*
But where men are concerned, “to desire” is conjugated in the imperative. Seeing that she had decided to stay under his roof, he justifiably persuaded himself that she was tempting him. He disappeared for a whole day, then another, finding ways to keep himself occupied elsewhere. And still Aïcha did not leave.
On the third day, while she was folding the laundry in the little room where she did the ironing, she had heard him climbing the stairs. She was terrified. She prepared stern words, knowing that she was in the wrong, that she should have packed her bags. She instantly recognised the smell. He stank of alcohol. In his eyes, there was a troubling gleam, a sadness she had never seen before. Without a word, she had tried to leave the room; he had grabbed her arm. She had tried to break free, but he was stronger than she expected, he effortlessly managed to immobilise her and he said: “It’s so wonderful, this thing happening to us, it can’t possibly be a sin,” he had turned her to face him and stared into her eyes. She was overcome by a strange feeling, one that was doubtless familiar to him, a feeling that violently coursed through her. It starts in the knees, but it radiates to the back, to the hollows of the elbows, to the throat – he had brought his forehead close to hers and all her strength drained away. It was too late for her to flee. Standing there, her body pressed against his, she could no longer do anything. She had never experienced this desire. Not a sound passed her lips. She had surrendered herself.
He had placed his hands on her hips, she had felt his eyelashes brushing against her skin. Her conscience seemed like a little figure cast adrift, waving its arms and calling from a great distance, so far away, so far away, and drifting still, until it was no more than a speck, until she could not hear it anymore. As though a cardboard facade had slowly fallen away to reveal the reality. The cardboard facade was her dignity, her respectability, her seriousness, her composure. The reality was that what she felt for him was beyond anything she had ever imagined. There was not a millimetre of her skin that did not long for his touch.
For long minutes they had stood, motionless, face to face, he had wrapped his arms around her back, he had nuzzled her neck. “I don’t know what you do to me Aïcha I’ve never felt like this you drive me mad I dream about you I wake up and I think about you I look for you everywhere I’ve never felt like this it’s impossible to resist we want it too much.”
*
With a superhuman effort, she had broken free of his embrace, she had said, it’s impossible, Walid, and she had run away. She knew that the transgressing sin she had committed was as serious as fornication. So she had launched into her private melodrama, “I have lost my virtue, this time I have to leave, but before I do I have to get in touch with the Hyena, what can I do in the meantime, I’ll pack my bags, but what am I going to say to Faïza?”, and she told herself that if she heard his footsteps, she would jump out the window – she would rather die than sink deeper into sin. She had known pleasure with a man who was not her husband. Technically, she had just lost her virginity – and in the worst possible circumstances. Then she had gone back to looking after the children as though nothing had happened. She felt empty, sullied, ruined. But she had done everything she needed to do. And that evening, Faïza had said, Walid went to visit a Chibani, he was bewitched, I’m sure our neighbours put the evil eye on us, he has spat out the poison now and feels much better. I’m so relieved.
*
For several days, Walid had not so much as looked at her. Aïcha felt relieved. She could not expunge the sin. But things were returning to normal. He had sought help, from outside, he was cured. Everything was clear: it had been a moment of madness, the work of the devil. Aïcha, obviously, was responsible for her own actions. She prayed with the fervour of a sinner. The moment she heard his footsteps, she took off, bustling the children into another room. She was too ashamed to face him anymore, too ashamed of herself.
And then, one day, Faïza had taken the boys to the circus. Aïcha had gone out to do some shopping. Suddenly, at the corner of the street, he had appeared. Seeing him, she could tell that he was angry, she thought, he was waiting for me, and she had turned on her heel. Walid had grabbed her. “I don’t want you to talk to me,” she had said, staring at the ground and he had said nothing. His elbow had brushed hers. She had turned her head. He was smiling. And once again, she felt that madness in every pore of her skin. The voice of reason was far away – it no longer reached her conscious mind. Standing on the corner, he had kissed her. In the street. Full on the lips.
