In the taxi, she dropped the act. It was a different person sitting next to him. The driver, a Chinese guy listening to France Bleu, did not even recognise her. Once the mask slipped, Vernon noticed the worry lines, the signs of exhaustion. She talked very quickly, avoiding his gaze, as though simply making eye contact might make him flip out. Vernon had asked what the commissaire wanted, she had shrugged and said dispassionately:
“He wanted to tell me what it would have been like if he’d been a girl . . . He’d be a stunner, obviously, all the right curves in all the right places and a total slut, he’d drive men wild, lead them around by their dicks, he’d have them by the balls, he’d get anything he wanted, he’d be rich, famous, he would have absolute power . . . The classic douchebag fantasy . . . what are you supposed to say to that? Where did he come up with the idea that sluts have it better than everyone else? On what planet do whores have power? In any case, if he’d been a woman, he would have been ugly as shit. What is he thinking? Anyway . . . I kept my lip buttoned.”
“I still don’t know why you’re here.”
“You mentioned you had interview tapes with Alex back at your place . . . Is that true?”
“It can hardly be at my place, I don’t have a place. But the bit about interview, yeah, that was true. Are you a fan of French music?”
“Have you still got them?”
He was weary of being asked questions and not knowing whether he should tell the truth, avoid the question or blatantly lie.
“Why are you interested?”
“Am I the first person to ask about them?”
“Yes.”
“Yesss! First dibs! I am totally shit hot. I may not be the only one looking for these tapes. But I’m first in the queue.”
“Have you gone completely insane? There’s nothing interesting on the tapes, you know. He was monged out of his tree when he recorded them. He barely knew what he was saying . . . I was just trying to be scam someone when I mentioned them. What I don’t understand is . . .”
“Did you listen to him when he was recording them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was asleep. I’ve always found lady coca relaxes me. Not Alex. He was jabbering nineteen to the dozen when he showed up. The fucker was always talking. I was hardly going to listen when he wasn’t even there.”
“Can I get my hands on the tapes?”
“Why are you busting my balls about this?”
*
And then he stops. It’s obvious: Vodka Satana. Of course. They must know each other. Maybe they weren’t exactly besties. Two porn stars of that calibre, it would strain any friendship. At the top, there can be only one Number One. But this is it, he says the name “Vodka Satana?” and Pamela stiffens, smiles, turns and stares at him. She is trying to seduce him. And although he knows this, although he wants to refuse, although he loves someone else, it is a hundred per cent effective. He would like to pretend he is just a little thrown but in fact he feels like a worm showing off on the end of a hook: she has only to decide and he will be enslaved. He has an idea of what she might do to thank him, but he is too overcome to speak clearly. He wants to know more:
“Who told you about the videos? It’s crazy shit . . .”
“You’re the one who talked about them.”
“A little bit. At first, I wanted to sell them. Did Lydia Bazooka send you?”
“No. It’s complicated. But there are several people involved. And I’m the first to track you down. I deserve a little advantage, don’t you think?”
The tart – when she wants, her voice softens to a caramel that melts in your ear, when she says “advantage”, it’s not that he got a hard-on, he became a hard-on. Not the best thing when you need to think clearly.
Was it at this point that the rain began to lash harder or was he slipping away, sliding towards the shadows, he did not know. Pamela Kant laid her hand on his, she apologised.
“I’ve only been thinking about myself. I can see you’re dealing with some serious shit, what with your friend in hospital and your personal problems, and here I am like it’s all about me. I’m not always like this.”
He almost said, yes, I know, I’ve watched your porn films, and you’re not at all like that the rest of the time, you’re better dressed and you do amazingly interesting things, and she is probably the type of girl to smile at a bitchy remark. But he had a lump in his throat. Xavier lying on a stretcher, even Pamela’s charisma was not enough to erase the impact of that image. Then he was hit by the memory of Alex, never having taken the time to listen to the testament he’d been given, because until now he hadn’t thought about it but maybe if he had taken an interest in the tapes when he got them, he might have been able to do something for him. Change the course of things. He had let himself sink, not even thinking to react. He had listened to the dead depart, he was already on their side. Tonight, he felt a terrible regret for having abandoned Alex. And guilt at having dragged Xavier into this whole thing. The two emotions intertwined – what kind of friend have you turned out to be. And just as suddenly, the violent feeling faded, and there was nothing left. For a long moment, Vernon had stared at Pamela Kant in silence, unable to utter a word. He was no longer sufficiently concerned by things. A bottomless gulf was yawning between him and reality – he felt so tired. They had driven endlessly through the hospital grounds, passing ambulances, patients wheeling I.V. drips smoking cigarettes, nurses imitating the Hindu dance. Before getting out of the taxi, he had said:
“I left the bag with the tapes at a friend’s place, her name is Emilie. If you managed to track me down, I’m sure you’ll find her too. Well, anyway, good luck . . . you can drop me here.”
“Out of the question. I’m not leaving you on your own.”
