by Alexis Jenni
‘What about you?’
‘Oh, me… At some point I felt a burning need to fight. Maybe when we were running through the jungle with the Viets on our arse. Ever since then I’ve been angry.’
Salagnon patted his arm gently.
‘It makes you a dumb fuck, that anger of yours, but it saved your life.’
‘That’s why I don’t get it seen to.’
We went back to our fishing. We were slowly drifting downstream on the Saône. Night was falling. The riot erupted. There were sirens, fires blazed and were reflected in the still waters. Mariani ignored the outboard motor and let us drift; we moved with the sluggish current. I was floating down the reddening river with two old fishermen. We could hear the muffled thud of grenades being launched and the clear crack of their impact.
‘You remember that sound, Mariani? The pff when a grenade was launched. We’d duck our heads, hold on to our helmets and wait for it to land.’
‘You see, it finally happened. I’m proud I can say I was right. It’s reassuring. The riots have started.’
‘It won’t lead anywhere. A couple of burned-out cars, that’s all; a problem for insurance companies.’
‘You know what would be good? If we capsized and died tonight. That way we could disappear without having to argue. Without one of us having to be right and the other wrong. It would be better that way. It’s a good night for making peace with each other.’
‘Don’t talk shit, Mariani. We’ve got the kid with us.’
‘I’m sure he knows how to swim.’
‘We haven’t told him all this stuff for him to go and die.’
‘We’ll set him down on the bank.’
I had a date with her in any case. They dropped me at the jetty and the Zodiac set off again slowly, drifted on the crimson current, and disappeared behind a bridge. She lived on the Saône, the windows of her bedroom overlooked the river. The horizon glowed red.
I came back to you, my heart, you were waiting for me. The glistening water of the Saône quivered in the darkness, folding in on itself to pass the bridges, only to unfurl again, a black mirror; the current, so powerful and so slow, carried it south. Ever since I have known you, my heart, I am that river, and over its black, viscous surface, over its impenetrable surface glided the red glow of the fires, glided the sound of the sirens, glided the flickers of the riot, all gliding over without passing through.
I undressed to be closer to you, but I wanted to paint you. You were lying on the bed, on the floor, arms folded behind your head, your glittering eyes haloed by swan feathers, and you watched as I approached you. You showed your curves. We did not turn on a lamp; the light from outside was enough. I poured the ink into a bowl, a bowl made for the purpose, crusted with dried ink like so many layers of lacquer, like so many skins, like so many sloughs. I hold the ink in my hand when I paint, because painting is like drinking and this way I can see how much the brush imbibes, I can see my brush taking ink from the bowl, drinking it. I control how much it drinks and I paint. The ink in the bowl evaporates, it thickens; you have to paint quickly. The first strokes have the fluidity of damp breath, an approaching kiss, but afterwards the weight of the ink increases, it becomes stickier, it clogs the hairs of the brush, it is heavy, you can feel it in your fingers, in your arm, in your shoulder; the strokes become weightier and the ink as viscous as mineral oil, a slick of tar coating the bottom of the bowl; it gives the final stroke the terrifying weight of water from a well. Knowing this, I started by painting you with a feathery grace, then gained in gravity. I painted your curved lines. I painted your face in clear strokes; the arrogant flick of your nose, the rounded mass of your breasts, balanced like a pair of dunes; I painted your resting hands, your outstretched legs, your navel like a water drop against the curve of your belly. The reflections of the Saône trembled on the ceiling, on the walls, glimmered in your eyes, watching me paint you; the red reflections from the riot that howled outside trembled on the glossy surface of my ink, just on the surface, nothing passed through. My ink grew thicker. I painted you, you who were watching me, with an ink that gradually became heavier. My brush plunged into the bowl and soaked up nothing but red glows that glided over the surface of the ink and left no trace on the paper, just the line of your beautiful form. I finished. I had painted your extraordinary hair without touching anything. I had left the paper intact. I rinsed the brush, so it would not dry out, so I could use it again, again and again, so that I could paint you for ever.
I came to you. I was naked. I had painted naked, my penis did not hinder me; it rested against my thigh and I felt it throb. And when I lay down next to you, it lengthened and hardened. The contrast between the grey and white of your hair, swan’s feathers, and your vivid mouth and your full body moved me beyond measure. I went to you, I took you in my arms, you welcomed me, I entered you.
Outside the riot raged on. We heard screams, desperate pursuits, crashes, sirens and explosions. The red reflections from the Saône quivered on the ceiling. The viscous river, never stopping, continued on its course. A dark river, flushed red with fire, gently flowed through the city. This disinterested, unremitting flow saved me. I liked the fact that the Saône looked like blood. I was grateful to Victorien Salagnon for teaching me to see it and not to fear it. The whole of me swelled, my penis, too. I was full and I was coming inside you. Finally, I was happy.
First published as L’art français de la guerre in France in 2011 by Éditions Gallimard.
First published in trade paperback in Great Britain in 2017 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.
Copyright © Éditions Gallimard, 2011
Translation copyright © Frank Wynne, 2017
The moral right of Alexis Jenni to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
The moral right of Frank Wynne to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 753 4
E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 755 8
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