It has been raining all month. The paths are still sodden, it will take time for them to dry out. Once upon a time, the weather was the most important topic of conversation in the family. Would there be enough rain this year? Would it freeze in spring? Would there be enough sunshine? Since her father sold off the land, it no longer matters.
*
From their house to the village is a twenty-minute walk. If you want to buy bread or a pouch of tobacco, you have to cycle. She spent her childhood on a bicycle. She’s glad she’s not a little girl anymore. She never got along with her sister. Mostly, she remembers being alone. She didn’t hang out with other children. Her father didn’t like her bringing them back to the house. They were ill-mannered, they didn’t take off their muddy boots before going up to her room to play, they never washed their hands before lunch. He called them disgusting little pigs.
Besides, her family was not well thought of. Parents didn’t like the idea of their children playing at her house. In a village, everyone knows everything. They knew her mother was a drunk. As a child, Solange genuinely believed her mother was just taking a nap. It was the other kids who said, don’t be silly, your maman is a wino. It was not the truth that shocked Solange but the fact that it had been kept from her. But it occurred to her that, even for a postwoman who had to get up early, it wasn’t normal to take a nap every day, to be so tired that she didn’t come down to dinner. Her father never said a word. He must have been disappointed that his wife was not up to scratch, and the children she had borne him seemed defective too. Solange didn’t like helping out around the farm. Except picking plums, which was something she loved doing. Everything else stinks, she used to say, the animals the dung the fertilisers all smelled so strong they made her feel sick. The only real skill she acquired was thanks to her uncle, who took her hunting, his sons hated to go, they said it was boring. Solange is good with a gun. It’s in their blood. It’s in the family. Her father would smile sardonically as he watched her at the shooting range at the fair and say, “That’s not going to help us marry her off.” But all the same, it made him happy, his little girl coming home with the biggest cuddly toy.
*
Her sister, Orphée, was not built for farm life either. But at least she got good grades in school. The two girls hated each other. They pulled each other’s hair, spat at each other. They never played together. Her sister always wanted to be in charge, but if Solange did what she was told, she called her a copycat. Orphée was good at gym, she loved Barbie dolls, she did her homework, she was neat, she had beautiful hair. By the time she was six, Solange was convinced that when her sister grew up she would meet a guy have children have a nice house finish her studies get an interesting job and be successful at everything. Orphée seemed destined to do everything better than anyone else. But then she went completely off the rails. Batshit cray cray, a complete whack job. No-one ever knew what happened: she turned twenty and bang. These days Solange finds it hard to believe that she used to be jealous of her sister because her life was perfect. Now she lies in a puddle on the floor. She’s always talking about killing herself. She’s not just crazy, she’s boring AF. But maybe all crazy people are boring. Orphée says she’s not depressed. But she never stops crying. The meds have left her puffy and bloated. She looks like a crumpled sea lion. She has moved back into her old room, next to Solange’s. She lives with her father and never sees anyone else. Total loser.
*
Her father has changed since Orphée came back home. Always a man of few words, he has now retreated into almost total silence. He spends his days on the internet. He has huge hands, the fingers misshapen by years of farm work, it’s funny, seeing his paws on the keyboard, Solange wonders how he manages to press the right keys. He has sold off his land. He has no pension – he didn’t pay enough in contributions. At the slightest movement, he grimaces and touches his back. This man who never had a pain in his life, whom Solange cannot even remember taking to his bed with flu, is suddenly crippled by back pain. He always loved watching movies. Now that’s all he does. They got a letter from their I.S.P. warning them to stop torrenting and he just crumpled it up and threw it in the bin without a word. He is going deaf, but refuses to wear a hearing aid. Her father always cut an elegant figure when he went into the village. People said, it’s a pity such a handsome, dapper, hardworking man didn’t land himself a decent wife. At home he wears his threadbare trousers and a shapeless beige sweater riddled with holes, but when he needs to run an errand he puts on his suit and his hat as he used to do. These days he rarely goes down to the village. He doesn’t suffer arseholes gladly. He always was too clever for his own good; he sees what is coming before other people. It drives him crazy. Those who stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness are cursed with a terrible loneliness. Solange knows how it feels.
