“You remember Xavier? We had coffee together just after I got back to Paris. He’s doing pretty well for himself – you know he’s a screenwriter? He lives in this huge apartment – every parents wet dream – in the centre of Paris.”
“Xavier was always a wanker, wasn’t he?”
“You mean right-wing?”
“Among other things. But mostly he’s an idiot. Always was, wasn’t he?”
On the T.V., Patrick Bruel, Garou and Raphäel are singing an old Brel tune. At the end of the song, Johnny Hallyday walks onto the set, his back to the camera – Patrice and Vernon simultaneously dissolve into giggles. His master’s voice, his master’s legs, his profile like some prehistoric beast, strutting like some ballsy bitch. The stentorian voice booms out, he’s determined to make the other singers look like a delegation from the society of casual crooners. The singers laugh good-naturedly, saluting the man nothing has been able to kill, not heavy doses of class-A drugs, not ridicule, not success. The beast. Vernon finishes peeling his potatoes, there is something working-class about his gestures, the way he holds the knife, the flick of the wrist, the skill – like a son of the soil come to live in the city. It’s not just his eyes, the guy has charm, always did have. It’s pleasant, spending time with him. He makes things easier, more interesting – he never complains. How is it that a guy like this hasn’t found some babe to take care of him? What can he possibly do to screw up their lives and make them run a mile given that most women will put up with anything rather than pack their bags?
Vernon gathers up the peelings, tosses them in the bin and wipes down the countertop. He has decided to play the good guy. Patrice is grateful, he is incapable of peeling a potato without leaving the kitchen looking like a bombsite for ten days. Vernon feels a wave of depression, his expression changes suddenly. He says:
“The last girl I was with was Brazilian, she used to talk to me about Johnny, she’d say that if you’re not French you can’t understand the effect he has on us.”
“You have to have grown up with him to like him. It’s the daddy principle. My sons will never love me like a real father, they don’t see me often enough . . . How come a guy like you didn’t settle down years ago? By now, you should have kids and all that shit . . .”
“I always fall in love with women who only find me entertaining for five minutes.”
“So this Brazilian, she ditched you?”
“She wasn’t as free as I had thought. Just my type. Already in a relationship. With a guy who’s filthy rich. She didn’t need to think too hard to work out which way her heart was leading her . . .”
“You still raw?”
“Yeah.”
“Not a tranny, was she?”
“Yes, she’s transgender. Really beautiful. Really classy.”
“You’re joking?”
“No. You asked, I’m telling you . . .”
“Yeah, but I was just taking the piss – you said a Brazilian so I said a tranny, but it was only a joke, it wasn’t a real question.”
“I got the wrong end of the stick. Her dick was bigger than mine. At first, I was pretty surprised that it didn’t bother me. You’re not going to believe this, but I came to the conclusion – and believe me I was as shocked as anyone, but I had to face facts: we don’t really care about pussy. We don’t care. There’s more to a girl than her pussy.”
“Unless you want to have kids.”
“I’m talking passion here, not pre-school.”
*
What unsettles Patrice is not so much the fact that Vernon might fall in love with a Brazilian babe with a boner. It’s the fact that he’s prepared to admit it. He’s forty kilometres from Paris, he’s got nowhere to crash, and rather than keeping his head down and dodging the question, he’s shouting it from the rooftops: I slept with a tranny. Patrice doesn’t know how he should take it. He feels himself tense up. This whole thing since Vernon moved in, feeling relaxed around him, enjoying his company, is starting to take on a significance he doesn’t like.
“Why did you have to tell me? You’ve made me uncomfortable.”
“I’m not ashamed. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever been with, the most feminine, the most elegant, the most sophisticated . . . Walking down the street with Marcia, I tell you, I realised what it feels like for a guy to drive a Porsche. We think they’re dickheads, but that’s only because we don’t drive a Porsche. And when you’re a loser like me who can’t even shell out for a Jack D. in a bar, and you think to yourself this girl holds me like I’m the most precious thing in the whole world and all I can give her is love and sex . . . I swear you feel like a billion bucks in the sunshine. But it’s not just about showing her off . . . I mean, I don’t care if I’m shallow. She’s got class. She drives me crazy.”
