by Jérémie Guez
No music, just confessions. Thibaut’s confessions. Not what I expected. What’s a kid like that making tapes for? I eject the cassette, grab another one at random, and slip it in, torn between the joy of finding something and the anguish of having to listen to this endless stream of private words until I feel like throwing up. But I get some answers.
This is what I’ve decided to do. Every day, on this old tape player. Record myself. That’s not right. It’s more like I’m telling myself about stuff and recording my voice. Writing it down would be cheating. There’s a filter: time to think, to censor, to hide from ridicule or even dramatize it. There’s nothing here. Nothing but me. I never go back, never listen to it again—few people like themselves so much they can stand hearing their own voice. I hate myself enough not to be one of those people. At least this makes me talk—otherwise, all this stuff would stay buried. The whole point is just to get it out, not to be heard. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I just want to be free—to empty myself out and stay empty.
She’s right across from me, on the sidewalk, with three other stupid but still pretty party girls holding their cigarettes like paintbrushes.
“Eve?”
Not very happy to see me, she mumbles, “Hey.”
Her friends shoot me dirty looks.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
She catches on quick that I’m not giving her a choice, that I’ll just keep standing right by their table like a real prick, ready to stomach all their chitchat about guys and fashion. She gets up, tells her friends she won’t be long. We walk a few yards away, and she takes a nervous drag of her cigarette without looking at me.
“How’d you find me?”
“I asked Charles.”
“Did you have to?”
“If you’d told me everything right from the start, and answered your phone, you could’ve been sipping your Chablis in peace.”
“Look, I told you everything—”
“You weren’t going out. Don’t bother lying, there’s no point. I get that women weren’t really his thing.” I don’t need to tell her about the tapes and that time they fucked; she doesn’t ask any questions. For the first time she seems sad, genuinely concerned by what I’m telling her.
“We were never really going out, we were just friends.” With a long drag, she finishes her cigarette and tosses it in the gutter. “We had a kind of arrangement. I was supposed to pretend to be his girlfriend at school, with his father—”
She stops, swallows.
“There it is,” she says with a sigh of relief.
“So if I’m getting you right, his college friends and his family didn’t appreciate it, right?”
She nods.
“What a shitty crowd, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“You know the men he saw?”
“No.”
“Never ran into one?”
“No, he’s very secretive about who he sees. He’s a brilliant guy, but self-conscious, discreet. I like him a lot.”
“How about at school?”
“Not that I know of. He didn’t want to see guys from his own crowd.”
“By choice or from fear it would get around?”
She shrugs. “Both. I don’t know.”
“All right. You really don’t know anything else? Where he’d go when he wasn’t pretending to be someone else? Think.”
“Once we went to eat by the Opéra. He was nervous. I asked him what was wrong. He had to go to a special party afterward, find a friend of his in the neighborhood. It seemed to make him nervous. That’s the only time he ever mentioned anyone, but no names.”
“And afterward?”
“Nothing. He walked me to a taxi stand and left for his party.”
“He say where he was going?”
“No.”
“OK. Sorry to bother you. In the future, try not to hide stuff like this from me anymore. Please?”
She nods, a sad little girl all of a sudden, taking another cigarette out of her pack and sticking it in her mouth.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, for the party. Go on back to your friends.”
Only once I’ve crossed the street do I turn around and realize she hasn’t moved, her unlit cigarette still stuck to her lips.
I go back home. The Walkman’s still there on the sofa. With paper, pen, and a roll of Scotch tape, I number the cassettes. Then I run them through the player on fast-forward, trying to sift out facts—names, dates, places—from more general confessions.
I’ve decided to not talk about people specifically, not channel my hatred at anyone, just talk about my experiences, my feelings, to draw lessons from the man, or rather the creature, I am…
I spend an hour listening to him talk about his life, his family, his studies, and other bullshit.
He invited me to the party. I said yes. I felt frightened right away. He was a sadistic guy, you could tell just by looking. But I resolved to forget my fear. I’m afraid shame sets it off. I’ve decided not to feel any more guilt about what I am. I’ve known all my life, and sometimes I saw my father and brother do disgusting things. I don’t care about their morality; I want to puke it up till it’s all gone from my stomach, even if I have to stick my fingers all the way down my own throat…So I said yes and I even felt a twinge of arousal as I did so. I’ll go to the party without a thought in my head…except for my own pleasure. For the first time.
His voice changes, becomes hesitant, laden with sobs.
I had dinner with Eve before heading over. She could tell I was stressed out. He gave me no choice. I’m ashamed to say I was turned on before it all happened. He was handsome and attractive. When he forced himself on me, he joined that long line of men polluting my family and the world, men who think only in terms of power and submission, incapable of understanding anything except the logic of the most brutal action. They’re vulgar monsters, as horrible as they are horribly banal…The same things make them hard, the same hatred drives them, the same boundless narcissism, the same taste for perversion and harassment. I was ashamed when the bartender found me and asked if I wanted him to call the police. I saw myself having to explain it all to men in uniform, to the authorities, starting with my lifelong disgust all the way to the abyss of tonight. I told him not to do anything. I was a coward. I decided to stay silent…I went home and stayed there in the dark…
The sign sizzles. I hope this is the place. I’ve been to four gay bars so far, showing around photos of the kid. Everywhere, guys shake their heads. They seem sincere; none of them bat an eyelid when they see the photo, and they all agree to contact me without asking for ID or anything. No trace of Thibaut. Starting to feel a little trashed because I’ve bought at least a drink each time, so as not to be that asshole who asks questions and never gives anything back. I figure if I’m going to play cop, I don’t have to play the stingy one.
