Vernon Subutex Three

by Virginie Despentes

  No, she didn’t want to go to the police. She certainly didn’t want to tell her father. She had no intention of going to see a doctor. She clung to words of no importance, to commonplace gestures, the mundane was all she could bear. So, when the women asked if she wanted to drive back to Paris with them, Céleste had said, “About fucking time, I’ve really missed Paris.” She did not want to talk about it. She wasn’t ready. She felt shamed by what had happened to her. She wanted to be left alone.

  Everything was there, laid out in her memory, every hour she had spent in that hell. The beer bottles. Franck couldn’t stay hard for long. So there were the bottles. And other objects, to use instead. The piss, in a corner of the room, the shit that she had to pick up in case he appeared and then wash her hands so she didn’t smell too bad. All the tender words she had said to Franck to cajole him. That had been the worst thing, her tenderness. The brief period it took to break her. This is something she has sworn never to talk about to anyone. She owes her life to her complicity. Franck would stroke her cheek and say, “I’m taking a huge fucking risk by lying to them, you know. They think you’re dead, but I can’t bring myself to do it, because we get on so well, you and me.”

  There is a lump in her throat. Something she cannot spit out or something she cannot choke down. It’s not difficult to understand what is wrong with her. The world had been shattered there – against the four walls of that cellar. What happened down there will stay down there. He would leave her water in little plastic bottles. Never any food. She ate only when he appeared. There was no day, no night. She never knew how long he had been absent. It was the Hyena who told her he came every three days, because she checked his bank account and noticed he paid the motorway toll with his debit card. He made the return journey from Montpellier, where he lived, to Barcelona, where he was keeping her prisoner. It could have gone on for a long time, the house he was subletting had been standing empty, he could have renewed the lease for as long as he liked.

  No, she doesn’t want to take revenge on Dopalet, or on Max. When someone mentions revenge now, she thinks of punishment. She just wants to be left alone.

  She sees the people around her smile. Their senseless happiness at having found her. This she knows: she will never again smile the way they do. She has lost her devil-may-care attitude. She managed to say thank you, on the drive back to Paris. Thank you for coming. Thank you for taking care of me. And Olga had made a vague gesture out the window and growled something. Arriving back in Aubervilliers, Paris was greyer and bleaker than her memory of it. There were lots of people. They were happy to see her. She recognised some of the faces, others were unfamiliar. Aïcha’s father, Sélim, took her in his arms and cried. She pressed her body against his. It did something to her, feeling the racking sobs in his chest, the tears he shed. Then she had stepped away from him, the emotion was too intense, and she said, “Have you got anything to eat in this place? I’m fucking starving, we’ve been on the motorway all day and I hate motorway food,” she said it to make things clear: this is how people were to talk to her. About food, about the weather, about trivialities. Nothing else.

  It is with the dogs that she feels most comfortable. She can’t walk them by herself. She is terrified someone will steal one, kick it to death, or throw stones at it. And she won’t know how to defend it. She is scared by the mute faces, the hidden intentions, by her own powerlessness. So she plays with the dogs in the safety of the loft. She doesn’t talk much. Before, Céleste didn’t give a damn about dogs, now they are all that matters.

  Daniel came. He is the first person to talk to her normally. There was no concerned hug, no knowing look. He simply said, “Long time no see,” with that smile she loves, that laid-back loutish smile. Céleste found him more handsome than she remembered. From his nonchalance, she assumed that terrible things must have happened to him, too. He had that delicate politeness of people who know that evil truly exists. And when it happens to you, it happens to you, no point banging on about it.

  He said, “When are you going to start work on my back? Any ideas? I’m thinking maybe a boat. Old school. You did bring your tattooing gear, didn’t you?”

  The following morning, she sat down to draw and it was agonising. Every two minutes, she would jump to her feet, seized by an overpowering dread. She would make tea, toss the ball for the dogs, draw the curtains, go and ask Pamela for some rolling tobacco, find herself a piece of chocolate. She could not sit still. Her hands refused to do her bidding. Her mind even more so. She thought she had lost her touch, that this was something else that she had left back there, behind her, in that other time – a time separated from today by an impassable barrier.

  It took a week before she finally managed to draw a boat. It took everything she had in her gut. Then Daniel had pulled off his sweater and, seeing the twin mastectomy scars, she traced them with her finger, as though drawn to them, not thinking that the gesture might be misplaced, “We’ll have to cover these someday, don’t you think?” and Daniel had straddled a chair, leaned his chin against the back and said, “Let’s deal with my back first, darling.” He was the first to play the game with her. The game of nothing ever happened. She laid the edge of her hand against his skin, pressed the pedal, and the sound of the needle swept her away. For the first time in weeks, she concentrated on something without being overcome by panic.

