A man of about thirty is standing at the gates, he looks furious. A woman appears, flanked by two little girls. The eldest is wearing shoes with wheels set into the soles, the younger one is hugging a stuffed toy Noddy to her tummy. They are walking quickly, they are late. The woman hands the man a shapeless green canvas bag which presumably contains their things. The man takes the two girls by the hand and walks off without a word. The girls go with him, briefly turning to nod their goodbyes.
Vernon continues on his way. He knows nothing about dogs, he certainly did not know that this particular breed was a babe magnet. Whether they’re jogging or chatting, whether they’re sprawled on the grass or sitting on benches smoking cigarettes, it seems that all the women along his route are ready to be bowled over: “aw, she’s so cute!”, “look, it’s a French bulldog”, “I love those dogs”, “see how beautiful she is”. Vernon smiles, radiant, slows his pace, nods then walks on happily. His black thoughts dissolve. Colette is an aphrodisiac. He understands why Xavier is so attached to her. Vernon does not have the attention span to be a truly depressed. This has always saved him. He is no longer troubled by the gravity of his situation.
*
Nice pair of legs. He recognises the dark-haired girl in shorts. From her hair and her tattoo. It is the girl who was checking him out in the bar, the girl he could not talk to because Xavier was plastered and they had to leave. She is much taller and much younger than he thought last night. She is talking on her mobile, her eyes meet his but she does not react, he slows. The dog – ever a faithful companion – chooses this moment to roll around in the grass, rubbing herself this way and that. The girl glances over and smiles. Vernon bends down and scratches Colette behind the ears with the casual air of an ordinary guy who is not waiting for anything in particular. The girl is glued to her phone, making it difficult to approach her without seeming like a stalker. It would mean standing in front of her and staring until she finished her conversation, he can see how such a tactic might be off-putting. Vernon walks on past her, irritated. This was no coincidence, it was a golden opportunity: you eye each other up in the bar and next day you meet in the park, it is a pity not to make the most of it. The girl catches him up, telephone still glued to her ear, she flashes him a smile and crouches next to Colette. Her thighs broaden as she flexes, her skin is mouth-watering, she reminds him of a cake. She continues to listen to whoever is on the other end of the line, rolls her eyes to heaven to indicate that it is taking forever but if he will only wait a minute, she has something to say to him. No problem, let her take her time. He signals, pressing two fingers to his lips: she wouldn’t have a cigarette? She spreads her hands helplessly, sorry, she doesn’t smoke, or at least she has no cigarettes on her. He stares at the trees in the distance. Time drags on. He studies the trees with such rapt concentration that she must think it is part of his day job.
Eventually she says, “Listen, can I call you back? I’m at the Métro station and I’m about to go down – I’ll call you in a little while, yeah?” From her tone, it is obvious she is talking to a boy, talking to a boy with whom she is on intimate terms. The fact that she is already lying to him is a good sign.
“We saw each other last night, didn’t we?”
“Actually, when I saw you last night I recognised you. I love French bulldogs, I’ve always dreamed of having one. Is it a female? How old is she?”
“She’s three. But she’s not mine. I’m looking after her for a friend. Her name is Colette. Are you sure we’ve met before?”
“Yes, you used to manage a record shop just past place de la République . . .”
A minor anti-climax, a disappointment. She was not staring at him because she was captivated by the charisma of the predatory male. But a glimmer of hope too – she remembers the shop, she doesn’t see him as some ageing loser but as a guy shrouded in the power of rock music. Then, with a sly ingenuousness that cannot be entirely innocent, she all but emasculates him:
“I used to go there all the time with my father. On Saturdays, when I was with him, it was like clockwork: we’d go to Clignancourt flea market to look at vinyl, eat moules frites for lunch and then we’d go to your shop. My father worshipped you. It’s hardly surprising you don’t remember me, I was, like, this big.”
