The French Art of War

by Alexis Jenni

  But I don’t give a shit. I’m in pain. I walk and talk. I am walking to rid myself of what would drown me. If I am thinking about my country it is only to give me something to talk about, because I must keep talking on my odyssey through the streets of Lyon, otherwise I’ll be forced to drool to keep from drowning.

  I am thinking about France; but can anyone say they are ‘thinking about France’ without laughing, without making others laugh? Anyone except for grand old men, and then only in their memoirs. Who but de Gaulle could say he is ‘thinking about France’ with a straight face? Me, I am simply in pain and I have to go on talking as I traipse to the all-night pharmacy that will save my life. So I talk about France the way de Gaulle used to talk about it, confusing characters, muddling tenses, mangling grammar to cloud the issue. De Gaulle is the greatest liar of all time, but he was a liar in the way all novelists are liars. By the sheer power of his words he gradually fashioned everything we needed to live in the twentieth century. He could give us reasons to live together, reasons to be proud of ourselves, because he invented them. And we now live in the ruins of what he built, among the tattered pages of this novel he wrote, the novel we mistook for an encyclopaedia, for a clear-cut image of reality when it was pure fabrication; a pleasant fabrication it was tempting to believe.

  Home is a common language. France is the cult of the written word. We lived between the pages of the Général’s memoirs, on a stage-set fashioned from the words he wrote.

  I was walking the streets at night, my throat red-raw, and the mute violence that walks beside us now walked beside me. It took a subterranean path, scuttling beneath my feet, under the pavement: the cannibal mole of French violence crawled, unseen, beneath me. From time to time it came up for air to snatch at its prey, but it is always there, even when we cannot see it. We hear it scrabbling. The ground is unstable; it could give way at any moment, the mole could surface.

  Enough! Enough of all this! But still I cannot swallow. My spittle drains away, dissipates as I babble. I trade my pain for a torrent of words, and the torrent that pours out of me saves me from drowning in my own spit. I am imbued with the spirit of France. I find verbal solutions to my pain, and in speaking I survive the winter ills I catch in summer months.

  Finally, I arrived at the all-night pharmacy. I would do better to shut up. In public, while I queued, I choked back my pain.

  * * *

  The restless queue formed a parabola inside a cramped pharmacy scarcely big enough to contain us. We did out best not to make eye contact; we kept our thoughts to ourselves. Because we all had our suspicions. After all, who goes to an all-night pharmacy other than nutjobs who don’t know day from night and addicts looking for drugs they understand better than any medical student? Other than people too sick to wait until morning, emergency cases whose great, purulent bodies infect everything they touch? Time drags on. It drags on for far too long, because in an all-night pharmacy people move at a snail’s pace, their every gesture slows until there is barely any movement, until there is no movement, and the impatience swells until it fills this cramped space with its locked doors where so many of us are huddled in the queue.

  An assistant pharmacist with an African name dealt with the patients, never raising his voice or quickening his pace. His round face, black and utterly smooth, offered no purchase to anxious eyes. We did not look at each other for fear of contamination; instead we looked at the man doling out the medication, and he was not moving quickly enough. He carefully read the prescriptions, meticulously checked them several times, tilted his head without saying a word, but with a suspicious air, framed his questions as sighs, weighed up each customer; then he would disappear into the shelved back room and bring back whatever urgent medication the patient was waiting for, shifting his weight, silently fuming with unutterable rage, sick.

  Outside the reinforced glass door that closed at 10.30 p.m., gangs of athletic young men came and went, hurling insults, shouting into mobile phones, laughing and high-fiving. They came out at night and pretended to stroll along the street, loitering on the pavement, jostling and shoving, sneering at passers-by; they gathered outside the all-night pharmacy at night, in the square of light cast by the reinforced glass door that was closed and locked at 10.30 p.m. They came like moths, fluttering outside the door that was closed to them, since they had no prescriptions. They never tired. Every time they walked past, they peered inside; they shouted, high-fived and laughed. They were excited by the flow of victims, the flow of money, the flow of drugs, they mocked passers-by, and though they never said a word, everyone understood. The fear on the faces of the sick people who had to elbow their way through the crowd made them laugh; the patients who passed, head down, clutching their prescriptions, pretending not to notice anything, but who had had to push their way through the gang to ring the doorbell and wait, cap in hand, looking as though they were simply waiting for the pharmacy to open.