This changes the atmosphere between them. Patrice doesn’t know what to think. He wishes Vernon hadn’t said anything. He is shocked. So shocked that it surprises him. And makes him think. What the hell does he care what Vernon does in bed . . . He doesn’t want to imagine what precisely it might be. He remembers certain images of Brazilian girls, some of which raise minor issues of masculinity . . . Brazilian girls are stunning – he has to admit it. On T.V., Rihanna is singing something about diamonds. They listen in reverential silence. Vernon carries on cutting the potatoes into thin slices. Eventually it is Patrice who breaks the silence, after all he has no reason to feel awkward:
“I have a thing for Rihanna, I really have a thing for her. She could sing anything, do cover versions of Carlos or Annie-fucking-Cordy and I’d still be glued to the T.V.”
“For all the favours she’s done battered women: try telling some young girl that she shouldn’t let her boyfriend hit her when that dumb bitch is still running around saying how much she loves Chris Brown. Did you see the photos of her that time he beat her? She’s beautiful, yeah, but that’s no reason to be stupid, don’t you think?”
“That’s why my wife left me. Took the kids. I used to beat her.”
*
Tit for tat. Not that it was premeditated. One–all, buddy. You tell me you fuck guys in dresses, I tell you I used to beat my wife. There is another lull in the conversation. During which Patrice realises that he is wavering between rage and gratitude. He remembers the atmosphere of the rock industry, the studied superficiality. Sarcasm, scorn, and serious conversations about record sleeves. Never any closeness, never any intimacy. Even when talking about politics, no-one made an effort to be sincere. Macho little boys playing at being tough guys. It unsettled him, Vernon telling him about the Brazilian girl. But in a way, he was glad. There is something ballsy about allowing yourself to be seen naked.
*
“You beat your wife? Was she cheating on you?”
“You don’t batter the mother of your kids because she did something wrong. You do it because you’re violent.”
“But you knew it was wrong?”
“Some guys drink, some gamble away the rent, some are unfaithful . . . me, I lash out. I put her in casualty more than once. Not every day, obviously . . . it’s not like it was a hobby.”
“Did you hit the kids?”
“Never. Cécile said that sooner or later I would. I’m not sure. There were times I shook them, there are some days when you get wound up . . . but I never lost control. Not that it makes any difference. The kids could hear what was going on with her. Of course. My son Tonio was still pissing the bed at the age of five. I didn’t need to take him to a specialist to know what was wrong. My problem is that I’ve never been suicidal. Otherwise, I would have known what to do.”
Vernon listens attentively as he piles the potato slices into a large white dish Patrice would never have thought of putting in the oven, but thinking about it, it’s obvious, in fact it’s a gratin dish.
“You’re too sensitive. Violent men are always so sensitive.”
“Spoken like a woman.”
“We never realised we’d fuck up this badly, did we?”
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“If we had known, what difference would it have made?”
Vernon sets the timer on the oven, takes a couple more beers from the fridge and finally sits down in front of the television. Patrice realises that he is not as bored as he expected to be in his company. He is starting to like Vernon. After the series of big names, TF1 promotes a number of younger singers contractually tied to the channel and the variety programme goes downhill. Some girl standing in a weird posture is singing, Vernon maintaining she’s handicapped. Patrice says she’s a hunchback, and that doesn’t count as handicapped.
Nolwenn Leroy and Patricia Kaas duet on a cover version of Piaf – for once Vernon and Patrice agree that they are pretty classy, and both have a middle-aged crush on Patricia from back when she used to sing “Mon mec à moi” and they actually liked the song, not that they would have admitted to it publicly. She had the same sort of beauty as the women they slept with, but slightly more sublime.
“These days, even the really famous singers have to sing in pairs just in case we’d see one singing solo and reach for the remote.”
“You’re right, it’s a bit harsh, they could at least let them sing solo.”
