Apocalypse Baby

by Virginie Despentes

  ‘I read in the papers that your father’s going to get a decoration, he’s going to be a Chevalier des Arts et Lettres.’

  ‘Was it in the papers here?’

  ‘No, Valentine, I read the French papers, because I pay attention to everything that concerns you.’

  ‘That’ll make him happy.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should make an effort to get on better with him?’

  ‘Do you think this is the moment?’

  ‘I can’t take a decision for you.’

  A dizzy flash, the whistle of a tiny bullet into the brain. Valentine talks of nothing else every day. At first she thought Sister Elisabeth wanted to dissuade her. But no, she too is disgusted, she too thinks passive acceptance is no longer the right thing. It does no good just going on putting up with things as they are. It‘s not human any more. Sister Elisabeth has warned her: standing out from the herd is never an easy thing to do. Alone, facing the crowd, she will have to work out how to play her part.

  Around them, night is falling. Of the distant town you can only see tiny lamps, a valley of doll’s houses. Aeroplanes’ headlights flash on and off in the sky. A silence has risen in Valentine’s throat.

  Time to go home. She knows what she has to do.

  Before they part at the bus stop, the nun, as she does every night, looks Valentine in the face for a long time. At the moment of farewell, she hugs her to her, something she doesn’t usually do. They understand each other.

  ‘You’re so young, Valentine. And so full of light.’

  ‘You’ll help me?’

  ‘I won’t let you fall. You’ll never walk alone, you know that.’

  Next morning, as arranged, the nun is back in the empty living room in the little house. Today makes Valentine think of Wednesdays spent checking her homework, when she was small, with her grandfather. Irregular verbs. The 1914–18 war. Agreements with the perfect tense of ‘avoir’. Chemical formulae. ‘A little discipline please,’ he would say with a frown, and he would make her organize her pencil case, copy her work out neatly, and he always insisted she wash her hands first and sit up straight on her chair. ‘We’re not in the monkey house here, are we.’ Today, naturally, she sits up straight to listen, she articulates clearly when she repeats the words, her hands are on the table when she needs to concentrate. Her throat feels tight, there’s anguish there, but she is learning to galvanize it into certainty. She feels tough inside. She likes it. She tries to connect to the reality of what’s happening, but it’s impossible. She still feels she’s pretending, that it’s a game of make-believe.

  ‘You can pull out, you know. Until the last minute, you know you can pull out.’

  They’ve become so close. There is respect and much affection between them. No need for excessive gestures or declarations. Sister Elisabeth will be watching over her. She understands her and accepts her just as she is. She gives her the kind of love you give a baby: unconditional.

  And this old, wise woman, who has devoted her life to helping other people, does not try to dissuade her from what she has to do. Because she too is sick with disgust. Wherever she looks, she sees unhappiness, injustice and brutality. Just letting things happen is no longer an option. You have to intervene. Into this sordid reality. Stop things just going on the same old way, at all costs.

  The first few days, Valentine had been tempted to giggle secretly when Sister Elisabeth started to talk about Jesus, the crusades and the importance of truth. If Jesus came back to earth, he’d be a freedom fighter, his disciples would be guerrilleros. Terrorists, the lot of them. They would be pursued, handcuffed, condemned to life in top-security jails. Always kept under surveillance. There wouldn’t be any resurrection possible, there would only be arrest warrants, their pictures all over the media. And as many executions as necessary. If Jesus came back, he would have to speak out. He couldn’t just have a quiet chat with the merchants. But he wouldn’t be able, any more than the first time, to prove that he was a different kind of warrior. His miracles would be mocked, and his divine words printed on mugs to be sold in souvenir shops.

  As time went on, Valentine had gradually lost her cynicism. She started to listen without feeling like mocking. Everything comes together. She’s found the strength not to distrust her sincerity.

  ‘Take these to help you keep going. Nothing to be ashamed of. It’s as important as having weapons. And as important as faith. Everything has to work together.’