  WHEN HE GETS TO PLACE DE LA RÉPUBLIQUE, PATRICE RUNS into Bébert – fifty-something, handsome, long blonde hair, grey at the roots. Skinny as a teenage girl and butch as a heavyweight boxer. Box-fresh gold creps. Black skin-tight trousers. He looks like he’s heading to Ibiza. The disco starlet look has always been at odds with who Bébert is – a hardcore criminal who’s spent most of his adult life banged up and would happily kill both his parents for a credit card and a P.I.N.

  Patrice is surprised to see him here – “You’re involved in the ‘Nuit Debout’ movement?” – and, surrounded by thousands of protestors, Bébert says, “I’m what?” He doesn’t see the crowd. He probably thought there was a sale on. Or, more likely, he didn’t give it a second thought. He doesn’t give two fucks what’s going on at place de la République, he’s just passing through. Then he decodes the riddle at the heart of the question he has been asked: now you come to mention it, there are a lot of people . . . it reminds him of something. “This whole Occupy movement shit is for young people, isn’t it? At my age . . . it’s a bit late to go looking for legit work, don’t you think?”

  In fact, he gives zero fucks, since he’s got two passes to see JoeyStarr at L’Olympia. The girl who was supposed to be coming with him – she works at Kenzo, and regularly gives him fucking divine duds, not his size, but who cares, right? – anyway, this girl has had a last-minute change of plan, so Bébert takes a step back and, with a triumphant air, as though laying an extravagant gift at Patrice’s feet, he says, “You want to come?” Patrice says, “You might be able to sell the tickets,” and Bébert shakes his head, “I’m on the guest list, I go in via the stage door – if the guys found out I’d sold All Access to a couple of nobodies, I’d look like a complete fucking beta, I can’t afford to lose face.” But Patrice says, sorry, I’m waiting on some friends and Bébert throws up his hands, too bad, then hails a taxi. And it is Patrice’s turn to notice that, around place de la République, the traffic is still flowing, with its taxis and its tailbacks, something he hadn’t noticed even though he’s been coming here every night after work for the past three weeks.

  As usual, by late afternoon, the place is teeming. Patrice is happy as a pig in shit. For the past few years, he’s felt like a nail being hit by a frenzied hammer day after day: the left-wing struggle was over. Any article by an economist suggesting that debt was a con trick, any criticism of the tendency to conflate refugees with potential terrorist rapists, any protest against the destruction of public pensions or the public service, has been greeted by howls from the media of regressive leftism, virtue signalling and failure to face reality whi
le brandishing the spectre of Islamo-leftism. What is left is a socialist government pervaded by fascist ideologies, a government of opportunistic hard-right turncoats, of government ministers who see no problem in hanging out with members of the G.U.D. but wouldn’t be seen dead with a trade-unionist, a socialism that doesn’t want to talk about regulating the markets, and has only one idea: wooing far-right voters. It is a socialist government elected on a centre-left manifesto that immediately set about continuing the right-wing policies of its predecessors, embracing deregulation policies without protest. It is the left in power determined to put an end to the very idea of leftism. The newspaper headlines are all about the “rioters at place de la République”, about the inability of Nuit Debout to “keep its troops on a tight leash”. The journalists know what they’re talking about when it comes to being kept on a tight leash. The totality of the press in France is owned by three billionaire industrialists, and anyone who writes for their papers defends their interests. Patrice has attended his fair share of demos. He has never seen such unwarranted, such outrageous police repression – not that the newspapers have reported on that.

  By dint of hearing it repeated ad nauseam, the harassment has had its effect – there is only one possible reality, in which big bosses are unfettered, there is only one possible future, laissez-faire capitalism. There is only one valid interpretation of the facts, the free market cannot be subjected to constraint, nothing must stop the richest from taking ever more, nothing must stop the powerful for treating the powerless like slaves. The legacy of the Front populaire and the strikes of the 1970s must be crushed, equality is an outmoded concept. The freedom of the consumer is enough. In fact, it’s more than enough – they can’t understand what people are complaining about. What with the privatisation of profits and the socialisation of losses, the whole country is being dismantled and put into the service of the banks and the most disturbing thing is that it has been drummed into the heads of every man, woman and child that there is no alternative.