It was her first kiss. She wasn’t that kind of girl. She had always been hard on women who did not know how to control their sensual urges. And now, at the first opportunity, she had given in, with a feverishness of which she thought herself incapable. She did not recognise this body – impetuous, possessed. He had taken her by the hand and they had got into his car. She could feel the shame. But its power was much weaker than the desire impelling her. To fornicate in a car in a blind alley was the most degrading thing imaginable. But she was not thinking about that. Though it was her first time, it had not been painful. Because she desired him so much, perhaps. She had not been troubled by the steering wheel, or the possible witnesses, or the cramped conditions.
Then they had gone back to the home of his wife and his children. She had performed the same actions she did every day.
That night, she had taken off her shirt, she opened the windows on the freezing darkness and she had stood, motionless, staring into the night, her skin smarting from the cold, praying that she would be dead by morning. She was aware of everything. Her cowardice. Her lies. In a whisper, she pleaded with Allah to take her life, to deliver her.
All she got for her pains was a fever that had kept her in bed for a whole day. Then she had gone back to work. She was waiting. He was an order. A fist had opened up inside her and now clasped another hand – a fearsome grip that nothing could break. She waited for him to look at her. For him to summon her. She wanted him again. She truly was her mother’s daughter. These things are handed down. Vice, deceit, wantonness. One night, coming home from the park, she had seen herself in the hall mirror while rummaging in the youngest boy’s bag for his toy tractor: how changed she looked. Usually, Aïcha did not look at herself. She was neither vain nor conceited, she took no interest in her appearance. But looking at herself in the mirror that day, she had been shocked to see a stranger. She was thinner, there was a cunning to her eyes, something paradoxically proud and brazen in her expression. She had blushed at her own thought – you’re becoming beautiful. The voice of the devil whispering into her ear.
At night, she wept, she pleaded, she tossed and turned, she rolled her eyes, and when she woke in the morning she made firm resolutions that she kept until he appeared and made the slightest move in her direction, to which she responded with the same docility.
Walid was gentle with her. They did not discuss what was going on between them. They would have liked to be able to put some order into their actions. But as soon as the children were absent, Walid would take her down to his car and it would begin again. The windows would mist over and the more they did it, the more she enjoyed doing it. She found that she knew manoeuvres, unimaginable caresses that came to her from she knew not where. She was a harlot. Walid found it hard to believe that he was her first. He felt sorry for her. He said this with no malice. He was doing something wrong – but if the society in which they lived recognised their religious traditions, he could have taken her as a second wife; in this respect, his feelings were pure, he said, he wished that it were possible. He would have liked to give her children, to live as they now did, but without having to lie, and she would have supported Faïza, as she did already. His wife was too westernised to accept the idea of a second wife under her roof. He was committing a sin, that was true; but one that, in other circumstances, would not have been a sin. He was not stealing another man’s wife. He was not involved with an infidel.
Aïcha, for her part, was utterly lo
st. She set her heart upon a man who was forbidden to her. She gave herself over to fornication and took pleasure in it. And, for the first time, she realised that expression, “I’m mad about him”, could be taken literally. She was mad about this man. In his arms, she lost all inhibition. If she were truly honest, she would have realised that she was committing blasphemy: a part of her persisted in believing that their love was so pure that Allah must surely approve.
She avoided Faïza. The rupture had been made easier by the fact that the nurse had to work night shifts. Until the day when everything changed. One night, when Faïza was not on duty, she had knocked on Aïcha’s door – I need to go out tonight, can you look after the boys? They were already in bed. Aïcha had settled herself in the living room so that she would hear if one of them woke up. She was watching television; by now she could understand German fairly well. When she heard Faïza pull into the garage, Aïcha had tidied the coffee table and steeled herself to say, I’m half asleep I think I’ll go straight up to bed. But Faïza was sobbing. Aïcha had hesitated. She felt uncomfortable. She had been terrified of hearing Faïza say: I know everything, I’m going to kill you. Or perhaps she longed for it to happen.
Faïza was crying so hard she could barely speak, but between sobs she managed to say, “Could you make us both some mint verbena tea? Stay a while, please, I need to talk.” Aïcha had foolishly asked, “Are you alright?” and Faïza had glared at her and said, “No, actually, I would have thought that was obvious . . .”