I stop in front of the metal door, vowing that if no one here’s ever heard of him, I’ll call it a night. The thought of my own bed fills me with joyful anticipation, and I’m almost sorry the guy eyeing me through the peephole decides to open up. Square jaw, short blond hair stiff with gel. He’s got a cheap suit on, the seams about to burst. A real minotaur. A wee light goes on in my head. If this goes south, I’ll need to run, because short of a gun, there’s no way I’m getting the better of this guy.
I forget the bouncer and head down the stairway underground. It’s a small club, the music all the way up. For the first time that night, I feel like I’m in a William Friedkin movie. All old-timers, guys pushing fifty, built like moving men with dinged-up faces. They’re all eyeing me when I walk in. A bar, a tiny dance floor, and a few sagging sofas. It smells like sweat and other things I don’t want to think about. I act like I don’t notice a thing, sit at the bar, and flag down a bartender wearing a leather vest and denim shorts.
“Whisky, please.”
He gives me my whisky. “Ten euros.”
I pay, take a first sip, set my glass
down on the counter. I check out the room; no one’s looking my way anymore. Lots of drinking, two couples slow dancing and making out on the floor. I turn back toward the bartender and show him Thibaut’s photo.
“Ever seen him before?”
“No,” he says, lowering his eyes.
“At least take a look at the photo.”
The bartender acts like he doesn’t understand and starts racking the clean glasses behind him. I’ve been at this for three and a half hours. I’m sick of playing detective, sick of this shitty evening. “Hey! I’m talking to you! You know this guy or not?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions, and you’ve got no fucking business here. So beat it,” he hisses.
I give him a smile. “I paid for my drink. And guess what? I like it here. I’m in no hurry…”
The bartender disappears through a door behind the bar. I have just enough time to swipe a corkscrew from behind the counter and stick it in my jacket pocket before he shows up again, baseball bat in hand. He winds up, ready to take a swing at my head. I get up from the stool, hands in the air.
“Hey, it’s cool! It’s cool!”
“I said get the fuck out.”
“OK, OK! I’m going!” When I turn around, the goliath from the entrance is right behind me. He grabs me by the collar, drags me upstairs, and throws me out. My feet scrape asphalt for several yards before I get my balance back.
I check my watch. One A.M.
I’m bored with waiting here watching the doorway, back stiff against the gates of the Palais Royal gardens, but I’d rather settle this tonight. Without your baseball bat and your buddy, you won’t be such a smart little bastard. To kill time, I try to figure out what movie that club reminds me of. I can’t remember. Shit, Pacino was in it. Goddamn memory. I nod off against the gates.
I wake to the voices of clientele exiting the club drunk. They all walk right by without paying me the slightest mind, like I’m a beggar spending a mild night under the stars.
It takes another quarter hour of cooling my heels and blowing on my hands before the bartender closes up. The bouncer sticks close and they talk in low voices. I hope they’ll split up, but alas, they keep walking side by side. This is looking harder than I imagined. I let them get a good dozen yards ahead of me and then stand up, corkscrew in hand. I’ve never attacked anyone with a corkscrew before, but I figure a shiv is a shiv, even a twisted one. It’ll work as long as the handle stays on.
I start running after them. The sound of my footsteps tips off the bouncer, who turns. Too late. I plant the corkscrew right in his crotch and yank my arm up to be sure I’ve pierced flesh. I let go of the weapon, and he crumples, howling. I smack the bartender, a glancing blow in the jaw, and turn back to the bouncer. He’s screaming, holding his balls. With one quick stroke, I pull the corkscrew out. I’ve rarely heard a man scream this loud; he’ll probably be unconscious soon. The barman tries to get away but, still dazed from the blow, he’s not going very fast. I catch up to him a dozen yards away, slamming him against a car. I hold the corkscrew over his cheekbone.
“The guy in the photo! Tell me what you know, or I’ll scrape your eye out.”
He gulps. I tighten my hold on his jacket collar with my left hand. “I swear I’ll do it.”
His words are broken by sobs. “He just came once. A regular brought him in. I don’t know how they knew each other. He didn’t like the atmosphere, he was uncomfortable—he didn’t expect—”
“What happened?”
“He didn’t give the kid a choice.”
“Who?”
“The guy, he dragged him to the toilets and locked them in. Fifteen minutes later, he hightailed it out of there. I found the kid in tears inside, pants around his ankles. He was bleeding. I asked if he wanted me to call the cops. He said no. So I helped him get dressed, and he left.”