The gratin is sputtering in the oven. The T.V. presenter gives the answer to a question so idiotic that it feels insulting that he asked it in the first place. The name of the winner appears at the bottom of the screen. Then, without any segue, the presenter’s expression changes and he starts bleating tearfully about a dear friend who recently passed away before his time. And a vast black-and-white photograph of Alex Bleach is projected onto the backdrop of the set. Vernon pitches forward, as though he has taken an invisible punch:
“Oh, Jesus fuck no . . .”
“’Fraid so. Into the whores’ graveyard like every other celebrity . . . Did you see much of him?”
“Yeah. You?”
“A lot, in the early days. When his career took off, he never stopped calling, I felt like I was his brother.”
“Likewise. But he couldn’t be arsed to show up when he arranged to meet, he was a pain.”
“I was still with Cécile. I’d make sure to see him when she wasn’t around. Alex would happily fuck your girlfriend in your bed while you were asleep and not think twice. He was a danger to any happy couple, the bastard. Have to admit, though, women loved him . . . At the funeral, I heard some people saying that women wouldn’t give him a second look when he didn’t have money. But it’s not true, long before he cut his first record, he only had to show up at the door and I’d get my girlfriend to hide. Go home, I don’t want to argue, tonight you can do your own cooking. He was a real case, that guy.”
“You went to the funeral?”
“The whole band was there. It’s only when someone dies that I’m still considered part of the band. We’d been talking about the band re-forming, didn’t he mention it?”
“No. Whenever I saw him he was shitfaced and he’d ramble on about weird stuff, but never about work . . . He paid my rent for a whole year. Two, probably. But we didn’t see that much of each other . . .”
“Your rent in Quebec?”
“By bank transfer, yeah.”
“I’m just joking. I’d be glad you don’t feel obliged to tell me everything, otherwise I really would get worried . . .”
“I couldn’t bring myself to go to the funeral. Too many people. And not really my people.”
“It was pretty grim. There were a few celebs, and every loser in the world was there pretending to be sad when all they really cared about was sitting next to Vanessa Paradis.”
“I think the gratin is probably ready. Should I make a salad? Are you hungry? Why didn’t it work out, the band getting back together?”
“Personally, I thought it was a dumb idea, especially given that I don’t listen to that kind of music any longer . . . but when someone told me how much money was involved, I felt a sudden urge to pick up my bass again. I’d have performed pirouettes in a fucking thong for that kind of cash . . . and I’m not saying that to wind you up. Alex was up for it but we had one rehearsal and after that he never had the time. I can understand. I was disappointed because of the cash, but in reality the whole thing felt squalid. Dan had his tongue so far up Alex’s arse it was embarrassing. Vince was constantly bitching at him. Pissed off that he wasn’t the star. None of us could play for shit by then, but still we all had to pile into Alex, make sure he didn’t get to be the front man, etcetera, etcetera . . . he never came back.”
“You like lots of vinegar, in the dressing?”
SOPHIE DOES NOT ENJOY THE SUNDAY LUNCHES AT THE RESTAURANT with her daughter-in-law, her son and their daughter. Seeing them leaves her sad as a lump of lead. As usual, the little girl’s pushchair is parked right next to the table. The girl is five years old, what does she need with a pushchair? And a baby’s bottle of chocolate milk to boot! They tell her it’s a generational thing, but all around she can see other children who are better behaved. When the little girl whines during lunch, Marie-Ange puts a hand over her mouth and carries on talking. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn’t teach her not to interrupt grown-ups when they’re talking, she reaches out a hand and muzzles her. Xavier knows that this is no way to treat a child who has already learned to walk and talk. But he simply avoids his mother’s eyes, stares down at his plate. His father was a coward too.
