by Hedi Kaddour
Belkhodja allowed Laganier his hasty conclusion. He knew that, in spite of the risks, it was worth it, it was a true competition, to be the first to knock the cat down, because in this game the first to get a cat in spite of the risks became head of the band for a week. He no longer had to worry about finding food. He didn’t even have to shine shoes in the European quarter. Shining is very hard. Not the shining itself, that’s quickly learned, at the age of four—shining, two brushes, rag, all of it in a wooden box carried across your body. You shine kneeling down. You brush, without forgetting to spit. The client is standing, his foot on the box, a clacking of the brush against the box to indicate the client should change feet. You brush very quickly because you often do that not far from adult shiners and it was forbidden. That’s what’s hard, the kicks from the adult shiners that are on avenue Jules-Ferry, and it’s also hard because there is always another kid to dispute your corner of the sidewalk. To dispute means taking you by the throat and throwing you to the ground, and squeezing, and you try to get away with punches, or with a stone, and the other quickly squeezes to take away your strength, with men all around you. They’re laughing; some have begun to bet. The other kid starts bleeding. He tries to finish you off by giving you a blow on your nose with his head. You start bleeding, too, and an adult finally separates you, calling you children of Satan or sons of whores, and giving you, with each curse, blows that hurt even more than those inflicted between kids. That’s why it’s good to knock a cat off of a roof. When you do that you become the leader. You give your shoeshine box to a weaker kid. He’ll shine instead of you, and in the evening he’ll give you the money from the day, all the money, and if he cheats you, you beat him. With food it’s the same: you’re the leader. The other kids bring you what you ask for, and you can also ask for gifts, even shoes, black, with a buckle, European-style, and the other kids shine them for you, even if they are too big to walk in the street, and that’s better anyway because the real owner might recognize them. Laganier was wrong. It really was worth knocking a cat off a roof with a stone, provided you don’t take too long.
But this time, all around the building, the kids didn’t really seem to be in a hurry. They threw their stones calmly, without worrying about the din the stones were making when they hit the green tiles, and the tiles also fell when a stone broke one and it was detached. Usually that cost the kids dearly, the roof tiles, because you have to repair a tile right away, otherwise the rain can get in, or an evil bird, and you have to put salt on the tail of the bird before getting it out, and the wife tells the husband to replace the tiles, and the husband says he will do it, and he doesn’t do it, but every day he thinks of the kids that did that, and when he sees one hanging around, “I told you never to come back to this quarter,” he gets one. But this time, the kids were joking about the noise, the tiles, wives and husbands. They were bombarding the roof, shouting, “Thief,” at the cat. They were looking for the cat, couldn’t see it. Someone, an adult, also cried, “Thief!” and another man began to laugh: “Yes, a thief, I even know what he came to steal!”
The stones were becoming heavier and heavier. It wasn’t a cat they were aiming at, of course, it was a man-cat. He was trying to hide on the roof. He had flattened himself on the tiles at the base of the chimney, and there were an increasing number of adults in the street, and they also threw stones, even bigger ones. They didn’t need a slingshot. They went around the building, and the man-cat climbed around the chimney to hide. People weren’t talking about cats, or thieves anymore, but of a dog, a pig.
Some stones must have hit their target because cries were mixed with the shouts of men. Sometimes the throwing stopped because someone shouted: “You’re breaking the tiles of the hammam!” Then it started again, a dozen men in the street now, as many kids, a mixture of stones in slingshots and stones in a man’s hand, and there were also women, who came out of the building, running, straw baskets in their hands. They were furious. They yelled at the owner of the hammam: Shame on you, Si Abbade, you let this happen, you’re not watching your hammam. Honorable women think they’re safe there, and any pig can climb up on the roof and watch them. Shame on that man who is only a pig, and shame on you for allowing a pig to watch us!
A lot of the kids stopped throwing. They gave their stones to the adults. It was a competition among adults now, and Si Azzedine hit the target, like a seasoned thug, he, a respected notary. The women’s shouts got louder, and the cries from above, on the roof, like a sort of death rattle, and the man knew what was awaiting him, all those indignant people.