I picture the kid, cornered, getting raped by a degenerate in the bathroom when all he wanted was to have a drink and do some flirting. “The guy—what’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you fuck with me.”
“I swear! I don’t really know him. We shot a movie together, for a guy who does really special stuff. No one ever uses their real name. We all use aliases. Calls himself Tantalus.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Not the kind you watch at home on Saturday night! Let me go! I told you everything I know.”
I keep him there for a few more seconds, staring into his eyes to make sure he’s not lying.
“I swear!”
I hear a siren in the distance. I let him go and start running down the street. Once I’m on the boulevards, I slow down. I wipe the corkscrew with a handkerchief and toss it in a trash can.
Back home, chilled to the bone, I find myself sitting in front of a cup of coffee, sobbing like a kid till my nose runs.
One of my mysterious crying jags. It’s not related to stress, depression, or anything like that. It can happen at any time and just double me over. It’s always been like this. The various shrinks I saw as a kid said it had to do with my mother leaving. The doctor in prison explained they were attacks of claustrophobia, because I couldn’t stand being locked up. And you know what my grandmother says. All I know is it’s never gone away for more than a few months at a time. It always comes back, completely disconnected from the reality of the moment, never anything to do with how I feel. I could be on a beach in the Caribbean with a Russian model lying next to me, and I’d still be blubbering salty tears into my mojito. It’s pretty embarrassing, but I’ve learned to live with it.
CHAPTER 3
I WAKE UP ON MY SOFA, STILL DRESSED. IT HURTS TO SWALLOW; caught a cold staking out the club. I reheat old coffee and go over what I’ve learned. Thibaut had gone to that club only once. I suspected as much: the place didn’t exactly fit his profile. The guy who took him there put him through hell. Slim chance it was premeditated. Why drag someone to a public place just to assault him? Whoever did it must have been unable to control his urges. Just one thought about what that baby went through and my nerves start fraying. Powerless. Tantalus: a bullshit stage name isn’t much to go on. I wonder if the guy could’ve killed Thibaut. Crime of passion, or fear his victim would press charges? Right now I don’t know much more, so I just try to convince myself of one thing: Paris is a small town, and I’ll catch the bastard.
In the neighborhood, morning is drawing to a close. The sun is shining, and watching the comings and goings from the sex shops, I think these guys must really be motivated to rub one out in the middle of the day. I join them, pass Pigalle, and duck into the only boutique I know nearby. Inside, a guy is reading plot synopses on the backs of boxes, like a true movie lover. I go down to the basement, with its row of peep show booths. Behind the counter, a punkette with dyed red hair and a nose piercing is flipping through a women’s magazine that looks downright cheery. Her eyes perk up when she sees me coming.
“Hey, friend. What’s your pleasure?”
“Uh…”
She starts in with her sales pitch, reciting from the catalog. “How about a lesbian show for ten eur—”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
“OK then, guy-girl show upstairs. Starts in about fifteen minutes.”
“I’m here to see Moshe.”
She gives me a weird look. “You a friend?”
“You could say that.”
She goes through a door behind her, leaving me alone for a few seconds among the skin flicks, the dildos, the latex masks. Spotting an inflatable goat in the window display, I have to smile.
“I cannot fucking believe it!”
I turn around. Short, squat. Same old yarmulke on his head, same old Jewish gangster’s mug and the manners to go with. Moshe is orthodox, very serious when it comes to religion. Which doesn’t keep him from running a good dozen sex shops all over Paris. I’ve known him since I was ten and he kept a store owner at the Marché Cadet from smashing a crate over m
y head for pinching a few items. Moshe bought me a coffee and we’d played cards all day.
“You better fucking believe it!” I open my arms, and we give each other a hug.
“Is it really you? How’s it going?”
“All right. You?”
“Baruch Hashem, I’m well. Back when you lived in Belleville, you used to cross town to come see me, I shit you not. Now you live right next door, and you never come around.”
“Oh, cut it out.” I point at the plastic goat. “Are there really guys who buy that?”
“Of course.” He shrugs. “You want one, I’ll give you a good price for it.”
He winks, and I grin. “Moshe, I need some information.”
“I’m listening.”
I lower my voice. “I’m looking for a guy who does porno videos, mostly gay stuff, probably, though he might do a bit of everything.”
“There are lots of guys like that.”
“I figured, but I don’t really know much about him. All I know is his stage name. Calls himself Tantalus.”
“I know a guy who could help you out. He makes movies.” He picks up a phone on the counter and dials a number. “Yeah…Adrian there? You know what time he’ll be back? OK, thanks.” He hangs up. “He’s not in yet, should be about an hour or so. You eat yet?”
I shake my head.
“Then come with me,” he says, grabbing his coat from behind the counter. “My treat. We’ll go see Adrian together after.”
We head down toward the Grands Boulevards and end up in a little Tunisian place right by the Folies Bergère. Once we order, Moshe takes a small cigar from his jacket pocket.
“I come here because it’s the only place in the neighborhood where they let me smoke now.” He lights up and takes little puffs. “So why do you need to know all this? Thinking of getting into the movies?” he teases.