  Some small round transparent pills. Made in China. It feels like swallowing a little pebble. Only one at a time, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to sleep at all. Valentine feels her forehead being pulled forward, and her thoughts roll through it, implacable, linked, working in sequence. She is a war machine.

  ‘In Paris, you’ll be watched all the time. They won’t want you to get in the way of their plans. They’re on the lookout. You should go back on the internet, to show that you’re normal, but don’t ever try to contact me that way, not ever. I’ll be there, don’t worry. I’ll show myself. You’ll never be alone. And when you look down from your window and see a nun with a bunch of white roses, you’ll know that’s the sign. After she’s seen you’ve seen her, she’ll leave something for you in the flowerpot by the front door. It will be for the day after that, precisely.’

  ‘How did you know there are flowers in front of the house?’

  ‘I find these things out, Valentine, I find out. When you get home, you should say you want to go back to school. That running away has made you think a lot. Understand? Not a word to anyone. Don’t leave any message behind you. They’d only twist it to make your action mean something different.’

  The same instructions, several times. Sister Elisabeth makes her repeat: ‘What will be going through your head when you walk into the house. Visualize the apartment, think of the smells, concentrate. What will you be thinking?’

  ‘My grandmother, my father, my stepmother, her daughters: whatever happens, I’ll say what they want to hear. No showing off, no tantrums. I have only one aim. I apologize when they’re in the wrong. I smile if they insult me. When the police question me, or the youth magistrate, I’ll say: my mother gave me enough money, so I took a cheap hotel room. I didn’t do anything. I was feeling depressed. The meeting with my mother didn’t work out, it devastated me. I’m glad to be back home. I realize it’s important to get on with my school work. I thought a lot while I was on the run. I’m sorry I caused all this worry for the people who really love me.’

  These pills are fantastic. She feels calm, euphoric, capable of concentrating without any effort.

  Then it’s the evening. Sister Elisabeth surrounds her with all her affection. She clasps her to her, and strokes her back.

  ‘The simplest thing is to go home with the two detectives. That way no suspicions will be aroused. But watch out. They try to look more stupid than they are. Don’t let your guard slip with them.’

  ‘How will I find them?’

  ‘What about going to see your friend Carlito? He’s in town, isn’t he? You know where he is?’

  ‘We arranged that I’d call every day at the CNT bookshop at four o’clock. He’s supposed to leave me a message if he can’t be there.’

  ‘Something tells me he’ll warn them if you arrange to meet him. They can offer money, you know.’

  Only three days ago, Valentine would have been revolted to think her best friend would betray her. But now it doesn’t matter. Sister Elisabeth hugs her tightly, rocks her to and fro without a word, and they fall asleep on the sofa. Valentine’s ready.

  Carlito isn’t hard to find. The next day she’s drinking a beer with him in a scruffy bar in the Raval area. He doesn’t suspect anything. He can’t see the difference between the way she was a week ago and what she has become. He’s too busy talking to pay her much attention. He’s happy because he’s having a torrid affair with a Chilean woman. As torrid affairs go, Valentine gets the feeling that the girl isn’t that keen on him, but doesn’t know
how to get rid of him. None of that matters much any more.

  And everything happens exactly the way Sister Elisabeth predicted: after a quarter of an hour, two silhouettes appear in the doorway. Valentine stares at Carlito, he still doesn’t have a mobile, she wonders just when this son of a bitch alerted them. He plays the guy who has no idea what’s happening. She wants to spit in his face. The taller one of the two comes up to Valentine.

  ‘Can I have a word? Couple of minutes.’

  Valentine picks up her bag and follows her.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you for days. It’s your choice: you can come back with us of your own accord, or we’ll inform the police.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Do you want to tell your friend back there?’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I think he knows… Let’s go.’

  These two oldsters came by car. They’re playing at Starsky and Hutch, only more decrepit and edgy. Their bags are already in the boot. As if they knew, as well, that it would be today. Valentine recognizes the younger one, the one who was following her in Paris. That ties things up neatly.