*
The atmosphere at home is bleak. Not that it was ever particularly joyous, but these days it’s worse. Her mother has swapped booze for prescription pills – not the same ones as Solange’s sister. She is even more befuddled than when her best friend was a bottle. The kitchen sideboard is littered with boxes of medication. When her mother was forty-two the post office said, we no longer need postwomen, we’ll train you to work at the counter. But for her, doing her rounds kept her on an even keel – five hours on her feet, cycling twenty kilometres every day, then home, first little glass of white wine, and so on until she lapsed into a coma. She never managed to adjust to working at the counter. To make matters worse, they started hassling her to sell mobile phones to customers, she argued that the post office has clients, not customers, and her boss laughed in her face. Solange’s mother drifted into depression. Suddenly, she was drinking less. With the pills she’s taking, she doesn’t need to drink as much, she needs less, she’s in a fog from the moment she wakes up. These days, she’s like a ghost. Her body is there but there is no-one home.
*
From a large plastic Carrefour bag, Solange takes a pain au lait and lets it melt in her mouth, the dough immediately crumbles and sticks to her teeth. It is something she has always loved. She says:
“I saw Richard’s mother yesterday.”
“Did she recognise you?”
“Of course.”
“With your hair cropped short like that, you’re barely recognisable.”
*
It upset her father, her short hair. She cut it last month. Because of some pathetic Brazilian woman on T.V. who gives women makeovers the way you might pimp up a car. On the show, there was a girl who looked a bit like Solange – the presenter took her out into the street and people were saying she wasn’t ugly, but she needed to make the most of herself. Then they cropped her hair short and she really did look a lot better. So, Solange had gone to the Dessange salon, in Epinal. The stylist looked at her dolefully, “We’ll need to use conditioner, long hair needs a lot of care and attention,” and Solange watched locks of her hair fall and, before it was over, she realised she’d made a terrible mistake. She felt like crying. She had always worn her hair long with a fringe. Until this was cut away, she never realised that she had the face of a halfwit. She’s uglier now than she was before. When her father saw her come home with her hair cropped short, she could tell how upset he was. But what could she do? The damage was done. It pains her to think that this is how he will remember her. Because although he doesn’t know it, he will remember this morning. She hadn’t wanted to hurt her father. He’s had more than his fair share. The problem is that if no-one is prepared to rock the boat, nothing will ever change. She loathes bohemian culture and its fetishisation of home comforts. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. She’s always found that expression funny. Solange says:
“She showed me the pictures of Richard’s little boy. He’s a beautiful child.”
“When it comes to churning out kids, that family are champions. But not one of them in the house actually has a job. How is he planning to raise the boy?”
*
Solange and Richard had been friends in primary school. There are numerous photos of them, side by side. They looked like two peas in a pod. The same blue eyes, the same white-blonde hair. There are lots of stories about her and Richard, who would wander round hand in hand when they were knee high to a grasshopper, slipping out of school to hunt leeches. They would catch them in water bottles. Leeches or tadpoles. Theirs was a childhood of nettle stings, snakes slithering through the grass, wellington boots and dandelions. She has no bad memories of childhood, full-time sadness was something that came later. Richard started playing with other boys, who didn’t want a girl in their gang. Round about the time she learned to read, school became boring, while home life was oppressive. Fortunately, there was the internet. This was what saved her. Her father would yell that it was nothing but online gaming, and she was wasting her life. But she was glad of the online games, and the forums she discovered while searching for cheats for Grand Theft Auto. She shrugs.
“So, Richard hasn’t got a job? His wife is a teacher, or at least that’s what Richard’s mother said.”