Two guards had managed to climb up on the roof. The stone-throwing stopped. The man must have seen their batons, not pickax handles, but real guard batons, heavier than pickax handles, with a very heavy head, a head with studs on it, and the guards wielded them like jugglers, spun them around, and with the weight of the head of the baton, the speed of the spinning, that’s what makes the blows so violent. Laganier responded to the worried look Belkhodja gave him:
“No, you well know that I can’t do anything. This type of thing is handled by the boss of the quarter. It’s the work of the moqaddem!”
Each spin of the baton was accompanied by a “son of a dog,” a “pig,” or a “you’re not a man,” and the first baton blow hit a shoulder, a shriek more shattering than the others, and it spun, it fractured—no, not the head, the guards weren’t killers, but the back, the legs, an exposed forearm. People heard it cracking.
After a moment the moqaddem arrived and the two guards stopped beating. What happened next no one really understood. A frightened guy is not very agile, especially when he begins not to have any more limbs in good condition. Did one of the guards make him roll off the roof like a stone? Did he fall by himself? No one knew. And when he reached the ground he made a funny noise on the hard-packed earth in a cloud of dust, the wind adding more dust, and not much remained of the life of that man.
“It’s Driss,” someone said, and someone else added:
“The chaouch of the water company,” and someone else:
“Yes, poor guy, a bit crazy.”
“No, not a bit, he was a true loony . . . He never knew what he was doing, maybe he wasn’t even watching, if we knew, we would have stopped sooner . . . Allah irahmu, may God have mercy on him.”
Laganier took Belkhodja by the arm:
“It’s horrible, isn’t it? A lynching is always horrible! The mob that doesn’t control itself under the pretext that it is defending right from wrong . . . and there’s worse than that . . .”
Laganier had small eyes, as if they were being eaten by his large eyelids, and he laughed:
“Imagine, for example, if one day the police lets the name of one of their informants slip out, and in addition people learn that the informant didn’t denounce just one person . . . that he’s been doing it for twenty years, a true second profession, right? . . . It’s the type of profession that can still be protected, but if in addition the police say that they no longer give a fuck about the informant, he’ll be like . . . a cat on a roof . . .”
Laganier was talking without looking at Belkhodja. He wasn’t holding on to his arm any longer. He was speaking softly and slowly: All things considered, one wasn’t forced to reach such a conclusion, the police can also be quiet, a file can be lost.
“We understand each other, don’t we? But if I help you it can only be between us, we won’t talk about it to anyone, will you allow me to hold your arm? Otherwise people will think that we are having a friendly conversation! You know that these little beggars are also extras for the Americans? I’d like to talk to you about that, quickly, it’s strange, the interest the Americans have in little beggars, isn’t it? Do you know what they’re doing in the film? They don’t talk about it in the medina? That’s strange, too, they should talk about it, even if no one knows anything specific, we’re going to talk about it, aren’t we? You and I, in confidence . . . And above all, don’t try to find protection with our dear caïd, Si A
hmed is even more conniving than I, you know something about that . . . And yet, he doesn’t know everything . . . Don’t you want to pay him back for everything he’s done to you? Yes, very good, act like you’re trying to leave me, that I’m holding you by force, people will like you . . . Those little beggars, do we agree? Your coreligionists have a right to be informed . . . Here, I’m going to give you a token of my goodwill. I’m going to put the stupidest of my men on your tracks. The more people see that you’re being followed by a snitch, the less you’ll seem to be one, and then we’ll be able to work together without any difficulty . . . Those Americans, don’t you find that they really think they can do anything? I’ll show you a photo, you’ll see!”