  There’s a white light inside her skull. One pill every morning. Not more. She mustn’t let herself get high or lose the plot, but be wide awake. Carlito always used to say teenagers don’t start drugs because they taste good, or because the kids are bored, or because they want to forget their problems, or because of their hormones, no, they get high to destroy their intelligence. Because if they kept it intact, just when it’s at its peak, they wouldn’t be able to bear the pain of the disgust they’d feel for their parents.

  Valentine would like to be able to wipe out any remaining traces of Carlito. Traitor. Armchair terrorist. Where she’s going, she won’t need him.

  She’s not afraid. She knows she has to do what she has to do.

  Valentine doesn’t want to grow up to be like her father: a liar and a coward, who thinks of nothing but getting his prick inside the nearest cunt, but who plays the prude at the dinner table, as if he’s a respectable gent. She doesn’t want to grow up to be like her grandmother, brimful of nagging hate, talking of nothing but Christian charity, but really dying of loneliness and frustration. She doesn’t want to grow up like her mother, obliged to marry someone and tell lies about who she is. She can’t see any adults around her with a sense of direction. Any remains of dignity. They compromise all along the line, and tie themselves in knots to justify it. They say it’s their choice. All the shit you have to eat, they just swallow it down without flinching. All they know is how to do what they’re told. How to survive at any price. Well, she’s going to slam the brakes on. This world they’ve built, she’s going to introduce some order to it.

  She had asked Carlito why he never took the step of moving to action. To cover up his cowardice, he’d spread his arms wide: ‘That’s a romantic temptation. But above all it’s a way of getting people to notice you. What we ought to be working for is the revolution. Not some new spectacular act. This isn’t the circus. The difficult thing isn’t to die heroically, but to resist on the ground, with concrete results.’ She had been disappointed. She’d wanted him to say something more flamboyant, like that he’d been waiting for this moment ever since he’d met her, that the two of them were going to do this really big thing. Magali had been even less enthusiastic. But with her at least, it was upfront: she believed in nonviolence. Cue a boring lecture: ‘What does terrorist violence achieve? Well, armed force is their thing. They achieve power by the use of force, they invent frontiers and fence us in by the use of force, they hang on to power by the monopoly of force. The whole idea of legitimate violence is a con. If you use violence, you’ll always set up a new power, and it’ll legitimize itself, just like the one before: by violence. The only thing that changes is the faces of the leaders. Because the new powers will never agree that violence by the people they oppress can be legitimate. So it all starts all over again. Back to square one, police, oppression, prison, torture. What I’m interested in is how to create a world where the leaders don’t give themselves the right to exercise violence. I want to know how we can live differently from the way we are now.’ Magali could hold forth about this for hours, but she was wrong. A political movement is only valid if it causes deaths. Otherwise it’s just feminism: a hobby for kept women. You need violence. Otherwise nobody listens. Valentine has grown up in such luxury that she has no wish to turn her violence against the police. She can’t be bothered with demos. Why fight battles with people who only earn the minimum wage? The cops are living in the same shitty world as the homeless. Kill a thousand of them, and another thousand will appear. Power has to be attacked at the top. Directly.

  It will take at least ten hours to drive to Paris. The younger detective, sitting in the front passenger seat, turns round to Valentine and breaks the silence. ‘I’m glad you’re safe and sound. You probably think I’m out of order, but after thinking about you all this time, I’m glad you’re OK. Everyone was so worried, you know. Can I ask you a question? Had you spotted me?’

  ‘How could I possibly have missed you?’

  ‘Do you want to call on your mother before we leave Barcelona?’

  This is the taller one speaking. Valentine distrusts her. She may be playing the dozy elder citizen. But something in her piercing look is suspicious.

  ‘No. Thanks. We’ve said all we had to say to each other.’

  ‘She’s worried about you, you know.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, she hides it pretty well.’

  The older one smiles before adding, ‘Pity, I’d have quite liked to see her again. My name’s the Hyena by the way.’ Her eyes are looking for Valentine in the rear mirror. On the way out of town, a car hoots at them, the Hyena screeches to a halt, lowers her window and hurls abuse at the poor guy, who shrinks under the wheel, surprised by the violence of her reaction. She starts in Spanish and finishes in French. The younger one looks annoyed as they move off again.