  A lady inside, a lady in the queue, said: ‘I don’t know what’s got into them, but they seem very jittery these days.’ A wave of approval ran through the queue. Without exchanging a glance, without looking up, without any explanation, they all understood. But no one wanted to talk about it, because this is not something that is talked about: it is something to be stated, believed.

  Tensions rose early in the summer; tensions rose in the short, sweltering nights. Athletic boys prowled the streets stripped to the waist. The assistant pharmacist with the African name carefully checked prescriptions, asked for proofs of identity, guarantees of payment. Out of the corner of his eye he kept watch on the quadrangle of light cast on the pavement as gangs of young men swaggered to and fro.

  When he had finished serving a customer, he would unlock the bulletproof glass door with a big bunch of keys, open it a fraction to let them out, then lock it again in a clatter of keys and the whisper of the rubber seal sealing out the air itself. The customer would find himself locked out, alone on the pavement, clutching a white paper bag printed with a green cross, and this would trigger a restless commotion among the young men strutting back and forth, a sardonic commotion like the flitting of mosquitoes that come and go, never landing, never seen, with a high whine that is a laugh; meanwhile, alone in the darkness, the customer would have to negotiate a path through the gang of muscular young men, clasping the paper bag of boxes filled with the precious active ingredients intended to cure him; he had to steer a course through the gang, duck out of their path, avoid their eyes, but nothing ever happened; it was just fear.

  The assistant pharmacist admitted only those he felt he could trust, those who rang the bell and showed their prescriptions. He agreed to open the door or he did not. He said nothing else. He scanned the prescriptions, checked the labels on the little boxes, processed the payments. Nothing more. He performed tasks related to his business. He was no more present than a machine. He doled out boxes of active ingredients. In the all-night pharmacy full of the seriously ill people, who were queuing while trying not to make eye contact, tensions rose. The round, black face of the assistant, his eyes fixed on the display of the cash register, afforded no purchase.

  A small, thin woman stepped forwards, thinking it was her turn. A tall, handsome man stepped in front of her; his eyes were penetrating, a lush fringe of hair fell over his forehead, his nose was arrogant. His tone, as befitted his height and his elegance, was curt: ‘Did you not see that I was ahead of you?’ She mumbled something, but she did not blush – her dry skin made blushing impossible. She was trembling. Muttering inaudible excuses, she let him pass. He was intelligent, well-heeled, dressed in elegantly crumpled linen; she was small and gaunt; her whole body seemed worn out; and I cannot recall what she was wearing. The man was savage, ready to hit her, and she was terrified.

  Waves of liquid darkness crashed against the hull of the all-night pharmacy. All around, the capricious carnival carried on, stray shadows that seemed like people but were simply shadows that moved through the streets; these shadows appeared
in the rectangle of light, appeared for an instant before the locked door, teeth flashing for a moment, eyes shining in their dark faces, while we huddled in the all-night pharmacy, waiting our turn, angry that it was taking so long; terrified that it might never come. We were given painkillers.

  The arrogant man slapped down his prescription on the counter, unfolded the paper, muttering that this was intolerable, absolutely intolerable, that it was always the same. He pointed to a single item, tapping the page several times with his forefinger.

  ‘I just want that one.’

  ‘What about the other items? The doctor prescribed them all together.’

  ‘Look, the doctor is a friend of mine. He knows what I need. He only prescribed the rest so I can claim it back on the insurance. But I know what I’m doing. I know what I take. Just give me the one I asked for.’