  And here at place de la République, every Patrice in the greater Paris region can say: we do not accept this fiction. It is pathetic, and at the same time it is crucial. Those in power know it, which is why they turn a deaf ear. Rioters, they say, anti-Semitic, they say, unrealistic, they say. But there are still people, in France, in Spain, in Greece, in Portugal, in Ireland, even in Germany, though no-one ever talks about it – there are still people who do not believe that putting power in the hands of ignorant psychopaths from the “best” families is the only possible reality. People like him who believe that, if we are going to prioritise our problems, the aid given to the banks in the wake of the 2008 financial crash poses more serious issues than the arrival of a few thousand refugees.

  It is a fairground atmosphere. There are pop-up stalls everywhere. France cannot help itself. Everything has to be structured. Press booths, Wi-Fi hotspots, book exchanges, forums. Endless stalls. People spread out, congregate in groups, sit on the ground or stroll around. It’s bullshit to say that they’re all hipster activists, the crowd here comes from all strata of society, a hodgepodge of individuals who have one thing in common: they are not about to allow themselves to be fleeced without putting up a fight.

  Patrice spots Xavier outside Habitat, buying a sandwich from one of the stalls. He turns to Patrice, shocked, as though he were personally responsible for the on-site catering: “Five euros for a merguez and fries, that’s exploitation! You call that anti-globalisation? I’m disappointed.”

  Skinhead crop, tight white T-shirt, pressed jeans, trainers – from his look, Xavier could be a socialist or a fascist. The two camps share the same masculine aesthetic. He blends into the background, and no-one would think to ask what the fuck he’s doing here. Except Patrice, who knows him only too well. Xavier coolly says, “I’m down with everything that’s being said here. I even listen in on nights when I don’t come, I fire up Periscope, like it’s the radio, and listen to the speeches. I broadly agree on the issues – save the bees, the military junta in Benin, spiralling rents, the decline of national values, police brutality, massacres in the Congo, those who died for French Algeria, spoilt ballot papers, May ’68, pension reform . . . overall, the issues don’t seem too extreme. Where I might differ is on the solutions. But no-one here is offering any solutions . . . when you get to that point, I suspect I’ll stop coming. Everyone wants to feed the refugees – I’m a Christian, man, I’m hardly going to be against that, I can see they’re dying like dogs so even I’d be prepared to hand out soup and blankets. I know the classics: Jesus never told the poor to go get their immigration status sorted. I’d just like someone to explain to me – since you’ve got nothing against Islam – why Saudi Arabia isn’t taking them in . . . ? I mean they wouldn’t have far to schlep, would they? I understand that they want to remain Muslim. I’m just a little surprised that they don’t settle in countries where they’d be more comfortable. Why come to our country? Don’t tell me it’s because there’s lots of jobs – they know as well as you and me that there’s no work here. On the other hand, there aren’t as many executions, I’ll grant you that.”

  *

  They are joined by Vernon and Olga. Vernon came back. Just before they tracked down Céleste. He called Pamela and said, “Can someone give me a place to crash?” like it was an anodyne question, like they’d chatted the night before. In the same, offhand tone, Pamela said, “Aubervilliers isn’t exactly verdant, Paris isn’t very chill right now, but we’re all here and there’s room to spare.” And the next day, there he was. Vernon is a man of few words. He said: “It feels good to be here,” which, coming from him, was practically a soliloquy. On the night he arrived, he did what he does best: he played music. He’d prepared a playlist. And when he looked up from his laptop screen, Patrice could see that he was trembling with emotion. He had waited two days before asking, “What the fuck got into you, man? Weren’t we good the way we were?” and Vernon, as though stating the obvious, said, “After the incident with Véro, things would never have been the same again. That’s the way it is. You can’t unring a bell.”

  Sylvie and Olga worked desperately to track Véro down in the bars of her former neighbourhood. She has moved out of the apartment. No-one knows what has become of her. She has disappeared without trace. The old bitch. For a long time, Patrice cursed the day that Véro decided to tell Vernon the truth, it would have been better if she’d said, Charles is dead, and refused to open the door to him, it would have spared them so much disappointment. Then, one fine morning, he faced the facts: it could never have lasted. In a sense, he agrees with Vernon. They needed to do a hard reset.

