by Alexis Jenni
He refilled the glasses, they drank.
‘OK, Brioude, I’m prepared to see things your way. Carry on.’
‘Your thinness is not a sign that would have become enslaved. It is a sign of a new departure, with no baggage, with a clean slate. You are ready, Victorien; you have no ties. You are alive, you are free, you lack only a little air in order to understand. You are like a stringed instrument, like Montbellet’s lute, but trapped under a bell jar. Its music cannot be heard; the string quivers in vain, because there is no air to vibrate. There needs to be a crack in the glass, so air can rush in and you can finally be heard. Something around you needs to be broken, so that you can breathe again, Victorien Salagnon. Perhaps it is an eggshell. Perhaps the crack in the shell that will let in air is art. You used to draw. So draw.’
Montbellet got to his feet, brandished his glass, darkly crimson in the dim glow, as warm as blood in the cold half-light.
‘Art, adventure and spirituality drink to their common gauntness.’
They drank, they laughed, drank again. With a sigh, Salagnon pushed away his plate on which the remains of the cold noodles had congealed in the gloopy sauce.
‘All the same, it’s a shame that the Church serves such terrible food.’
‘But it has excellent wine.’
Brioude’s eye gleamed.
Victorien applied himself to drawing. That is to say, he sat with a pot of ink in front of a blank page. And nothing came. The white remained white, the black of the ink remained in the well, nothing took form. But what could he have drawn, bent over this piece of paper? Drawing is a mark, the outward sign of something that lives within; but inside, he had only Eurydice. Eurydice was far away, living in a topsy-turvy world, beyond the murderous Mediterranean, in that hell of caustic sunlight, of dwindling words, of hastily buried corpses; she was far away, beyond the too-broad river that cut France in two. And outside there was nothing either, nothing he could set down on paper; nothing but greenish mist that stagnated between buildings about to dissolve in their own dampness. He wanted to weep, but that, too, was no longer possible. The page was white, there was not a single mark.
He sat for hours, motionless, his elbows propped on the desk. In the dark room the blank page was the only source of light, a faint glow that never guttered out. It went on all night. Morning came, a horrid metallic dawn in which shapes appeared that had no depth, equal parts shadow and light merging into an unvarying luminescence. It offered no contours, nothing that stood out that might allow him to capture his surroundings. Having left no trace, with no sadness, no regret, he lay down on his bed and instantly fell asleep.
When he woke, he took the necessary steps to have himself posted to Indochine.
Commentaries V
The fragile nature of snow
‘WOULD YOU LISTEN TO THAT BULLSHIT!’ roared Mariani, sitting in front of the television. ‘Did you hear? Did you hear that? They’re saying the guy who won is Irish.’
‘The guy who won what?’
‘The 5,000 metres you’ve been watching for the past ten minutes.’
‘So? Are you saying he’s not Irish?’
‘But he’s black!’
‘You start every sentence with a “but”, Mariani.’
‘But that’s because there is a “but”, a big “but”. “But” is a conjunction between two statement indicating a reservation, a paradox, a contrast. He is Irish, but black. I’m indicating a reservation, highlighting a paradox, pointing out the absurdity; but also the stupidity of failing to notice the absurdity.’
‘If he’s running for Ireland, then he’s legally Irish.’
‘I don’t give a damn about legally. I don’t give a shit. I’ve seen laws dismantled a thousand times and patched together any old how. I don’t care and I’ve never cared. I’m talking about reality. In reality, there are no more black Irishmen than there are squared circles. Have you ever seen a black Irishman?’
‘Yeah. On TV. In fact, he’s just won the 5,000 metres.’
‘I despair of you, Salagnon. You see things stupidly. You rely too much on appearances. You’re nothing but a painter.’
