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  [He walks over and puts his arms around her.]

  I take her in my arms. I’m almost crushing her. I know she’s right, we’re lost, but it’s too late for us to give each other up.

  HIM: What about your daughter?

  HER: My mother knows about it. She's going to take her for a while.

  HIM: How're we going to do this?

  HER: I packed some things. Just two bags.

  HIM: We run away like thieves?

  HER: We're stealing love, and we'll be punished for it.

  HIM: Come on!

  [He grabs her by the hand and they exit.]

  I drive her to the station. Gare de Lyon. I tell her I need an hour, max. The time to go back to the house, get my things, explain everything to my mother, and return to her. She tells me she’ll wait for me at the Train Bleu. I take the car and drive back to the house. I know I’m seeing the neighborhood for the last time.

  14.

  Inside the building. Up the stairs four by four. The door. The living room. I explain things to Mom. “They just called me. I’ve got to go back to the garage. An emergency. The boss is in the hospital.” “You’re leaving me?” “Not for long, this time.” “You’ll be back soon?” “I promise.” Does she believe me? I walk quickly into my bedroom. I cram my stuff into my bag. A last look around this bedroom. Goodbye. I kiss Mom. “I’m going down there with Sophie’s car. I’ll leave it in the parking lot of the station and I’ll mail the keys.” She sniffs. Goodbye.

  I run down the stairs. Into the hallway. Marco’s there. “What the hell are you doing?” “I was waiting for you.” “Why? You got more problems?” “I think you’re doing something really dumb with Dumont.” “Me?” “Yeah. He’s not happy.” “He sent you over here.” “You have to give back what you took from him.” “I didn’t take anything.” “His wife.” “What’re you talking about? He doesn’t own her.” “She’s still his wife.” “Marco! Stop this shit. We’re not in the Middle Ages anymore. She can do whatever she wants.” “That’s not what he thinks.” “I don’t give a shit what he thinks. I came to get my stuff and I’m on my way.” “I’m telling you, you’re doing something really dumb.” “Marco! And I thought you were my friend.” “I am your friend. That’s why I’m here. You can’t leave with her. He’ll stop you. Believe me.” “How?” Marco lowers his eyes. A voice behind me.

  “Your friend is right.”

  I recognize the man who just spoke. It’s Dumont. I turn around. He goes on: “Marco explained the situation to you.” “There’s nothing to explain.” “My wife.” “She can do what she wants.” “She has always done whatever she wants. Except leave me.” “I think that has changed.” I turn back around toward Marco, who’s blocking my way. “Move, I’ve got to go.” He doesn’t budge. “Marco, let me through!” He closes his eyes and seems to be murmuring an apology. Then I feel a kind of shock. Something violent on my skull. And then nothingness.

  I wake up. It’s dark. I’m cold. A smell is irritating my nostrils. A sticky smell. My head’s exploding. My eyes hurt. Hand on my skull. My hair is glued down by blood. Where am I? I try to get up. I retch. I vomit. I spit. I cough. I stagger forward a couple of steps. I collapse. The pain makes me scream. I’ll make it. I get up again. The walls are freezing. Concrete stairs. The cellar. Crawling. I vomit again. Bile and blood. At last the hallway. At last I’m outside. Air. Goddamn air’s going straight to my head. For the first time in my life I like the Paris air. The keys to Sophie’s car in my pocket. Valerie must still be at the station.

  [He is alone onstage. He falls and gets up again.]

  HIM: [shouting] Wait for me, I'm coming!

  Night is falling. The car. The keys. Start. Can’t see a thing. Blood and tears blur my vision. Rub my face with the sleeve of my sweater. Everything is blurry. Drive.

  Hard to sit up straight. Drive. Light. Red? Green? Doesn’t matter. Retching again. Nothing else to vomit but bitter bile. And that blood flowing from my skull. The wound has opened again. I really feel bad. Arriving in the middle of nowhere. Can’t recognize anything. Ah yes! The avenue of the station. Can’t hold the wheel anymore. Trembling.

  HIM: [shouting] Wait for me, I'm here!

  The car’s on the sidewalk. I try to get out. Take a step. Fall on my knees.

  HIM: [shouting] I'm here …

  A breath. A strange sensation. Cold taking hold of me. A tear flows, then nothing. That’s how I die. On a dirty sidewalk, while Valerie is waiting for me.