  *

  Olga is the only one in the group who spends her nights on place de la République. She’s as much at home here as she is in her kitchen. Once, like everyone else, she even waited in line to speak into the microphone, but she prefers to hang out on her own, doing a freestyle rap and bellowing like a calf. Patrice had been stupid enough to tease her, saying, “You should stand on a soapbox so everyone can see you.” Olga had taken the quip literally and now she wanders around with a red plastic crate under her arm, which, someday or other, will collapse under her weight. The most amazing thing of all is that she invariably finds an audience. She was even seen, one night, leading about thirty people on a protest through the neighbouring streets. No-one knew what they were demanding, but they shouted slogans at the tops of their lungs. Olga is in fine form. As she says hello to Patrice and Xavier, she is already looking around for a pitch. Then she carefully sets down her red plastic crate, climbs onto it and launches into her diatribe. She has obviously been thinking about what she plans to say.

  “Last night on T.V. I was listening to this woman, you know the kind of rich, educated woman who speaks the language of power, the sort of person who never questions anything, and certainly not their own intelligence, though they should, in fact it’s getting to be an emergency, anyway, she was saying, ‘Not all poor people are terrorists, for
tunately.’ She adds this ‘fortunately’ in that commonsense, no-nonsense, oh-my-dear tone: can you imagine if all the poor took up arms and refused to be downtrodden, we would be in the most terrible pickle, it would never end. ‘Fortunately, not all poor people are terrorists!’ Fortunately for who, exactly? Fortunately, she says – that decent poor people meekly allow themselves to be led to the slaughterhouse, otherwise can you imagine the trouble there would be at every savage cut . . . Even as she is praising the poor for their meekness in that genteel French of courtesans welcomed at the Elysée Palace this woman knows that the likes of Goodyear, Air France, the post office workers and ArcelorMittal are being trampled and imprisoned. She knows about the endless lines of refugees being held in camps so they can be shipped off to Turkey. She knows that, only a stone’s throw from her opulent dining room, poverty has soared. They all know. They celebrate submissiveness. They are thrilled that we’re so naive, so stupid. ‘Fortunately,’ they say, ‘fortunately the poor allow the rich to climb on their backs.’ Another time, on T.V., there was this bourgeois bitch talking in the same posh Palace accent, and she says, ‘I’m Islamophobic.’ She’s not ashamed to admit it. When you’re a bourgeois bitch, everything smells of roses, even your own shit, but if it comes out of your arse, why put it on the table? She’s Islamophobic. She felt the need to say this. These are the same people who have no fucking problem with Islam when they’re bidding for a contract with Saudi Arabia, or rubbing shoulders with the Sheikh-of-theday. When she says she’s Islamophobic, she’s not thinking about the Arab woman in the queue behind her at Louis Vuitton in the eighth arrondissement. She’s thinking about poor Arabs who are allowed to walk the same streets as she is, to work in the town hall, catch the bus, enrol their children in schools. These are the Arabs she doesn’t want to put up with anymore. It’s too much misery, we need to get rid of it: she is proudly Islamophobic in the name of liberty, equality and fraternity. She’s not bothered by other religions. She’s very clear: Islamophobic, but not racist. And when she throws open the doors to bigotry, she genuinely believes she’s doing it for the good of the people. As though the people need pogroms, not funding for the public health service, or homeless shelters, as though the people need more homophobic murders, not more high school teachers. As though with a delicate aristocratic finger, she can point to the undeserving poor so that the ‘people’ can vent their frustrations, the way she might point to the macaroon she covets on the cake stand at Ladurée. As though wealth confers an inherent authority over the little people she hopes to divide, like Marie fucking Antoinette in her shepherdess outfit . . . But if you have the right to be Islamophobic, madame la Comtesse, how long do you think you can stop other people from being antisemitic and not be ashamed to admit it – since no-one’s ashamed of anything anymore at the Palais – from being homophobic and not ashamed to admit it, from believing that queers should be wiped out, believing that a woman’s place is in the home and those who dare to step outside should be disciplined, from believing that black people are monkeys and not be ashamed to admit it? What exactly are people at the Palace ashamed of? People are beginning to wonder . . . How about tax evasion, corruption, deportations, the destruction of the school system, the overstretched hospitals, contaminated food, arms sales, long-term unemployment? Let me tell you something, madame la Comtesse, we don’t give a shit about that little Arab girl on the bus wearing a headscarf, what we care about is changing history so that little Arab girl isn’t just a pawn used to serve your interest, to think about the greater good . . . We’ve realised that an Arab who gets out her hijab is an Arab who says fuck you. An Arab with a long memory. A communard, a communist, a Muslim, a picketer, a terrorist . . .