

  That day, before he headed back to his workshop, in a curious tone that was both tense and tender,
he had said, “I like your gestures, the way you do things,” and this time she had defended herself. “What you just said is not appropriate.” She was shaken by the sense of danger that he had so calmly sparked in the kitchen. He had emptied his cup into the sink and apologised. “You’re right. I don’t know why I said such a thing – I’m sorry. I’ll get back to work.” And in that moment, a voice inside her head hammered out the words you’re imagining things it’s not what you think it’s impossible everything is fine. While everything around her was crumbling, it was still drowned out by her bad faith.

  But Walid had retraced his steps and, perhaps encouraged by her silence, which in his eyes equated to consent, he had said, “Stop lying, Aïcha. You know you put me off my work. I’m on the other side of the wall and all I can think about is you.” She had stood there, dumbfounded, knife in one hand, a decapitated runner bean in the other.

  She had heard the front door slam. She had assumed he was giving her time to pack up her things and leave. After what he had just said, she had no choice. Instead, she had run into her room and buried her head in her pillow, just like in one of the old-fashioned movies she had seen too often. Those hours spent crying over her fate were so much time gained. Faïza had come home with the boys and Aïcha had taken them to the swimming pool. She had hidden her red eyes, her mechanical gestures, once again she had made the wrong decision, convincing herself that she had to look after the boys, that she could not simply disappear. That evening, she had not watched T.V. with Faïza. She had sworn to herself that she would go the next day. Once she had left, she would find a way to let the Hyena know. She was lying to herself. And the following day, she managed to convince herself that he would never speak to her again, because he too realised that he had gone too far and was filled with remorse.