  [He collapses on the ground. We hear a cry offstage.]

  [Curtain.]

  CHRISTMAS

  BY CHRISTOPHE MERCIER

  Pigalle

  Translated by Nicole Ball

  Faith has been broken

  Tears must be cried

  Let’s do some living

  After we die

  —Keith Richards/Mick Jagger

  There are better places than a restaurant in the 9th arrondissement to be spending Christmas Eve, that’s for sure. Even though I’ve been a regular there and a pal of the owner—the successive owners—for the last twenty years, for as long as I’ve lived in the neighborhood.

  Actually, Chez Léon is not exactly near my home, but going there gives me a reason to walk a bit. Well, it’s not that far, really … I live on rue de la Grange Batelière—a well-read client, there are some, told me that George Sand had lived there as a child, I think—and Chez Léon is at the corner of rue Richer and rue de Trévise, almost across from the Folies Bergère, where busloads of American and Japanese tourists in search of “Gay Paree” pour out every summer. It makes for a 200-yard walk and allows me to get cigarillos at the café-tabac on the corner of Richer-Montmartre. That café is run by a couple, both tattooed and particularly unpleasant, but fun to watch. And watching people is what I do for a living.

  Because I’m a private detective. A “private eye,” as they say in American novels. But there’s nothing glamorous about my life: I don’t have a fedora and I don’t wear a trench coat (well, yes, I do wear one, because it often rains in Paris.) Nobody thinks of Humphrey Bogart when they see me; I don’t go see his films anymore since the Action Lafayette movie house closed (to be replaced by a cut-rate supermarket) because they’re not shown anywhere else in the neighborhood, and I don’t watch them on TV either because I find them irritating. I find them irritating now, I mean. But thirty years ago, I used to like the dark romanticism of those movies and sometimes I tell myself that without The Big Sleep, I wouldn’t have picked this line of work. Back from the Algerian war, I probably would have been a pastry cook like my dad, and I would have been disgusted with napoleons by now. Good thing I finally saw The Big Sleep. Although …

  It really is a rotten job, especially after thirty years, and it does wear you out. Now, whatever’s left of my hair is white, I have trouble walking (arthritis, from too much time keeping watch in the rain, hidden behind the column across from the Ritz, waiting for an unfaithful wife), and I look more like Maurice Chevalier in Love in the Afternoon than Bogart; Maurice Chevalier plays another movie private eye but this one is closer to reality. To mine at least. Now there’s a movie I would gladly see again. But the first time I saw it—a terrible copy with Italian subtitles showing at a small film festival at the Action Lafayette—it somewhat depressed me. (Originally, it was because of the two movie theatres—the Action Lafayette on rue Buffault and Studio 43 on rue du Faubourg Montmartre, now replaced by a hair salon—that I chose this neighborhood in 1985, a time when you could still find a rare film by combing all of Paris.) It’s a comedy but it’s only funny to non–private detectives—or private detectives who don’t raise their daughters alone—which still gives it a pretty large audience.

  Now that my daughter no longer lives with me and she’s with her mother in Nantes, I wouldn’t mind seeing it again, with a touch of nostalgia even. For without Lola—my daughter’s name is Lola, not Ariane like Chevalier’s in the movie—I’m bored. She’s been gone six months, studyi
ng Public Relations at a school paid for by her mother (and her rich step-father) in Nantes, a city her name predestined her to, probably. A dirty trick from my ex-wife to lure her there, obviously. She was supposed to come back for Christmas but the rich stepfather invited her to Chamonix and she’ll only get here on the second week of her break, after New Year’s.

  All this to say that, as far as Christmas Eve goes, I had no choice. If I was to spend it by myself, I might as well go to Chez Léon instead of staying all alone with my TV, my canned foie gras, and my lukewarm champagne. I was told they wouldn’t have any mother-in-laws going yackety-yak or revelers celebrating there.

  So, on that Christmas Eve, the first one without Lola, it was raining. And what’s worse than Christmas alone in a restaurant to escape from an old two-room apartment in a dark building in Paris’ 9th arrondissement, except Christmas alone in a restaurant to escape from an old two-room apartment in a dark building of Paris’ 9th arrondissement in the rain.