  He broke the sentences into fragments, enunciating each syllable, speaking with the air of a man who knows what he is talking about, who knows just as much as the doctor, and certainly more than an assistant pharmacist working the graveyard shift. He seemed to be spoiling for a fight. The haggard little woman took several steps back and adopted a submissive air to avoid being hit, while the arrogant man shot her furious looks that weighed on her delicate shoulders of bone and cardboard. We all waited silently in the queue at the all-night pharmacy; we did not want to speak to each other for fear we might be mad or depraved or ill; we did not want to know, because to know would require communication and communication is dangerous, it aggravates, it contaminates, it lacerates. We wanted medication to soothe our pain.

  Without thinking, the scrawny little woman shuffled forwards a little, perhaps anxious not to give any more ground than she had already, so she stepped into the no-man’s-land around this overwrought man, who bristled like the spikes on a floating mine. She encroached on his personal space; she was close enough to read the prescription and so he slapped his hand over it, annihilated her with a single glare; she beat a hasty retreat.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ he roared. ‘It’s always the same! People don’t know their place! They’re always trying to jump the queue! You need eyes in the back of your head!’

  He slapped his prescription several times, pushed his fringe back with an elegant gesture, the folds of his linen suit following his movements.

  ‘I want this one,’ he said, growling as menacingly as he could.

  The assistant remained impassive. His plump face was immobile. His dark skin gave no clue as to what he was thinking, and the furious man brushed back his fringe again. His eyes glittered, his face flushed red, the hand resting on the counter quivered; he wanted to lash out again, to smack the counter, smack the prescription, smack anything to get this stone-faced man to listen.

  ‘So are you going to give it to me or what?’ he roared. The assistant did not flinch.

  The fat guy standing in front of me, a tall man with a moustache and a pot belly straining at his shirt buttons, started to breathe harder. Through the thick glass we could see the idle young men swaggering past the door, and each time they passed they shot a look at those of us trapped inside, a look designed to provoke. Things were taking a nasty turn. But I said nothing. I was in pain.

  The handsome, arrogant man in the linen suit was quivering with rage at being put into the same category as the plebs at the all-night pharmacy, while behind him – as far behind as she could get now – the haggard little woman was trembling as she probably always trembled. He might whirl around and slap her, the way you might slap a child who is being irritating, just to vent your anger and to show who is boss. And, after the slap, she might let out a high-pitched wail and roll on the floor, her limbs twitching; or, for once, she might raise her head and hurl herself at him, fists flailing, battering him with the ineffectual punches that weeping women throw; then again, she might just as easily say nothing and just endure the blow, a sharp crack in her back, leaving her even more stooped, racked by silent sobs, more hunched, more worn out.

  And the guy in front of me, the one with the moustache and the pot belly, how might he react to seeing a little woman crumple to the floor, or a little woman lash out with shrill sobs, or a little woman shrinking down to erase herself a little more from the surface of the Earth? How would he react? He might snort loudly, his breath rumbling like a vacuum cleaner on full power; he might step forward, shifting his fat frame to punch the arrogant shit. The elegant man would crumple, his nose streaming blood, screeching in protest, dragging shelves of diet pills on top of himself, while the fat man with the moustache would stand, massaging his fist, gasping for breath like a moped on a hill about to stall, his pot belly straining against his shirt buttons, one of which is threatening to fly off. Meanwhile, scrabbling on all fours, the other man would hurl abuse and threats of legal action, but make no attempt to get to his feet; then the African assistant – unruffled, because he has seen it all before – would try to calm the situation. ‘Come on now, messieurs. Calm down,’ he would say. Then the little woman would rush over as if to help the arrogant shit bleeding on all fours, shooting a reproachful look at the man with the moustache, who by now would be obviously struggling for breath, and at serious risk of congestive heart failure, a pulmonary embolism, the cessation of all blood flow through arteries that are too constricted, too narrow, too clogged to contain the violence within him.