43
THE FACE
At the bar of the Grand Hôtel, there was more news from Hollywood. They joked about it but braced themselves for a storm. This time it involved George Macphail, a director, a “good guy,” and an artist, very fastidious. One morning when Macphail was working on his set, the big boss, Lakorsky, came by for a friendly visit. It was rare, it put everyone in a good mood, and what’s more, they were shooting a comedy. Lakorsky was delighted with the scenery and the accessories, real, huge spiders, and their webs, in a corner, and a special staff person hired to take care of them. They’re for a semi-close-up, Macphail said. Lakorsky was impressed. He also opened up the drawers of a chest: there was real silverware. Are you shooting a dinner? Lakorsky asked, and Macphail replied no, but the scenery had to be as realistic as possible, and then, you know, I showed the contents to the actors; they know that they are acting in front of real silver; that’s important.
Lakorsky nodded his approval. They took a break and Macphail even went for a walk in the sun with the big boss, both smoking Havana cigars, a half-hour of promising conversation. Lakorsky asked Macphail what he was working on, another comedy? A drama? What budget would he need? For how long? Macphail wasn’t born yesterday. He was careful not to put too much into that, but even so . . . And then the boss said: Good, I must go, come see me whenever you want. Macphail said good-bye and returned to his set, only to find another director in his place. Yes, I’m taking over the film, Lakorsky’s orders. No, that’s all I know. You should go talk to him, and if you want your spiderwebs they’re in the studio entrance. Neil knew Macphail well enough to know that he wouldn’t go see Lakorsky for a month, and he wouldn’t protest; he was too concerned with keeping his salary for that. That’s what the studios were like. The producers wanted to control everything, and they were using the Arbuckle affair and the leagues of virtue to do it. There were other rumors, butchered films, to attract larger audiences.
In the bar, Cavarro’s publicist, Samuel Katz, was getting angrier and angrier: To project a restorative image—are you kidding me? They couldn’t care less about the way we fuck, what’s important to them are the films, what we show in them . . . Neil added, two films abandoned since January . . . on peasants . . . two films without sentimentality! And Samuel continued: The Vigilantes want to suck the soul out of movies, and Lakorsky is quite happy for them to light a fire under his ass! Samuel’s anger was unstoppable in spite of the efforts that Francis and the others made to calm him down. Samuel doesn’t realize, said Francis, he should stop barking all the time at the foot of the wrong tree. In Hollywood he is always spending time with the unions. As long as he does his work well and is with me the producers won’t touch him, but if the police get involved that will be another story. He shouldn’t talk so much, even if McGhill is no longer here to snitch . . . Samuel opened his mouth and told them the amount Lakorsky paid to hire Hays, the guy responsible for having modesty and morality rule in Hollywood—a hundred thousand dollars! Yes, a hundred thousand . . . The same amount he paid a blackmailer four years ago! Samuel interrupted himself, he was holding his audience, he resumed: Lakorsky had been with some other production bigwigs in a hotel, outside of Boston, for a party, with women. At the time the press had called them “willing women,” whores that cost a thousand dollars, the group rate. Some of the women were married, and two months later, a Boston prosecutor, Tufts, said to Lakorsky that the husbands were suing, but he, the prosecutor, he thought it was a simple story of a drinking party, he didn’t want to bore himself with that, and if Lakorsky agreed to compensate the plaintiffs and pay their lawyers’ fees, he would close the matter without prejudice, for a hundred thousand dollars . . . Obviously, Cavarro added, it was a brilliant move, Lakorsky-the-moral-policeman had been trapped. He was afraid of the publicity, and he paid. And three years later, said Samuel even more bitterly, there was still a trial, in spite of the hundred thousand dollars. No, not because the story had gotten out: to tell that Lakorsky had paid a thousand dollars to screw and a hundred times more than that so no one would talk about it, might just make you laugh. It became interesting when there started to be competition among the Boston prosecutors to get reelected. Such information was a weapon, and during a reelection campaign one uses weapons. The district attorney decided to go after the corrupt prosecutor. People really like it when a prosecutor goes to prison now and then, and it’s good for morale, and it’s good for crooks. It’s like a train accident: people say there won’t be another one for some time. Tufts denied everything, but the prosecution showed his bank statements, and he was ultimately dismissed by the Massachusetts supreme court.