She holds her hand out at her waist to indicate how tall she was. Vernon pinches the base of his nose between thumb and forefinger – it is a gesture he tends to make when a situation seems complicated but not hopeless. He takes advantage of this new information to stare openly at her face, as though racking his brain for a memory. The girl tilts her head to one side, amused by his confusion. Vernon gets the impression that she is not unreceptive to the idea of being chatted up.
“Who was he, your papa?”
“Bartholemy Jagard. A cop. A heavy metal fan.”
It all comes back. An affable guy with a moustache, a scientologist. A complete fruitcake. He would have Vernon special-order Finnish heavy metal records for him, knew the metal scene inside out. Another bullshitter. After a while, it was exhausting having to listen to him, he was always telling stories about grave robbers, necrophiliac romances and sacrificial killings, all offered with a beaming smile. Bartho came to the shop like he might go to a sex shop: he would rather have been interested in something else, spend his money on edifying books about the geopolitical problems of the world. But he could not do it. He would often bring his daughter, who would sing songs from “The Lion King”, hunker down between the record racks and play. Her little head barely rising above the counter as her father cheerfully launched into detailed descriptions of animals being gutted on stage by grinning Vikings. Vernon looks deep into her eyes:
“I remember you now. How is your father? Still into heavy metal?”
“No. His new girlfriend doesn’t like guitar music. She pretends like she’s into the theatre and medieval literature, but actually she spends her life bingeing on reality T.V. and crisps.”
It is not difficult to fall in love. First her eyes staring at him last night, her youth and that faint impudence – nothing vulgar, just enough to pique his curiosity. Then there is the way she carries herself, the urge to stroke her back, to press his lips against her inner thighs; there is the tone of her voice, the mischievous gleam when she talks to him, something just a little rushed about her delivery – but not enough to get on his nerves. And that unconscious ease that comes of being so young – still oblivious to the blows that will destroy parts of her. Past the age of forty, everyone is like a bombed-out city. He falls in love when she bursts out laughing – desire is mingled with a promise of happiness, a utopia of perfectly matched tranquillities – she only has to turn her face to his, to let him kiss her and he will enter a different world. Vernon knows the difference: arousal is a pulsating in the groin, love is a weakening in the knees. A part of his soul falls away – and the floating sensation is both delicious and disquieting: if the other person refuses to catch the body tumbling towards it, the fall will be all the more painful since he is no longer a young man. With age we suffer more and more, as though our emotional skin, more delicate, more fragile, can no longer bear the slightest blow.
Her name is Céleste. He does not have a clue what he is doing. She uses young people’s words, says them without yet knowing how ridiculous they are. She says “swear down”, she says “on fleek”, she says “bae”, and he recognises the fervent foolishness of people who feel the need to put the same expressions in every sentence. She suggests they walk to the nearest McDo so he can buy her a chocolate Very Parfait. He cannot read between the lines – is she asking as the little girl who used to come to the shop with her father “Will you buy me an ice cream?” Is she asking as a young attractive woman who expects to be indulged? Vernon tells her he hasn’t got a cent, no, not even for an ice cream, and if he did, he has better things to spend it on than taking her to McDonald’s. What does he mean he doesn’t have enough to buy a coffee? He can tell that he is losing her. He perseveres: t
he fact that he is broke doesn’t mean he has no class, if she chooses her friends based on purchasing power, she’ll miss out on the important things in life. She is dubious: sorry, but someone your age who doesn’t even have enough to buy a cup of coffee, you can understand why I’m surprised. She is a filthy little slut. She is devastatingly attractive. Her exaggerated respect for money makes it seem possible that she is simply being provocative. But what she says is tinged with a terrible candour that makes it possible she is being absolutely sincere. Vernon is still trapped in the last century, when people still took the trouble to pretend that being was more important than having. And it was not always hypocrisy. He has spent his life dating girls who did not give a toss that he was blacklisted by the banks. During the conversation, Colette is accosted by a huge hairy mutt that must weight at least 80 kilos sniffing her arse relentlessly – Vernon freezes, imagining the monstrous cur gobbling up the little dog, and he cannot see how he could stop it. Colette stands motionless for ten seconds, allowing herself to be sniffed, then bares her teeth and sends the Rottweiler scampering back three metres, yelping as though he were a common poodle. The huge hound keeps a respectful distance, then eagerly returns to the fray. Colette snarls again and puts him in his place. Hands in her pockets, Céleste gloats, “Very assertive, isn’t she?” Vernon plays the laid-back guy who finds all this funny. He cannot understand how a dog who looks like a stuffed toy can possibly dominate anything, it can only be that for dogs, as for humans, it’s all in the mind.