  The assistant pharmacist would carry on dealing with prescriptions, tapping gently on the touchscreen of his till, while continuing to appeal for calm in measured tones – ‘Messieurs, that’s enough now! Come on, madame!’ – all the while thinking about the tear-gas canister in the drawer under the counter that he would happily whip out to spray the lot of them. But that would mean having to air the room, and the only door is the one on to the street, which he could not open, since the people prowling around outside would need to be kept out. And so he would appeal for calm, while dreaming of gunning them all down, just to make it all stop.

  And me? How would I have reacted to this flare-up of French violence? I was in pain. The virus had ravaged my throat. I needed painkillers. I needed something that would transform my pain into a muted nothingness I could no longer feel. And so I said nothing. I waited my turn. I waited for my hand-out.

  It goes without saying that nothing actually happened. What do you expect in an enclosed space with double-locked doors fitted with bulletproof glass? Nothing, except maybe suffocation…

  Business as usual. The assistant heaved a sigh and gave the man what he had asked for. He washed his hands of the whole thing. Once he had what he had come for, the man grunted ‘Honestly!’ and turned on his heel, looking daggers at everyone in the queue. The assistant opened the door, then resumed his position behind the counter. ‘Who’s next?’ For him, it was an uneventful night. The line inched forwards. The little woman handed over a crumpled prescription, which had clearly been used many times before, pointed to a line with a trembling finger, and the assistant shrugged. He dispensed psychotropic drugs, he dispensed somatotropins. To those who knew their doctors well, he gave whatever they asked; to the others, he gave precisely what was written on the prescription; to some, he gave a little extra. The rules varied. He was swayed by violence, and dispensing favours forestalled any conflict.

  Eventually, I emerged with my medicine. The door was opened and closed for me. I cut a path through the gang on the pavement and nothing happened.

  Shadows flitted in the darkness; people talk to themselves at night, but these days it is impossible to tell whether they are insane or whether they have bluetooth phones. The heat of the day radiated from the stones; the air throbbed with an oppressive tension. Two police cars full of young men passed each other in slow motion, discreetly signalled with their headlights, and glided on without a ripple. They were searching for the source of violence, and when they found it, they would be ready to pounce.

  Everything is shit! I can’t swallow a thing. I can’t help but wonder what this sickness is that forces me
to talk endlessly to evaporate spittle that would otherwise drown me. What disease? A marauding, viral raiding party from the great desert outside? And since the attack, my immune system has been ravaging my throat; my internal defences have been purging, pacifying, rooting out and liquidating my cells in search of sedition. Viruses are nothing more than language, a packet of information transported by sweat, saliva or sperm, and that information insinuates itself into my cells and merges with my own language, leaving my body to speak the language of the virus. Forcing my immune system to slaughter my own cells, one by one, to purge them of the alien language whispering inside me.

  The streets are brightly lit, yet still they seem frightening. They are so dazzling you could read under the street lamps, but no one reads because no one lingers. It is not the done thing to loiter in the streets. Everywhere is brightly lit. The air itself seems to shimmer, but it is an illusion: the street lamps cast more shadows than light. This is the problem with lamps: they accentuate the shadows that they do not dispel. As on the desolate plains of the moon, the slightest bulge, the slightest ridge casts a shadow so dark it cannot be distinguished from a crater. And so, in the high contrast of night, we sidestep shadows, lest they be chasms.

  We are loathe to stay outside. We rush along while squad cars, in slow motion, glide past at walking pace, scanning the pedestrians; a multiplicity of eyes peers through tinted windows, studying us, then they glide on down the street, searching for the root cause of the violence.

  Society is sick. Bed-ridden and shivering. It doesn’t want to listen. Curtains drawn, it keeps to its bed. It is no longer interested in itself as the totality. I realize that an organic metaphor of the State is a fascist construct; but the problems of our society can be described in fascist terms. We have issues involving order, blood, land; problems involving violence; problems involving force and the use of force. These words spring to mind, regardless of their connotations.