He wanted to say “I would prefer not to” and pull it off but at the last moment he remembered that, without her, he would probably not be allowed into the hospital. It was only too apparent what he was, they would take him for a guy who has seen the lights and come in to get warm.
*
The hospital was a historic building from a time when hospitals were built to look like convents, the façade radiated calm, but when you stepped through the door, everything was ugly. Seventies furniture, fluorescent strip-lights, staff in white coats with faces even more haggard than his own.
Pamela took care of everything, she leaned on the reception desk and waited for someone to come and talk to her. From time to time, Vernon recovered some semblance of rational thought.
“But how did you know where to find me?”
“You’ve got a hashtag on your head, at first it was that girl who gave you a beating, calls herself Simone du Boudoir on line but I don’t know her real name . . .”
“Sylvie?”
“You went to crash at her place, fucked her like a bitch on heat then fucked off and left her. I don’t know, maybe there’s lots of women like that in your past . . .”
“Sylvie.”
“Well anyway these days loads of people are using the hashtag. You’ve become France’s Most Wanted on Twitter. But me – and I don’t like to brag – I’ve got more followers than all the others put together. So, one of my fans spotted you at the public baths in the nineteenth arrondissement, you better believe it, I’ve got a fan who works there. And he recognised you from the photos I posted . . . I don’t know if you know but Simone du Boudoir posted like a million photos of you on Facebook . . . You fucked with the wrong girl, man . . . You shouldn’t have dumped her like a bag of trash . . . well, anyway, none of my business, okay, but seriously someone as famous as you are shouldn’t be sleeping on the streets. To my mind, you lack ambition . . . because, I tell you, you’re a star on the internet, everyone is looking for you.”
*
A haughty black guy immune to Pamela’s charms was eventually persuaded to tell them the hospital wing where Xavier had been admitted. In the corridor, Vernon had spotted Madame Fardin, handbag in her
lap, shoes scuffed, body slumped, head resting on her clasped hands. He had felt as though his mind and heart were anaesthetised, felt exactly as he did before having a tooth extracted. His body was there, moving forward, registering information: from her face, when she looked up, he knew that the news was not good. But his emotions had switched off. Marie-Ange had appeared, visibly distraught, she had gritted her teeth when she saw Vernon, “What the fuck happened”, and it was Pamela who had answered because no words came from Vernon’s lips. He had assumed that Marie-Ange did not recognise Pamela, unlike several male nurses and doctors, the men in white coats, who were starting to congregate to trade information. A coma. And Vernon had managed to ask where are the toilets. He had taken the direction indicated. He had found the exit. There had not been a moment when he decided to flee into the night into the rain, he had just started walking, in the darkness, in a straight line, noting incongruous details. The weight of his arms, for example. He had his hands in his pockets and would have been unable to take them out – his arms seemed to be filled with lead.
Vernon was incapable of taking hold of the reins of his own machine. The urge to end it all, a fierce rage, a visceral self-loathing, a terror at what is happening, suffocation, despair and confusion all jostle for attention. He is burning up, his lungs are burning, he is streaming with sweat and his cheeks are ablaze. He walks like a zombie for hours and hours. He feels dizzy. But he remains standing. He climbs steps in the darkness, climbs them breathlessly, he climbs faster. He remembers the words of a song, “It’s the story of a guy who couldn’t stop dancing”, he carries on, panting for breath, straining. He runs through the alphabet, he has never forgotten the name of a band in his life and now for the first time tonight he has to concentrate. Liaisons Dangereuses. “It’s the story of a guy who couldn’t stop dancing and in the end it killed him, that’s just how it goes these days.” Trivial facts of absolutely no use to him continue to pile up, always the same shambles, a cacophony, 1981, German band, D.A.F., Einstürzende Neubauten, “Mystère dans le brouillard”. Still he climbs, the steps are never-ending, he feels as though he is climbing the side of a building, leaving the city far below. He does not slow, he strains, his head pounding. He hears the opening bars of “Los Niños del parque”, a synth loop, a drum machine and female voices in the background.
Crumpled on a bench, he cannot catch his breath. He can no longer hear the traffic, the rain lashes more viciously, tiny leaden fists pummel his upturned face.
Day has broken yet he does not remember falling asleep. Though he did dream that Robert Johnson was sitting on the bench opposite, he was playing harmonica. Vernon does not recognise the street where he has collapsed, when he tries to sit up his body refuses to obey and he rolls onto his back and slowly turns his head. The rain has given way to a chill as sharp as a razor but he must have caught a fever because beneath the biting cold his skin is literally burning. A sane thought nags at him: how long has it been since he last ate? If only he could shut down, just like that, within the hour – he imagines a candle flame as it quivers and gutters, the black wick, the glowing pinprick, then nothing. But you do not die of despair, or at least not that easily.