  It had been raining for the last two days. I had spent them hanging around the Royal Monceau to catch a super-rich but unfaithful emir whose wife had hired my services, and I had been gazing at the gloomy twinkle of the garlands in the trees of avenue Hoche, under the indifferent eyes of the passersby; sheltered under their umbrellas, they were looking down to avoid the puddles on the sidewalk, busy with their last-minute Christmas shopping. The Arc de Triomphe, way at the end, never seemed so dismal, and my arthritis had flared up.

  On that day of December 24, I had returned home late in the morning, after a stake-out of several hours, and I had made myself a hot Irish toddy (boiling whiskey and cloves). After that, I had buried myself under the eiderdown quilt passed down to me by my great-grandmother.

  I had slept a good chunk of the day and after I woke up, I listened to some Bach Christmas cantatas to get into the spirit of the day, comfortably settled in my Voltaire armchair, bundled up in three blankets with a Jack Daniel’s. Keith Richards listens to classical music too, I suppose. He did break a leg when he fell from the stepladder in his library … We must be about the same age. I fantasized for a while about old Keith listening to Bach, then I put on some Stones for good measure. I started with “Time Waits for No One” because of Mick Taylor’s solo (he’s the greatest guitarist they ever had) and because the bourbon, the rain, Christmas by myself, arthritis, and my elusive Arab sheikh and all had put me in a morose mood. After a third Jack Daniel’s, a very hot bath, and the complete recording of Exile on Main Street, I felt a little tipsy, no longer in the Christmas spirit, but reinvigorated and even combative. A combative melancholy, so to speak, an energetic melancholy like in “Let It Loose.”

  I slipped into gray pleated pants, white shirt, bow tie, and the narrow-waisted, shiny dark red jacket with thin black threads that makes me look like a pimp, according to Lola; then, armed with my huge red umbrella and a dry raincoat, I was on my way to Chez Léon.

  It was 9 p.m., the festive Parisians were celebrating at home, and rue de la Grange Batelière was empty.

  I felt like having a drink somewhere, to take part in the upbeat mood of a crowded bar on a holiday evening, or to take in the gloomy atmosphere of an empty bar on a holiday evening. I’ve always liked to hang out over a beer, at night, in train station bars, preferably in the suburbs right outside Paris.

  But the wine bars across Drouot were closed, and the dark, dismal glass walls of the auction hall loomed against the sky blurred by the vague drizzle that had followed the afternoon rain. I had rarely seen the neighborhood so dead. More than dead even, deserted, as if the inhabitants had fled to escape a Martian attack, as if they all had been stricken by the plague.

  I kept on walking along rue Drouot up to the Grands Boulevards. After a day spent softening in the warmth of my bed and a half-bottle of bourbon, it felt good to walk a bit and my arthritis was no longer bothering me. On boulevard des Italiens, a group of lost, jolly Americans swooped down on me—I was the only living soul in view—and asked me where the Grand Café was. It always gives me pleasure to speak English, as I don’t get to use it often in my profession, so I gladly gave them the information. Grateful or completely drunk already, they made as if to drag me along; I had a really hard time declining the invitation without offending them. I finally convinced them that I was expected somewhere else. A white lie which was hard to tell. Not because I mind lying, but it made me realize how poor my English is, even though I like to use it.

  In this state of mortification, I turned left toward the Faubourg Montmartre and Chez Léon. I thought I could take a shortcut through the alleys. They have the feel of Paris in the old days, they give you the illusion of breathing in the smell of its old lampposts. They remind me of Céline and his Passage Choiseul and I was looking forward to seeing the storefront windows illuminated on a Christmas night. Never turn down your nose at simple pleasures. I love the store that sells replicas of old toys on the left of Passage Jouffroy: It brings back my soppy side and the good little boy I used to be. There’s also the cane store on the other side, near the Musée Grévin (one of Lola’s greatest pleasures). I’d love to get a cane someday but they’re too expensive. Or more simply, I’m embarrassed to open the door and wake up the old gentleman with tortoise shell glasses who always seems to be dozing off behind his counter.

  As I could have guessed, the Passage Jouffroy was closed, its gates down. Gloom was creeping in and on an impulse, I nearly went back home to finish myself off with Jack D. while listening to the Stones and Johan Sebastian Bach. The thought of the next morning’s hangover stopped me. I know too well how getting smashed on bourbon makes me feel. I had my share of that in another life, before Lola was born. But now, no thanks. Morning hangovers stay with me for the rest of the day and it’s enough to sober me up. So I kept on walking toward Chez Léon.

