We’ll meet at Place Daumesnil. A square where we used to hang out when we were younger. A square like in my memory. Sad and gray.
Cars are driving around a fountain where stone lions are spitting out water. He’s late. I walk around a little. Emptied out, tired from the nights spent turning over in my bed, waiting, feverishly, for the phone, for Valerie’s voice, her breath. That fucking need. He arrives in a pretty little English car. Marco hasn’t really changed. A tall blond guy with a smile in his eyes. We kiss each other on both cheeks. “Glad to see you.” “Me too.” We look for a café to have a drink.
“So! How are you, what’s up?” “I managed to integrate into society, like they say. I run a security agency. I supply tough guys for big parties, concerts, things like that.” “You didn’t have any problem getting started?” “No, I knew some people who helped me.” “That’s good.” “How about you?” “I tinker around. I spent a long time in the submarine corps, in Toulon.” “Your mother told me, at the time.” “Now, with my savings, I bought a little apartment and I found a job in a garage.” “A calm life.” “Kind of. Kind of too calm.” “Why don’t you come back here? I’ll fix you up with something.”
“You know that’s not possible.” “Anything’s possible. Especially now.” We talk about years past. Lost years. “I’m going out tonight. Want to come along?” “Sure.” A fine clear night. It’s for us, to celebrate our reunion. That’s it.
Everything, or almost everything, has changed around Bastille. We start at a spot with a tropical atmosphere and a touch of class. Then a new bar with an Indian theme. We end up in a big three-story club. Marco knows everybody. He introduces me as his childhood friend who’s come home. I’m treated with respect. From time to time I see him talking discreetly with people. Marco must be a little more than just the head of a security agency. I don’t ask him about it because it’s none of my business. We got real drunk. Especially me. I want to forget I exist. To forget Valerie exists. But it’s not easy to forget things like that.
We find ourselves at the place of a friend of his. He’s having a party in a big, completely renovated loft near rue Crozatier. I sprawl out for an hour on a leather couch with a bottle of rum in my hand. I’m flying, until I go vomit somewhere. I can sense the friend’s been kicking up a fuss. Marco tells him to calm down and we walk out.
Car at the shore of the lake in the Bois de Vincennes, outside the city. Day’s dawning. Drunkenness going slowly away, giving way to beatitude. The sound of water. The sound of steps. The sound of urban silence. Marco in front of me. Suddenly he stops. “Look!” A field mouse, at the edge of the water. Marco grabs an old piece of wood lying there. He walks forward, stops, then starts to hit the poor beast. The surprised mouse bursts into pieces. Marco keeps going. “What are you doing?” No answer. He keeps hitting. Again and again. Then I understand we don’t belong to the same world anymore. Our minds have grown apart. Finally he stops. He’s breathing heavily. “Want to go home to bed?” “Yes!”
On the way back, the question. The question I didn’t dare ask. “You didn’t get into trouble?” “About what?” “Ten years ago.” “No! Nothing. I forgot all about that business.” “I didn’t forget it.” “You were wrong. And you shouldn’t’ve left. Nothing happened.” “We had no idea. And leaving was good for me. I don’t know what would have become of me if I had stayed here.”
6
Marco calls me up. “What’re you doing tonight?” “Nothing, nothing much.” “I’m taking you along. I’ll come by and pick you up around 10.” “That late?” “Yeah.” He hangs up.
I spend the end of the day with Mom. She needs help wallpapering her bedroom. She was hesitant. I advised her to do it. “Your father liked this wallpaper.” “My father died over fifteen years ago.” “Yes, that’s true.”
Around 10 p.m. I hear a car honking. I lean out. Marco is sticking his head out of a dark BMW. He waves to me. I go downstairs. “You make enough to afford this thing?” “No. It’s a loan. Get in!” I get inside the machine. He puts a CD on at top volume and the bass makes everything vibrate. I yelclass="underline" “Where’re we going?” “You’ll see.”
We leave the neighborhood, and Paris, for the suburbs. He lowers the sound. We get to Rungis, in the industrial zone. There isn’t much traffic at this time of night. We drive between big sheds, warehouses. Black-and-white, like in old films. We turn. Marco hangs a right. We roll up to an open shed. We enter. Inside, an English truck and two small vans. Guys bustling around. I’m getting worried. “What’s happening?” “Nothing. A business operation.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“Come on!” We get out of the car. We walk over to the guys. Marco gives out a few hi’s. There are four guys; they look at me strangely. “No problem, he’s a friend.” The guys are taking big boxes out of the English truck and putting them in the vans. “What’s in them?” “Stuff like cigarettes and hifis.” “You’re bullshitting me. Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want anything to do with crap like this?” “Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” “Are you the manager here?” “No, I’m watching it for a boss.” “Who?” “Remember the Café du Commerce?” “On rue de Wattignies?” “Yes. The boss had a son, Frederic Dumont.” “Could be.” “He’s the one I’m working for. I supply the manpower.” “You’re not sick of this shit?” “What else do you expect me to do? Work on trains like your father, or in a factory like mine, and croak like an asshole just for a pitiful salary?” “You don’t have to do that.” “I don’t know how to do anything else.”
A cell phone rings. One of the guys answers. All of a sudden he gives an order. Everybody starts moving. Marco grabs me by the arm. “Come on! Gotta leave.” We run back to the BMW. “You want to drive?” “Why?” “Because you’re the best.” He flips me the keys. I start the car. “Got to get outta here. There’s a Customs patrol going around.” I accelerate. He’s my copilot. “Right. Left. Now hit it!” I keep the lights off. We can make out something in the distance. “Park in the shadows.” I turn off the engine. Silence. A halo of light slowly approaches. A car goes by. Customs. I watch it in the rearview mirror. As soon as it turns I start up again and I speed toward the exit. Marco keeps looking back. “You worried?” “Not about us. About the merchandise. My cut.” “You never should’ve dragged me into this job.” “Sorry. I thought you’d enjoy it. How was I supposed to know?” “Stop breaking my balls.”
7
A strange sun over the city. Something warm and restful. I walk for a long time before I get to Lycée Paul-Valéry. That’s where I told Marco to meet me. The high school we went to. Especially me, because Marco didn’t go to school very often. But I tried my best. Especially in French and History. So how did I end up a mechanic?
Marco’s already there. Sitting on the hood of his BMW. We look for a nearby café. We sit outside. We order, then exchange banalities.
That’s when she appears. For the second time. Valerie is striding ahead, as if she’s late. I call her. I get up. I run after her. She finally turns around.
[She walks rapidly across the stage. He calls her. She turns around.]
HER: What are you doing here?
HIM: Nothing. I'm having a cup of coffee. You have a little time?
HER: No, sorry. Someone's expecting me.
HIM: You never called me.
HER: I know, I was really busy.