The presence of a cat scrabbling for space between his legs wakes him with a start. In the dark of night, the rain returns and the cat scarpers. His thoughts are sickening. He can taste the smell of them in his mouth. Rotting corpses. He wishes he could throw up, but he can spew only bile that tears at his throat, he’s too weak to turn his head and vomit on the ground, it spatters his chin, it is washed by the icy rain, he can see lights in the windows, they are dancing. He closes his eyes. He drifts, incandescent forms flickering on his eyelids, and once again his breathing becomes laboured. Has he just come to at this bench? He cannot sit up. He needs to do something. He is dragged down into sleep, unable to resist.
Later in the night, some hours have passed, or a minute, he does not know, he is shivering with fever. He is woken by the opening chords of “Voodoo Chile”. Jimi Hendrix coughs, actually it’s the intro to “Rainy Day”. Not the version from “Electric Lady-land”, Vernon has never heard this version but it is as clear as if he were listening through headphones, or he was in the best seat at an open-air concert. Opening his eyes is a painful effort. The sky is strewn with stars. It will be fine tomorrow. The music does not stop. He knows he is delirious, but it does not worry him. He closes his eyes again, returns to the chimerical patterns projected on his eyelids. The intro to “Voodoo Chile” is longer, he hears Eddie Hazel getting into a groove, he finds this surprising, then he distinctly recognises James Jamerson hooking a classic bassline, finally Janis Joplin’s voice breaks through, perfect in its purity. An arc of sounds curves above his body. Steve Winwood’s Hammond organ warps space, all that remains of Vernon is a fabulous tension, towards pleasure, a dilation in the darkness, the is the whole city, he is gazing down, Jimi and Janis are playing an unlikely concert that he alone can hear. Above him, the stars glitter with peculiar intensity in the Paris sky.
Later – he fell asleep for a time – he hears a torrent of light rolling over a guitar riff, Janis’ voice pierces the pain like a scapel lancing a festering sore, he unravels. Deft, unseen fingers slide beneath his collar bones and pull, he breathes more freely, the heat spreads, his ribcage splays. Pleasure suffuses every particle of his skin, the song lingers.
When silence returns, he is surprised to find himself still alive. Everything he is wearing is sodden, he is weak but able to sit up. He has no idea where he is. It takes him some time to realise that the sense of strangeness owes more to the silence than to the setting itself. There is no traffic. His head is spinning. He has never felt such pleasurable calm. It permeates his whole being. Even heroin cannot do this. Even mushrooms or L.S.D. or Datura could not produce auditory hallucinations as perfect as the one for which he has just been the conduit. He is not dead, indeed a nagging pain in his throat lets him know that he is very much alive. And ill. But happy, oh fuck, happy as a madman, happy as a lunatic. Facing him, he finds an open aspect, he is looking down on Paris from above.
I am a single man, I am fifty years old, my throat is like a sieve since my cancer and I smoke cigars as I drive my taxi, windows open, not caring what the punters look like.
I am Diana and I am the kind of girl who giggles all the time and apologises for everything, my arms are smudged with the ghosts of cut-marks.
I am Marc, I work with the R.S.A. and my girlfriend works to support me, I look after our daughter every day and today I taught her to ride a bike for the first time and I thought about my father, when I was a kid and he finally took the training wheels off my bike.
I am Eléonore, the girl I fancy takes photographs of me in the Jardin du Luxembourg, I know that something is going to happen and that it will be complicated because we are both in relationships but it will be worth it anyway.
I am in bed when I hear that Daniel Darc is dead, I think of his number stored on my mobile phone, I feel the urge to dial the number and the fact that it is now impossible makes me tremble from head to foot.
I am a teenager obsessed with the idea of losing my virginity and the redhead I have fancied for months has just told me we can go to the pictures together, I don’t think she is making fun of me and looking at myself in the mirror I realised that my acne has completely disappeared, the Roaccutane worked and a new life is unfolding before me.
I am a young virtuoso violinist.
I am the arrogant whore flayed alive, I am the teenager indivisible from his wheelchair, I am the young woman having dinner with the father she worships and who is so proud of her, I am the stowaway who slipped through the barbed wire at Melilla I am walking up the Champs-Elysées and I know that this city will give what I have come to find, I am the cow in the abattoir, I am the nurse made deaf by the cries of the patients and by dint of powerlessness, I am the undocumented immigrant who smokes ten euros worth of crack every night to work as a cleaner cash-in-hand in a restaurant a
t Château Rouge, I am the long-term unemployed who has just found a job, I am the drug mule pissing myself in fear ten metres from customs, I am the sixty-five-year-old whore delighted to see her longest-standing regular show up. I am the tree, its branches bare, manhandled by the rain, the child wailing in his pushchair, the dog tugging at her lead, the prison warden envious of the prisoners’ carefree lives, I am a black cloud, a wellspring, a jilted bridegroom going through the photos of his former life, I am a hobo perched on a hill, in Paris.
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PUBLISHED IN 2017
1. The President’s Gardens by Muhsin Al-Ramli
TRANSLATED FROM THE ARABIC BY LUKE LEAFGREN
2. Belladonna by Daša Drndic
Vernon Subutex One Page 31