I wondered what I was doing there. I was sitting in the air, on the eighteenth floor in Voracieux-les-Bredins, in the tower block where Mariani lived. Backs to the windows, we were watching television. Somewhere far from here they were holding European Championships. On screen, guys ran, they jumped, they threw things, while the voices of commentators, using a clever mixture of slow drawl and sudden interjection, attempted to make this spectacle interesting. I make the point that we were sitting with our backs to the windows, because it is an important detail: we could afford to turn our backs, since the windows were secured, barricaded with piles of sandbags. Sprawled on flabby sofas, we drank beers with the lights on. I had been seated between Salagnon and Mariani and around us, sitting on the floor, standing behind or off in some other room, were some of his ‘lads’. They all looked the same, heavyset guys who inspired physical fear, monosyllabic most of the time, but capable of roaring when necessary, coming and going in this vast, empty apartment, making themselves at home. Mariani was as uninterested in furniture as Salagnon, but while Victorien filled the space with pointless objects, the way you might fill a box containing something fragile with polystyrene chips, Mariani preferred to leave a little space for the restless, potbellied giants who could hardly stand still.
Through the sandbags barricading the windows they had fashioned arrow slits that made it possible to see out. When we first arrived, Mariani had shown me around. I visited his fortifications. He talked as he patted the fat hessian sacks filled with sand.
‘Amazing invention,’ he told me. ‘Go on, touch.’
I touched. Beneath the coarse brown fabric the sand felt hard if you tapped it, but fluid if you pressed gently; it behaved like water in slow motion.
‘When it comes to protection, sand is much better than concrete, especially this kind of concrete,’ he said, rapping the wall, which rang hollow. ‘I’m not sure these walls are bulletproof, but the sandbags are. They can shoot pellets and shrapnel. They penetrate a little, but the momentum is absorbed and they don’t go any farther. I ordered a truckload of sand. My lads brought it up by the bucketful in the lift. The lads up here shovelled the sand into sacks and arranged them in regulation fashion. There was a crowd of rubberneckers in the car park, but they kept their distance, they didn’t ask any questions. They could see there was work going on; they were intrigued; they wondered what was happening. We put it around that we were re-laying the flagstones and the tiles. They all nodded. “High time, too,” they said. We had a good laugh. They never imagined that up here we were filling sacks and setting them at firing angles, like we used to do over there. Practical geometry, that’s the art of fortification. You keep the firing lines clear, avoid the blind spots, you take control of the space. We now control the whole area around Voracieux. We organize sentry duty. When the day comes, we’ll serve as a fire support base. And I’ve put a thick layer of sand under my bed to serve as a flak jacket in case of an attack from below. I never did trust ceilings. This way, I sleep in peace.’
After that, thankfully, he gave me a drink and we sprawled on the overstuffed sofas and watched sport on the TV. Mariani’s lads did not say much; nor did I. The commentators did all the talking.
‘Irish people can’t be black,’ Mariani went on. ‘Otherwise nothing means anything any more. Could people make camembert with camel’s milk? And could you still call it camembert? Or wine out of redcurrant juice? Would anyone dare to call that wine? The whole appellation d’origine contrôlée idea should apply to people. A man is more important than a cheese, and just as connected to the land. An AOC would put an end to farces like black Irishmen winning races.’
‘Look, I’m sure he’s naturalized.’
‘That’s what I’m saying: he’s Irish on paper. But it’s blood that determines nationality, not paper.’
‘Blood is blood,
Mariani; it’s red.’
‘Always the dumb painter! I’m talking about true blood, not about the red paint that flows from the slightest scratch. Blood will out. The only kind that matters.
‘Words don’t mean anything any more,’ he sighed. ‘The dictionary is a wasteland, like a forest that’s been hacked down. Great trees have been felled and replaced by shrubs, all of them the same, thorny softwoods with toxic sap. And what have we done with the great trees? What have we done with the colossi that sheltered us? What have we done with these wonders that took centuries to grow? We turned them into throwaway chopsticks and garden furniture. Beauty has crumbled into absurdity.
‘There should be no more talk, Salagnon, because it’s impossible to speak with ruined words. We have to get back to what’s real. We have to return to reality. It has to happen. In the real world, at least every man can count on his own strength. Power, Salagnon, the power we once had and let slip through our fingers. The life force that drained from the bodies of our fallen comrades and is still leeching out of us now we’ve come home. That’s the reason for the sandbags and the guns: to prevent that force from leaking away.’
‘You’ve got guns here?’ Salagnon’s voice grew hoarse with worry.
‘Of course we do! Stop being so naive. And real weapons, not the kind of popguns you use for shooting squirrels. Guns that kill, weapons of war.’ He turned to me. ‘Have you ever seen a weapon of war? Held it, handled it, tested it? Fired it?’