*
They went and sat at the kitchen table, each cradling a mug of steaming tea, and Faïza had said, “It’s started again . . . I thought it was all over . . . I followed him. He’s with her. I knew it. It’s been going on for weeks. I followed him in the car. She lives just past Arbeitslosenhaus. His car is parked outside the building. He’s not even trying to hide it. When he started drinking again, I knew this would happen. But when he went to see a hafiz to break the spell – not that I believe in such things, but psychologically, you know . . . I thought he would be back to his old self. We’ve got three children. How could I cope on my own, with three children . . . and that French slut, always ready to spread her legs – she sleeps with everyone, I hope he’s not going to end up giving me some disease . . . He doesn’t treat French women the way he treats us. He knows that, where they’re concerned, it’s open season, so why wouldn’t he . . . ?”
Bit by bit, Aïcha pieced the story together. Walid had had an affair with another woman. A French woman who worked at Amazon. He hadn’t been made redundant. He had quit his job. He had been forced to choose between his wife and that whore. Because she was a whore, a woman who drinks and goes out and meets men and wears slutty clothes and rubs herself up against men and doesn’t believe in anything. Walid had chosen his wife and children. He had walked away. But he had relapsed. He had seen her again. She lived on the riverbank. At the very spot where Aïcha had bumped into him the day of the rainstorm. Thinking back to his mood, to how he had behaved, she now sees the scene in a different light. He had been visiting his mistress and was worried that Aïcha might say something to his wife. Once again, Aïcha felt her whole world crumble. As though reality were no more than a paper screen, a falling curtain that did not correspond to anything. She had asked Allah to punish her. And He had done so more harshly than she could have imagined. She had said, I don’t understand, Walid is a good Muslim, why would he do such a thing, and Faïza had laughed. “Just because you observe Ramadan doesn’t mean you’re a good Muslim. He smokes, he drinks, he sleeps with whores . . . no, he is not a true believer. Besides, for as long as there are whores like her willing to spread their legs, there will be men to stick their cocks into them. They can’t help themselves. The brain is much less powerful than the balls. Do you think I should kick him out?” And Aïcha had laid her hand on Faïza’s. “He loves you. Anyone can see that. You are an amazing couple. He would be lost without you.” “Then what should I do?” “Pray. You must pray for him to come back. Take care of your children. And book a wonderful holiday – the five of you should get away, you can arrange a holiday so amazing that, when he comes back, he will never think about her again.”
*
She waits until the house is empty and sends Walid a text message, warning him that she will not be able to look after the children. Then she closes the door, and leaves the keys in the letterbox. Just at that moment, her phone rings. The Hyena, who has never called her on her mobile phone, says in a sad voice: “We’ve got a problem. Can you pack up your things and meet me outside the station? I’m on my way, I’m almost there, I’ll pick you up. I’ve spoken to Faïza, I told her I’ve found a great job for you but that you have to leave today. I’ll explain.”
Three hours later, the Hyena pulls up beside her. The first thing she says is: “Do you know where Céleste is?” “No, you told us not to get in touch with each other.” “Oh, yeah, shit, I forgot, you always do what you’re supposed to. In one sense, that’s a good thing, but right now, it’s not terribly useful to me – I’ve no idea where she is. I have to warn her. I think Dopalet has managed to track you both down. I’ll explain everything. Are you alright? No, you’re obviously not alright, you’ve got a face like a slapped arse . . . Look, I’m really sorry, Aïcha, for rushing you like this.”
The Hyena drives with broad, sweeping movements, masculine gestures. Aïcha leans her head against the passenger window. She looks at this woman who lives outside all the common norms of decency. And, for the first time, she realises that they are alike, that she has no right to judge her.
In the car, David Bowie sings “Blackstar” and the Hyena anxiously tugs at her hair. “He’s dead, did you hear? You’re too young to listen to this stuff.” And Aïcha sees a tear form in the corner of her eye.