“God, but that woman can talk! Do you think that’s reasonable, for a man to depend on his wife to put food on the table? It may be the modern way, but that doesn’t make it right.”
“It’s a beautiful baby. We need babies. Besides, they’ll do what everyone else does – they’ll find work elsewhere.”
Her father gives her a black look. A look that says: so, what are you waiting for? It’s not that he wants her to leave, but she’s twenty-two years old, it’s high time that she found a job. That she settled down, as they say. It’s bad enough that his other daughter has moved home as mad as a box of frogs. Solange suddenly feels like laughing – she can’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to worry. By tomorrow, she won’t be a burden anymore. He doesn’t know it yet, but he won’t have to worry about money anymore, he’ll even have enough to put her mother in a nursing home and get her back on her feet. She’ll have enough to keep them.
*
His father drinks his coffee from a bowl. He could never get used to using a mug. He couldn’t see the point. Solange loves him for that. This morning, she loves his every gesture. We only truly appreciate what we are about to lose. She adds sugar to hers, and a lot of milk, because she likes her coffee cold. She leans back against the sink and a sudden urge to cry forces her to be silent. She smiles. He groans and shakes his head, muttering something she can’t quite hear, then puts his empty bowl in the sink. The T.V. in the kitchen is constantly tuned to B.F.M. They have a television in every room, and all of them are blaring whenever he is at home. Solange has never heard anyone in the village nostalgically reminisce about the days before television. Missing the silence and the dinners by the fire is all very well for crusty hipsters who know nothing about rural life and imagine that people used to converse over their meals. But what is there to talk about around here? The rain. But you can’t spend half an hour talking about rain. Either there’s enough rain or there isn’t. You’re not going to spend all night talking about it.
*
The cemetery is at the far end of the village, on a small hill. Her grandmother’s grave is in disarray. The family rarely visits. Except on All Saints’ Day, when her parents gather up the plastic plant pot and the leaves brought in on the breeze. They leave a new pot. Same time next year. Solange doesn’t often visit either. Except on important occasions. She sits on the shiny, grey, marble slab. Her grandmother’s name was Odette. She adored her grandchildren. And she loved dancing, driving her car and musicals. She used to make stylish outfits for herself with her sewing machine. She would draw and cut out intricate patterns and then tac tac tac with the pedal, pins clenched between her teeth, she made elegant jackets, evening dresses. She recreated the clothes she saw in catalogues. She could make anything. She was the one who used to take Solange shopping for school supplies in late summer. She used to take Orphée, too, but never on the same day. She always said that it was normal for girls to want to be unique. Even today, Solange still loves to wander through the stationery department of a department store. It reminds her of days that were focused on her, when the trolley was full, they would leave it outside a branch of Flunch and go in for lunch. Hamburger and fries. “You understand, Odette. I know you understand. It’s for the country. We can’t just sit idly by with our arms folded. I know you understand. We have to make things happen, stir up the anthill. Because other people – sorry, but they’re like cattle. Sometimes you need to give history a good kick in the arse if you want things to change. And afterwards, I’ll write, Odette, I’ll write down everything I’ve got inside my head, I’ll write it down and that way people will know who I am, they’ll read what I’ve written. I’ll be an example. I know you understand. I am so scared I’ve got tummy ache. Ever since yesterday, when I knew it was happening. I’ve got the shits, Mamy. I’ve got the shits. But I won’t back down. Anything rather than this tepid apathy. Anything.”