  ‘He won’t understand if you swear at him in French.’

  ‘So what! I think he got the message.’

  Right, she’s a maxi-monster, a psychopath. That’s all she needed. The tension has gone up a notch in the car, the air is harder to breathe. Now that she’s put everyone at ease, the Hyena seems to relax, but for an hour nobody says anything. Valentine says to herself that her grandmother throwing a tantrum by comparison is like Gandhi tickling you. Dying in a road accident because the car’s being driven by a maniac, how dumb would that be? She feels that the Hyena is watching her non-stop in the rear mirror. She’s playing a Johnny Cash CD. Prehistoric music. A fine rain has started to fall, as it gets dark. Valentine feels a wave of sadness run over her, starting in her shoulders, then spreading like an ink stain down her back, to take hold of her guts. She’s on her own. The strength that Sister Elisabeth inculcated into her is already losing intensity. Every kilometre they drive makes what happened in Barcelona a bit vaguer, a bit less real.

  The Hyena is off again: ‘So, tell us then, what did you get up to all the time?’

  ‘Nothing much. That’s why I’m glad to be going home.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, I can see you’re bursting with joy. And why did you leave the hotel your mother took you to?’

  ‘That hotel depressed me.’

  ‘Was that a good reason to leave without telling her?’

  ‘We didn’t have anything left to say. She’d bought me lunch in every restaurant where she wasn’t scared of meeting someone she knew. I was afraid we’d start going round them again.’

  ‘So where did you sleep after that?’

  ‘I had a bit of money, I went to another hotel.’

  She’d like the trip to be over quickly now. Once they’ve crossed back into France, they listen to the radio. A debate about self-defence. Listeners with unbelievable provincial accents call in to talk about their experiences.

  The Hyena wants to ask something. ‘What about you, Valentine, have you ever been tempted to have a gun?’<
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  She won’t leave her alone. Valentine shrugs. ‘No. All I want is to get home and sit the bac.’

  ‘Oh really. The bac!’ She takes this in, reflects, and obviously doesn’t believe a word of it. ‘Terrific plan. Aren’t you afraid you’ll miss the palm trees? Weather’s not so nice in Paris, is it?’

  Adults really have a pathetic sense of humour as a rule. They think they can win kids over by false complicity. She’ll say as little as possible. The old detective is playing the kind of woman you can’t put something across on, but if she really knew, she’d blow a fuse. Valentine wants to tear her eyes out. Concentrate on the objective. Luckily, after five minutes they forget her and start talking about the love affair of the little one, the plain one. Valentine doesn’t bother listening, she’s relieved to have been forgotten.

  The mobile of the one called Lucie rings, she sits up and waves her hands in the air. ‘It’s your father!’

  Then she goes into a string of yes, yes, yes, she rabbits on, with some pathetic traces of self-satisfaction in her voice, making Valentine feel like she’s some kind of trophy. She’s dreading the moment when the phone will be passed back to her. But her father is even more ill at ease.

  ‘Are you OK, sweetheart? Sure? Oh, if you knew how worried we’ve been about you… I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re safe. I can’t wait to see you. You’re going to drive all night? You’re sure you’re OK?’

  Is she OK? What a farce. She doesn’t need to pretend, to make her voice sound choked, neutral, disconnected. The idea of going home makes her uneasy. It hadn’t occurred to her when she was far away. That he hadn’t even come in person to fetch her. She can’t manage to be cross with him, she just feels sharply aware of her total worthlessness.

  They stop north of Perpignan at a petrol station. They let her go to the toilet on her own. She needs to freshen up. Down some stairs. In the white neon light of the cloakroom, she looks different in the mirror. More serious, her face more delicate. Her features look drawn and there are slight circles under her eyes. It suits her, makes her look like someone who thinks a lot. She’d like to cry, but she can’t.