  The novelty store was also closed, of course. I used to buy surprise bombs for Christmas and New Year’s Eve there, and fake mustaches that Lola found hilarious. On those evenings, I would be reminded that I was a single father, and once she was in bed, I would get plastered on whiskey and cry in my glass. The Chirac and Spider-Man masks flashed morose smiles at me.

  The café of the tattooed couple, on the other hand, was still open. Because of the festive occasion, she was displaying, instead of her usual biker T-shirt, a low-cut one that enhanced her fake pearls and her Jane Mansfield breasts, as unappetizing as a soft block of butter. Not that it made her any more pleasant. She was grumbling at a short Asian man who insisted on paying for a cigarette lighter with a two hundred–euro bill; I thought I heard her call him a “Chink,” as in Tintin in Tibet, and that made me laugh. Coward as I am, I answered her mumbles with a fake, knowing smile. I’m one of her old regulars but I’m always afraid she might put me down.

  Her husband, thin mustache, all dressed up too—black leather pants and orange tie—refused to serve a beer to a lonely old lady adrift in the neighborhood. He was bullying the waiter. “Come on, Marcel, move it! You know we’re invited to Mimine’s sister’s for Christmas dinner. That asshole told us they’ll start the oysters without us if we’re not there by 10.” He calls all the waiters Marcel—I’ve seen many pass through here, all sickly looking and underpaid—like in the old aristocratic families where all the maids were rebaptized as Marie. I hate those old aristocratic families.

  Rue Richer, devoid of street lights, was dark—its pizza places were closed, its kosher butchers (Chez Berbèche, served better) had their shutters drawn, its travel agencies (also kosher) offered dream vacations sprawling all over faded posters at bargain prices to the rather scarce customers.

  I heard the screams of the crazy woman across from number 46 (I learned from an erudite client of mine—another one—that Alexandre Dumas had briefly lived at that address). She’s famous in the neighborhood; some people complain and want to have her committed. She apparently lives in a hovel at the top of the stairs of the building where the Goldenberg grocery store used to be. (It closed down a few months
ago and its front is now blinded with cinder blocks.) You can see her stroll about, dirty as a pig, always wearing the same thick woolly petticoats that she doesn’t pull down to take a piss (she doesn’t squat either, does everything standing up, like an animal), the same heavy, filthy sweater, with her old wino face. The supers of the nearby apartment buildings give her a little money to do chores for them, scrub staircases or take out the garbage in the middle of the night. Sometimes one of them, Maria, an old friend of mine who takes care of the 46 building, pulls her inside her home and forces her to shower. I know the woman through her. She must have been very beautiful once. When she leaves Maria’s place, when her gray hair has just been washed and isn’t greasy or all tangled, you notice how beautiful it still is and what a sweet, rugged face she has. Her name is Elena, she came from Italy (Ferrara) before the war to flee Mussolini, and later, her whole family, with the exception of one son, died in Auschwitz. Maria knows all this because she was already here twenty years ago and because Elena, who lived in a studio apartment belonging to Goldenberg, was still talking at that time. Then her son died, she became a bag lady, and she stopped communicating. Well, she didn’t exactly stop: She still expresses herself: She lets out terrifying howls at night, from the window at the top of the stairs in her building; that’s where she took her rags after she stopped paying her rent.

  She bays at the moon, like a dog, like an animal, as if she has no language, as if she can no longer articulate and the howling comes from a huge red hole deep inside her mouth. Like the desperate woman she is, to whom nothing matters anymore. Those who want to get rid of her or commit her are the young yuppies who subscribe to special cable channels like Canal+. They’ve invaded the neighborhood in the last few years, like rats in pin-striped suits. I hate young yuppies who subscribe to Canal+. The people who’ve been living here for a long time—old Jews with payess and yarmulkes you see on Saturday mornings hurrying to the synagogue with lowered eyes, in white shirts, black suits, and hats—pity her. She’s one of them, only in more despair than they are perhaps. According to Maria, she may have a grandson who’s “very successful,” no one knows in what capacity; he would like to move her into an apartment of her own, somewhere else, but she doesn’t want to; she wallows in her loneliness and misery.