‘Leave him out of this, Mariani.’
‘You can’t leave him out of reality, Salagnon. Teach him to paint if you like, I’ll teach him about weapons.’
He got up and came back, carrying a large semi-automatic revolver.
‘A pistol, to be precise. It’s a Colt .45. I keep it under my bed for personal protection. It takes 11.43-calibre rounds. I don’t know why we’ve adopted such warped measures, but they’re big bullets. I feel safer with big bullets, especially when I’m asleep. There’s nothing worse than being defenceless when you’re asleep; nothing worse than waking up and being helpless. So, if you know that you’ve got a solution under your bed, if you know that in an instant you can reach for a large semi-automatic pistol, locked and loaded, then you can defend yourself, you can survive, come back to reality by force; then you can sleep soundly.’
‘Is sleeping really so dangerous?’
‘Someone can cut your throat in a few seconds. Over there, we slept with one eye open. We took turns keeping watch over each other. Closing both eyes meant taking a risk. Nowadays, here is “over there”. That’s why I occupy the high ground. I’ve had my lads fortify the post, I see them coming from every side.’
From under the sofa he took out an impressive weapon, a sniper rifle fitted with a telescopic sight. ‘Come and look.’ He led me over to the window, leaned on the sandbags, slipped the barrel through one of the arrow slits and aimed it outside. ‘Hold it.’ I held it. Guns are heavy objects. You can feel the weight of the compact metal in your hand; the slightest touch gives you a shock. ‘Look down there. The red car.’ A garish sports cars looked out of place beside the other cars. ‘She’s mine. No one touches her. They know I keep watch, day and night. I’ve got a night-vision scope, too.’ The telescopic sight worked perfectly. You could see the people coming and going eighteen floors below, oblivious to anything. The sights framed the head and torso, and crosshairs made it possible to decide where the bullet would go.
‘No one touches my car. It’s alarmed and, day or night, I’m ready to put a bullet in someone’s head. They know me. They watch their step.’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you see them? I can recognize them at a glance: from the way they stand, from the smell, the sounds. I recognize them instantly. They call themselves French and defy us to prove that they’re not. As proof, they wave what they call an ID card and what I call a scrap of paper. A Get Out of Jail Free card offered by an administration that’s been compromised and infiltrated.’
‘Infiltrated?’
‘Salagnon, you need to teach your boy about more than painting. He knows nothing about the world. He thinks that reality is what it says on paper.’
‘Cut it out, Mariani.’
‘Look, there they are! Eighteen floors down. They’re everywhere, but I can follow them with the sights. Just as well, because when the time comes, bang! bang! They multiply like rabbits. They’re given nationality as fast as the photocopiers can duplicate a scrawl on a scrap of paper, and when that happens there’s nothing we can do. They multiply under cover of that meaningless phrase that looms over us like a dead tree: “French national”. No one knows what the term means any more. But I can tell who is French, I can see it in the crosshairs, just like I did over there; it’s easy to spot and easy to deal with. So why talk for the sake of talking? All you need is a few determined men and we can put an end to the legal bullshit standing in our way, the pernicious prattle confusing everyone and a society of like minds can finally govern with common sense. That’s my political policy: common sense, force, efficiency, give power to people who trust each other; my policy is the naked truth.’
I nodded. I nodded without thinking, nodded without understanding. He had left me holding the rifle and I looked into the gunsight so I did not have to look at him, and I followed the people eighteen floors below, followed their heads engraved with black crosshairs. I nodded. He carried on; I made him laugh, holding the rifle so seriously. ‘You’re getting a taste for it, am I right?’ I knew I should put down the gun but I couldn’t; my hands were fused to the metal, my eye to the sights, as though, for a laugh, someone had smeared the gun with superglue before handing it to me. I followed people’s eyes and my eye inscribed their faces with a cross, a cross they had no idea existed, one that never left them. The metal grew warm to the touch, the gun responded to my every movement, the sights became one with my eye. The rifle is the man. ‘Look, Salagnon, the lad’s just had his first shooting lesson from me. To look at him, you would think he had a place in a command post. Let’s leave him at the window, with him standing guard, we’re safe.’ Mariani’s lads burst out laughing, a bellowing laugh that set their paunches quivering; they laughed at me and I blushed so hard my cheeks were scorched. Salagnon got to his feet without a word and led me away like a child.