*
She is one of the chosen. She is responding to a calling. To an inner voice that tells her “Go . . . go . . . go!” and Max is the first person who has ever understood this. It was strange, how they met. She’s always hanging out in online forums, she has been for years; in theory, it’s a video games forum, but to her it’s like home. Her username is “coyotte666”. It’s also her Twitter handle. She didn’t want to use a girl’s name – a girl in a gaming forum has no cred, the only guys not insulting you are trying to fuck you. She struck up a conversation with this super funny guy, “2Kool4Skool”, they’ve been throwing shade on a bunch of immigrationist cucks who are completely out of their depth. They hit it off straight away. Max says he realised that the first night – he says she’s intense, she’s edgy, anyone can tell she’s got a calling. After a couple of days, he suggests they meet up IRL, says there’s stuff he wants to talk to her about, but Solange says not possible, bruh, I’m overbooked. Because it’s tough for her to admit that she’s not who she claims to be, she’s not a boy. So this is the funny part: Max insists, says it’s important, says he feels a connection. And he’s the first one to confess: he’s not twenty-three, maybe, like, double that. He was afraid she would take it badly, but she replied, “Well, my name is Solange,” and at first she wondered if maybe he was queer, because he went cold on her. But later he realised that she hadn’t lied about anything else – she’s a true-blue patriot, she can whip any guy’s arse at any game . . . and he was hooked.
Luckily, Max didn’t dump her. He gave meaning to everything that quivered inside her, lacerating her soul, yet still inchoate, everything she could sense without knowing how to marshal it. She is defending a memory. She serves it, according to her strengths. She will strike out at random, under cover of darkness. She is filled with hope. Violent acts of violence that create order. Desperate, courageous acts can stir the embers and rekindle the flame. Others will follow. The time has come to act. Max realised this as soon as he saw her. He is like her. They love the same things and hate the same things – moribund democracy, the hypocritical brain-warping rhetoric, the lie factories, the fake news hacks, the liberal media scum, the fool’s game, a France mortally wounded by interracial breeding and dwindling morality. The lack of faith. Of honesty. An obsessive fetishisation of human life that forgets that sometimes great ideas must be presented dripping with blood.
Max can finish Solange’s sentences. They complement each other. He is the one who helped her prepare everything. He’s the one who will publish what she has written when she surrenders herself. Because she is not going to run. She will face the people of France with her head held high. And it is Max who will make sure that her family never wants for anything. Because he knows people who will never give up, and who are ready to help a lone soldier.
*
She will call for revolution. She knows that there are others, like her, wandering in the dark, lost and filled with rage. Powerless, they will realise that the time has come. You must strike at the soft
underbelly of these sordid times. You must strike at those who dance when times are serious. The hedonists and the degenerates.
Everything is in place. She is ready.
ON THE OPPOSITE PLATFORM OF THE MÉTRO STATION, A young man in a black leather jacket is scrawling on a blue advertising poster with a red marker, “The crimes of the state are greater than the crimes of those they incarcerate.” He hesitates over the second “c” of “incarcerate”: should it be “c” or “s”? Léonard shouts over and gestures with his hand – “c”. It’s not a great slogan, but he may as well get the spelling right.
On his headphones, he is listening to “Lemonade”. He is thinking about Antoine. A chill runs down his spine. When the record was first released, Antoine would hold forth for hours at a time about how it had revolutionised pop history, how it was as important as “Thriller” or “Nevermind”. Antoine loved to expound his – sometimes absurd – theories, often defending them to the point of dishonesty. If someone pointed out that he had argued precisely the opposite a week earlier, he would immediately calm down, give a broad grin and say, “Yeah, well, I guess they’re both true, aren’t they?” Antoine was witty, he liked to be the centre of attention. He loved to make people laugh. He was a fortunate young man. The failure of his marriage meant he had enough rough edges not to become just one more preachy know-it-all. Life smiled on him because he smiled at life. Until his senseless death. On the night of the massacre.
This is the world we live in now. This is what it has come to. The minute we hear a fire engine, we click on a news feed to make sure it’s nothing serious. When he opens Twitter, Léonard is relieved to find that no-one is tweeting about some terrible atrocity. We live with the notion that something terrible can happen. We all take public transport, we sit on café terraces to smoke a cigarette, we go to gigs. We go out clubbing. And now we realise that some of us will never make it home.
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