The ruling was a gift, said Samuel, in that affair Tufts had “behaved the way a deceitful prosecutor would have acted to stick it to the rich.” Yes, he had behaved the way one would have . . . And the best was at the end, the court specified that “the question of knowing whether Tufts was guilty in the case in point did not need to be settled.” They had cut off Tufts’s balls, with a saw that wasn’t very clean, but still cut them off—that’s what justice is like back home—and Lakorsky still managed to turn everything in his favor: a guy who can pay such a sum just to get laid, that meant he had means, so he was a trustworthy producer! And then he hired Hays to oversee the entire movie industry, for the same amount! That screwer of whores no longer lets anyone get a divorce, let alone remarry, all of that because he’s afraid of churches and their Vigilantes. He has cold feet, because he, Mayer, and Schenk are afraid of attacks against Jews, when the Vigilantes should be told that we are the salt of the earth, and make real films, saying screw your morality, but those three don’t want to: that would give artists power!
Gabrielle and her friends understood Samuel, but not his virulence or the anguish in his voice. They quickly had an explanation: the Americans had just learned that a catastrophe was on the way. The catastrophe was called The Face.
The Face’s real name was Arnold Belfrayn, a fat man, with the beard of a lumberjack, a small voice, and food in his beard, a muckraker who worked for the Los Angeles Herald, not very good. He saw only what he wanted to see, and wrote with too many adjectives, adverbs, with pleonasms and clichés. He was capable of coming up with things such as “silence and indifference are jetties that prevent entering the port of an expression of authentic morality,” and he sulked if a bureau chief cut the sentence. When his bosses realized that he hadn’t written anything for two weeks, he was threatened with being fired, but they also said the same thing when they read what he wrote. So he could have been at the end of his rope and end up in obscurity in a corner sorting telegrams, but his guarantee of employment was that he informed his boss about colleagues’ moods. He also had a sense of detail, and the panties of a star, with her initials embroidered in pearls, that had been found in the back of a taxi . . .
Why was he called The Face? You just had to look at him, the nose of a drinker, pockmarked cheeks, little slits for eyes, enough to hate Douglas Fairbanks or John Gilbert for a long time. He shot down celebrities, in America people like to see actors climb really high, really fast: it makes you dream, it seems so simple; and they also like to see them fall: that consoles them for having to stay where they are.
In Hollywood, toward the end of April, Belfrayn sensed that his s
ituation was becoming increasingly precarious. He needed a big scoop and he thought of Neil Daintree. He had Daintree in his sights because no one had been able to bring him down, sitting as he was on cloud nine. Usually, for a director, all Belfrayn would have had to say is that he was an intellectualist, and three-quarters of the country would be against him; but the problem with Daintree was that he was a war veteran, with rare honors: try to bring down a guy like that in a country where when veterans and their medals go through a train station everyone stands up and applauds them! And Daintree thought he could do anything, such as refusing to take Belfrayn’s calls.
Belfrayn had sold his project directly to the big boss of the newspaper:
“If we find any hanky-panky they’re hiding over there, it could be bigger than the Arbuckle affair. Over there I’d hear everything. I speak French, I will see everything. That little group is too clean. Hearst has increased sales by twenty percent with that Arbuckle pig, we could do as well with the escapades of Cavarro and Daintree. They were in the San Francisco hotel with Arbuckle, they managed to escape. I’m sure that’s made them careless.”
When he heard the names Cavarro and Daintree, the big boss smelled a big story. It would cost something, of course. He pointed at Belfrayn:
“Travel, hotel, that’s going to cost us a lot of money. If you screw up with this you’re finished!” Then he smiled: “Fine, let’s do it!”
The smile was because he knew that the cost of Belfrayn’s mission wouldn’t even be the price of a good meal with the board of directors at Aldo’s, with French wine and cognac that were as old as the Declaration of Independence. He also told Belfrayn to find out what the French were doing in that country over there: Look around, they say they’re protecting, but it seems they’re looking for oil.