Céleste says that she has to go, she has to get to work. She asks for his mobile number and Vernon can tell that it is more so that she can get rid of him than so she can send him torrid text messages. “I don’t have a French mobile, I don’t live here. But you can friend me on Facebook, that way we can keep in touch.” “Yeah, I don’t really do Facebook . . .” “But you’ve got an account? My name’s Vernon Subutex.” “What kind of lame-ass username is that? Did you get it from Harry Potter?” “You know nothing, honestly, you know nothing about anything. So what’s your name?” “Céleste. I’ll friend you. Will you remember it’s me?”
He gives her a wink and then turns on his heel all the while wondering whether he looks manly and decisive, or if he just looks like a loser.
He leaves the park, his mind filled with raw, pin-sharp images, how he would lay her across the dining table in Xavier’s sitting room, how he would pull her panties down with a swift, precise gesture and unceremoniously fuck her up the arse, how he would push up her jumper to see her childish tits squashed against the table, her endearing little whimpers when he threatened to pull out as she begged him to keep going.
A PERSISTENT SENSATION, UNPLEASANT AND PRECISE, MAKES IT hard for him to breathe. A commotion between throat and chest. Laurent leaves his coat with the girl on the door and asks that they be given a table sheltered from any draughts, he catches his reflection in the huge mirror that covers the back room. He is slim. In six months, he has lost almost ten kilos. He is surprised by the image – proud and relieved that his body looks so lithe. He does not yet identify with this slim figure, his spatial awareness of himself is of the body he has had for the past ten years. He needs to put on some muscle. He has always had a woman’s body. When he has a paunch, it is not as obvious – his plumpness is grotesque but masculine. But as soon as he regains his figure, his shoulders seem narrower, his buttocks more rounded, his general appearance more feminine. He thinks of Daniel Craig whom he saw in the most recent James Bond movie not long ago. He would sell his soul to the devil to look like that in a dinner jacket.
With a gallant wave, he gestures Audrey towards the banquette. She could have made an effort. She is not even wearing make-up. A baggy crew-neck jumper, a pair of trainers, her roots are showing three centimetres of dingy grey, she has not been to the hairdresser for months. The woman can hardly bring herself to smile. She is sleeping with Bertrand Durot and no-one in Paris can afford to piss off one of the grandees of France Télévisions. Laurent could not very well refuse to meet with her. He has no intention of producing her film. It would be a clusterfuck from beginning to end. Why court trouble? The movie would be lucky to sell thirty tickets. This is the new fad among women directors – stories of post-menopausal women who chain-smoke and talk to losers. He would love to be frank with her, to say, you know the reason I do this job is not to find myself on a film set surrounded by a bunch of cantankerous old cows who are about as sexy as a root canal. And, until there is evidence to the contrary, the ticket-buying public agrees with him on this point: everyone wants fantasy.
Audrey launches straight into the subject of women directors who are notoriously discriminated against in France. And even more so in other countries. What a chore. He does not point out that she seems to have no problem with the numerous advantages of being a woman when they serve her purpose. She has not even opened the menu, he wants to order quickly – to get this over with. He could easily order for her: she will choose the most expensive dish on the menu.