Their daughter-in-law is touched by a vague madness that is anything but charming. Her gaze scorches everything it touches. Marie-Ange was in love with Xavier. But not anymore, not for a long time. When she is with him, she makes no effort to hide her boredom, or her contempt whenever he speaks. She has recovered from the fairy tale of the little princess who marries a humble commoner. She is probably remembering what her father said when she announced that she was engaged, “For a woman, there is nothing worse than to marry beneath her station”. And the old bastard had the nerve to say as much in front of the bridegroom’s mother. Marie-Ange refuses to leave the girl alone with her grandmother. Here again, Xavier did not have the courage to tell her straight out, but Sophie understood. She must have done something wrong. Her son furtively leaves her to mind his daughter for an afternoon from time to time. Doubtless he lies to his wife when he gets home, tells her he was with the two of them in the park all the time. He prevaricates, he beats around the bush. She is not the only woman among her friends to be disappointed by how her grown-up son has turned out.
It is something you never get over. There are some people who can survive anything, each to his own character. There was that December 13, 1986. Before that, a slow agony – two years of sheer hell, but still life clung on. There were solutions to be found, there were reasons to believe. That they would come through this. Their eldest son was a drug addict. They put their faith in everything, though they were at the end of their tether, still they never gave up. For as long as Nicolas was alive. Prayers, herbs, psychology, pharmacology, sport, cold turkey. They put up with the insinuations of therapists – when there is an addict in the family unit, all the family play a role. Nicolas did not want to die. It was a cry for help, he wanted to get well. Then came December 13 the police at her door. They did not telephone. They simply appeared. As soon as she opened the door she had known. The sun was dazzling, it was a Saturday, she was not working, her husband was on business in Toulouse. She had got up early and was washing the windows with rubbing alcohol, they had invited the whole family for Christmas and she was getting the house ready. They no longer travelled, it had become too complicated. Xavier had spent the night at a friend’s house. They allowed him to do more things than they had his older brother at the same age. A therapist had warned them, it’s complicated for the younger boy, you need to give him room to breathe. And this was what they were doing. Allowing their younger son room to breathe away from them. Xavier was her favourite. Her little baby. He was calmer, more affectionate. He knew how to make his mother happy. She bitterly blamed herself later. Perhaps this explained everything. She had been so
much more comfortable with her second child.
She knew what they had come to tell her. But the words, one by one, stabbed into her and there was nothing she could do to prevent them forever changing the course of things. Nicolas’ body had been found in an abandoned car. The officers said “overdose”, but at the autopsy it was discovered he had injected drugs mixed with battery acid. In her little boy’s veins. Battery acid.
The curtain came down over their lives. What was surprising was how easily everything disintegrated. A fade to black so brief that for years afterwards she clung to the absurd conviction that, if she persisted, it might be possible to go back to that instant, that all it would take was one thing done differently and everything would carry on as it had before. A magical thinking that she would never shake off – it must somehow be possible to go back to that day and to change it.
All that was required was for Nicolas to buy from a different dealer, for them to decide to scour the whole city and bring him home by force as they had done a hundred times. But they had not known how to protect him from himself. Sophie never understood how it had begun, through what narrow chink misfortune had slunk into their home. They had had a wonderful family life, no money worries, no health problems. When the children were little, it had been a happy house. They had been loving, caring, she could not imagine what had driven him to despair. Though she went over the past again and again, dissecting the lives of every uncle, each grandparent – she found no history of depression or dependency . . . Nicolas had been an unruly boy, not particularly happy at school, but good at sports and successful in everything he undertook. He was curious and forthright.
She had come to the conclusion that it was chemical – his individual chemistry could not resist heroin. He had been doomed from the first line he snorted. Thousands of teenagers did a line, threw up and moved on to something else. Others got hooked and decided to quit, and though it could be tough, she had met many young people who managed to quit during the period when they were trying to help him, she knew that it was possible. Politics, girls, studies, sport, music . . . other people’s children found other passions. Nicolas had only ever known one: powdered death. The pale spectre of heroin had chosen her son. And there had been no other life than this, with the needle, the constant checking for dilated pupils, the sallow complexion, the dark rings round the eyes, the lies, those looks at once evasive and filled with rage, the hair plastered to the temples, the hazy smiles, the cigarette burns on the bed-sheets. This was life on smack. It had ended only when the boy died.
Vernon Subutex One Page 24