‘They’re fucking crazy, aren’t they?’ I said, as soon as the lift doors had closed. The cabin of a lift is not very large, but it is not worrying when the doors close. The little room is well lit and furnished with mirrors and a carpet. When the doors close you don’t feel claustrophobic, you feel rather reassured. The corridors in the tower block where Mariani lived, on the other hand, awaken latent fears of the dark: the lights are smashed and the corridors wind, windowless, through the building and you quickly lose your sense of direction and fumble around for doors. You don’t know where you’re going.
‘Pretty crazy,’ he said indifferently, ‘but I have a soft spot for Marini.’
‘Even so, guys with guns, turning an apartment into a fortified bunker…’
‘They’ve got lots more like them, and things never get out of hand. Mariani keeps them in check. They dream of living the life Mariani lived, and since he’s already lived it, he can control them. When he dies, they won’t know what to dream about. They’ll disperse. When the last player from the colonial caravanserai is dead, GAFFES will disband. No one will even remember it once seemed possible.’
‘That sounds optimistic to me. We’ve got lunatics armed to the teeth in a residential tower block and you just dismiss it out of hand.’
‘They’ve been there fifteen years. They haven’t fired a single shot outside the rifle club, where they’ve got official membership cards with their real names and photos. Any fuck-ups have been accidents that would have happened with or without them; in fact, there would probably have been more.’
Soundlessly, with no reference points, the lift brought us back to earth. I found Salagnon’s calmnes
s exasperating.
‘I find your calmness exasperating.’
‘I’m calm by nature.’
‘Even when dealing with bullshit like that, guys with a taste for war, a taste for death?’
‘There’s a lot of bullshit in this world. I’ve got my fair share. I’m no longer intimidated by war; and as for death, well, I don’t give a shit about death. Nor does Mariani. That’s why I have a soft spot for him. You don’t know what you’re saying. You know nothing about death, and you can’t imagine what it’s like for someone not to give a shit about it. I’ve seen men who didn’t give a flying fuck about dying. I’ve lived with them. I’m one of them.’
‘Only lunatics are not afraid to die, and even then… only a certain kind of madman.’
‘I didn’t say I’m not afraid, just that I don’t care about my own death. I see it. I know where it is and I don’t care.’
‘That’s just talk.’
‘Actually, it’s not. I’ve lived with that disregard. I’ve witnessed it in others. It is unequivocal and horrifying. Over there, I took part in a charge of legionnaires.’
‘A charge? People still charge in the twentieth century?’
‘It just means to advance on an enemy position that is firing at you. I’ve seen it, I was there, but I hid behind a rock. I kept my head down, like everyone does the first time, but they charged, by which I mean that at their officer’s command, these guys stood up and advanced. They’re being fired on, they know they could be shot, could die at any minute, but they advance. They don’t even run: they march, shooting from the hip, firing as though this were a manoeuvre. I’ve done it myself. I’ve charged an enemy firing on me, but in that case you scream, you run; screaming means you don’t have time to think, running makes you believe you’re dodging bullets. But that’s not what these men do: they stand up and they calmly advance. If they die, tough luck; they know that. Some men fall, others don’t, and they carry on. It’s a terrifying spectacle, watching men who don’t care whether they die. War is based on fear and protection, so when these guys stand up and advance it is genuinely terrifying; normal rules have been suspended; this is not war. More often than not, the guys they were advancing on, the ones who were protected, they turned and ran. They were scared shitless and they ran. Sometimes they stood their ground and it ended in hand-to-hand combat, fighting with knives, rifle butts, stones. The legionnaires care as little about other men’s deaths as they do about their own. They kill a man the same way they might sweep a floor. They call it scrubbing the enemy position; they talk about it like it was taking a shower. I’ve seen men drop dead from exhaustion so as not to slow down their comrades. I’ve seen them hang back to slow down the enemy pursuing them. And they all knew what they were doing. These men have stared into the sun, their retinas are burned out; they set something on the ground, their kitbag for example, and they stand there, fully aware of what will happen. I have been privileged to see such things. Afterwards, nothing had the same meaning: fear, death, man, nothing.’