But it is not the director’s presence that is making him feel self-conscious. He needs to think back over the events of the day and of last night to work out precisely when it started. He recognises the feeling, but he needs to concentrate in order to remember what was said and when, who it was who has made him feel so ill at ease. He sees so many people, so much happens in any given day. His Neurolinguistic Programming sessions have taught him this approach – at the first signs of breathlessness, isolate yourself from reality and centre yourself in your core. Find the nerve centre. The wrap party for the latest Podalydès. Some self-styled scriptwriter whose name he has forgotten was holding forth and clutching his glass of champagne – Fred from Wild Bunch had been talking about the death of Alex Bleach and this other guy said, “Actually, I’ve got this friend who has raw footage of his last interview, shit-hot stuff apparently. He wants to do something with it, but he hasn’t been able to find a producer.” That’s it. That is where it all started. Laurent had cosied up to the scriptwriter, asked if he knew Alex personally, explained that they had worked together on a project that was never completed, an exceptional man, a terrible waste, such suffering, accidental death, the ghoulish prying media, the beautiful farewells from his true fans. He was walking on eggshells. The scriptwriter was a fat brute with cropped hair and the face of an idiot. He said he had not seen the footage in question, but that he had known Alex well and, sensing Laurent’s interest, used the word confession, “This friend of mine says the interview is pretty hardcore, Alex was off his face but he had so much to say, maybe he knew he didn’t have much time left, this is his testament . . .” Though his senses were addled by the booze, Laurent decided that showing too much interest might backfire, and tried to get the scriptwriter to talk without going so far as to make an actual proposition – tell your friend to get in touch with me as soon as possible. He knew that if he were to give the guy a business card, this “starving artist” would take it as a licence to harass him. He is familiar with the type. The guy has fifteen projects on his hard drive. He is convinced that every one is a masterpiece of intelligence and originality. He is thrilled by his own audacity, and more so by his sense of humour. He believes that the bad feedback he gets on his screenplay is the product of the diseased minds of spiteful con artists. You can tell him the same thing fifty times, and fifty times he will reinflate his ego and start churning out the same shit. In general, the lack of talent in such men is compounded by a remarkable disinclination to make the slightest effort. If Laurent gives this guy his number to give to his friend, he will have no qualms about calling him twenty times a day to propose a project. The starving artist is utterly sincere, and therein lies the danger: he cannot see the difference between his pathetic scrawlings and the latest box-office blockbuster. Every Wednesday morning, he probably goes to the week’s eleven o’clock screening for his regular bout of flagellation, he will choose the movie everyone is talking about and convince himself that ten years ago he wrote the sa
me thing only better, that it is his idea they have stolen. But Laurent has never yet encountered a forty-something screenwriter whose talent has gone completely unnoticed. There are the unmanageables, the junkies, the weirdos – but undiscovered talents are truly rare. Guys like this distribute their brainchild on a grand scale, no producer, no fashionable director is spared. If they had even the germ of an idea worth financing, everyone in the industry would know. Laurent found himself lumbered with the guy for most of the evening, trying to steer the conversation back to his friend and Alex Bleach’s one-man interview but the man was like a broken record, he stubbornly kept talking about his writing, his projects and insisted on giving Laurent a personalised lecture on film – what a treat, the jerk has developed opinions on every recent French movie he has seen at the cinema – and God knows he had enough time on his hands to sit in darkened rooms. Laurent listened magnanimously, all the while thinking: face it, you moron, if there were no difference between the shit you turn out and the gold I produce, you wouldn’t need to spend half an hour tap-dancing for me. You would already be on my list, we would already know each other, we would probably have worked together.
He has not had time to think about this valedictory interview since. In the taxi on the way home, Amélie had been glacially fuming. “I’m not accusing you of sleeping with her, I’m just asking why you behave like that around her. I’ve never seen you in such a state.” The “her” in question was a third-rate actress pitching for a film he was producing who spent the whole evening pushing her ginormous breasts under his nose without eliciting anything more than a yawn from Laurent, but Amélie has her little manias. Whenever she throws a jealous fit, the wrong woman always gets it in the neck. To reassure her, Laurent so completely demolished the actress that when he got up the following morning at seven, he immediately called the director, told him that she was a terrible actress and he wanted to hear no more about her being considered for an audition.
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