BOWIE HAS NOT EVEN BEEN DEAD THREE DAYS AND ALREADY Céleste is sick and tired of hearing “Let’s Dance” and “Starman”. Last night, they watched “Labyrinth” and she was the only one who didn’t think it was genius. Hélène, the French girl who works with her in the kitchens and who suggested she rent a room here, cried every tear in her body over the sandwiches she was making when it happened. In the morning, when she arrives, she connects her phone via Bluetooth to the Bose speaker in the kitchen and that’s it for the whole day. Céleste has never really listened to David Bowie. She’s making up for it now.
Céleste is ironing the sheet they use as a screen for the video projector. They hang it from the top shelves, using weights to hold it down. It works brilliantly, but if the sheet falls down some day and brings a dumbbell down on somebody’s head, it’s likely to kill someone. The whole apartment stinks . . . The two Dutch girls who are squatting on the sofa are in an ongoing war with the shower. They’re funny, they’re cheerful, they’re obliging. But they smell like jackals. Luckily, everyone in the place smokes, it goes some way to masking the acrid stench of sweat and mildew they trail after them.
Céleste has spent at least an hour ironing, she has already refilled the steam reservoir three times. She takes a toke on every spliff that goes around, and everyone is constantly skinning up. Ironing when you’re stoned is dank. She could spend all night doing it. Not that she’s particularly good at it, the harder she tries to get rid of the creases, the more others appear. But since she’s sick of watching movies starring actors with crumpled faces, she keeps at it.
Her hands hurt. She has burned herself, cut herself, banged herself. She would never have thought that preparing sandwiches, salads and croquettes could be such an ordeal. She remembers the bars she used to work in, how the kitchen staff were constantly bitching. She thought they were just whingers, that they did it to seem interesting. You’d think cutting up potatoes to make tortillas wouldn’t be complicated, but it’s hard fucking work.
In the first few days, she badly burned herself tossing frozen croquettes into boiling oil. She had been warned not to do it, but she was in a hurry. She blistered her whole forearm – the first thing she t
hought when she saw the wound was, phew, at least it didn’t touch the tattoo. Hélène had asked if she was in pain and Céleste had pulled a face and said, no I’m fine actually it doesn’t hurt at all – which means it’s a deep burn. When it happened, she was immediately reminded of her opening scene in this drama: in her studio apartment, packing a bag, while downstairs the Hyena was waiting to take her who knew where in a 4×4 with tinted windows and she was only allowed out to piss in some field, since she couldn’t go into a petrol station to use the bog in case they had C.C.T.V. At the time, she had thought, this is all a bit much, it’s not like we robbed the Banque de France, but she hadn’t argued.
She hadn’t realised what was happening to her. Her mind was a blank. In the car, she sat in silence, mentally repeating, “I can do this. I’m a hard bitch, I don’t cry, I take the punches.” Deep down, she had not accepted that this was real, that tomorrow she would not be going home as though nothing had happened. When a burn is serious, you don’t feel the pain immediately.
She had found herself in a tiny apartment, at the far end of a corridor, in the arse end of nowhere, a few kilometres outside Zaragoza in Spain. The Hyena left her with a friend, some guy who lived in the area and spoke French – the woman might not look like much but she’s got a network of contacts to rival the Camorra. Actually, it looked like the sort of place E.T.A. might use as a bolthole, thought Céleste, using the logic of a policeman’s daughter. It’s a little neighbourhood a stone’s throw from open fields and from the river, cosmopolitan enough that you’re not worried if you run into a stranger but sufficiently off the beaten track that you never see a tourist. Her chances of running into someone from France who might recognise her were slim. The Hyena’s friend regularly came by and restocked her fridge. Céleste was not used to spending so much time without talking to anyone. The death of her digital self was particularly painful. The Hyena had told her not to go online using any of her social media accounts. Céleste had said, “But people are going to be super-freaked if they don’t see me post anything,” and the Hyena had sighed. “The only people you need to reassure is your father, your friends will move on to something else, you’ll see. It’s not like there’s a shortage of clickbait.”
Vernon Subutex Three Page 23