Paris Noir Page 25
Waiting for What?
Home. It’s on the last floor; above that, there’s the sky. I feel like I’m on vacation here, in transit—away from the world and life. I’m closer to the sky than to the street. The world is locked out. I see the world on TV, it has the consistency of a plasma screen, nice colors, and often there’s background music to muddle up the commentary.
I was wrong to go out. Without the French medical-social system that provides access to free care, I never would have left home, given the price of the scan, the fibro test, the colon test, the ultrasound, and a friendly word of advice.
“You sure took your time,” says Sarah. “What’d you do?”
“When? Nothing.”
(It’s true almost nothing you might as well say little and badly done but after all far away means almost and in a bad way but after all hidden elsewhere or else hidden here crouching inside but disaffected like totally devitalized so this evening nothing more, no thanks, I’m full, a few more steps yes preferably in town without the seasons coming down with the noise and the back of the crowd and the back of the walls and already come back to sleep no doubt or eat to talk a little alone or not watch television and then turn it off and say something always the same thing about finally going to sleep before getting a cold from a window that’s not closed well or shade from a tree there outside night pain and fear of giants first then dwarfs and all kinds of flying and crawling insects in great numbers and a foreign language but not more than a hasty translation than the idea you have of it now furtive with cloud and whirlwind so to be grabbed with a certain precaution before making honey from it on the contrary from your surroundings shapes and noise in the house maybe joyfully but still sort of always the same thing joyful toothless that is pretty little might as well say almost nothing next to two bumblebees in the left ear and the right ear and a sty on your eye first and then deafness and glaucoma the next day and stiffness of the hands and feet and the mouth and lights out of love to the disgust with moving and saying the essential minimum not to mention vain naïve pain and fatigue because well all that why again what can you say if not to warn once again about what whoever didn’t already happen every day and before days of a necessary or optional absence or presence for the proper functioning of the troops or the end of hostilities how to know without foreseeing the ability to worry or despair generating reactions of joy explosions of hatred but I should be asleep already gone to or remained asleep here or there in the same state of a dead or ignorant ignored thing.)
“Nothing? No news is good news. Did you buy some wine at the Nicolas store?”
“Meursault.”
“What’s that package wrapped up with tape?”
“It was in my mailbox this morning. It must be the iPod you ordered on eBay for Chloe’s birthday.”
“Cool! Did you see my leopardskin tights?”
“You dyed your hair again?”
“Yes, to relax a little. I went to the bank because of that business of unpaid rent, it’s a crazy story.”
“It’s always a crazy story.”
“We’ve never been so alone, fused together in the same madness,lost in a world that has the consistency of a fantasy, it worriesus to death.I read that in a book by Dardenne, I’m going to write something about it.”
“You’re lucky you can still write.”
(As for me, all I’m good at is waiting for the results of the biopsy. It’s like waiting for a verdict. Ten years, twenty years? A few weeks? And at the same time I don’t give a damn. Nothing I can do about it. The die is cast.)
“Where are the kids?”
“Julien’s at his PlayStation and Chloe’s sleeping over at her girlfriend’s.”
(I have no power over their lives. Here or not here, same thing. I floundered around all day whereas the street was straight. I screwed around, I nearly, I don’t know what I nearly did, I nearly did something I didn’t do I didn’t smile enough, I looked pissed off all day, not what you call an honorable exit.)
“When do you get the results?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“Talk louder, I’m in the shower.”
Nobody pays attention to me with my dickhead and my asshole. The world turns. Women blossom. China is catching up with the rest of the world. I go out without waiting. Waiting for what?
Closing Time
It’s cold, night. Rue d’Alésia, deserted. Shutters closed. Bar-tabac shop lit up. I’m in the café at the very bottom of rue Gla-cière and rue de la Santé, the light in the jailhouse is diffuse at night, it isn’t lit. Walls eat up the blackness of the sky. Anemic streetlights shining very weakly on the barbed wire. The street is full of murders, fits of madness, creeping illnesses, and a whole planned contagion. The threat of an epidemic, gangrene. Dirty tricks. Everything is maintained there, a shadow zone, like a nuclear power plant. You have the feeling something’s going to happen, finally.
I’m reading a crime book by Albert Camus. Reading and writing for oneself and not counting on other people is a way of being French, being a zero from A to Z. So I’m reading TheStranger. I am that stranger. It’s a way of being out of it, being here by chance, in transit.
“Get out of here,” the manager says. “We’re closing up. You’ve read enough, dickhead.”
“I’m finishing the page, boss.”
I took a step, one step, forward. And this time, without getting up, the Arab drew his knife and held it up to me inthe sun. The light shot off the steel and it was like a longflashing blade cutting at my forehead … My whole beingtensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver. Thetrigger gave; I felt the smooth underside of the butt; andthere … is where it all started.
The light went out, the café closed. Everything closed. I finished living for the day. I’ll never know what began.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
SALIM BACHI is the Algerian author of Le Chien d’Ulysse, La Kahéna,and Tuez-les tous. Le Chien d’Ulyssewon the Prix Goncourt for best first novel and La Kahénawon the Prix Tropiques in 2004. He has been living in France since 1996.
DIDIER DAENINCKX was born in Saint-Denis, France in 1949. After working for ten years in a printing office, he began to write and created his series hero, Inspector Cadin. He has won many literary awards, including Le Grand Prix de Lit-térature Policière in 1985 for Meurtres pour mémoireand the Paul Féval prize for lifetime accomplishment.
DOAwas born in Lyon and worked as a creator of video games in France and London before finally settling into the dark side of literature. He is the author of several highly acclaimed novels, including Les Fous d’avril,which won the Prix Agostino in 2005, La Ligne de sang,and Citoyens clandestins,which won Le Grand Prix de Littérature Policière in 2007.
JÉRÔME LEROY was born in the north of France. Whether writing short stories that are primarily poetic (La grâce efficace) or a science-fiction novel (Big Sister), Leroy’s work is always adventurous, dark, and visionary.
DOMINIQUE MAINARDis the author of the novels Le grandfakir(2001) and Leur histoire,which won the Prix du Roman FNAC in 2002, the Prix Alain-Fournier in 2003, and was adapted into a film by Alain Corneau in 2005 under the name Les Mots bleus.
LAURENT MARTIN was born in Djibouti in 1966. He is an art historian and archeologist. His first novel, L’Ivresse desdieux,based on a Greek tragedy, won Le Grand Prix de Lit-térature Policière in 2003. His subsequent novels include Latribu des morts, Or noir peur blanche, and Des rives lointaines.
AURÉLIEN MASSONwas born in 1975 and became an editorial assistant for la Série Noire at Gallimard, one of France’s premier publishing houses, in 2002 ; he was promoted to director of the series in 2005.
CHRISTOPHE MERCIERwas born in 1960 and has worked as an editor, literary critic, and translator. He published his first book, Les singes hurleurs sur l’autre rive, in 2003, then Lacantatricein 2005.
PATRICK PÉCHEROTwrote his first novel, Tiuraï,at the age of forty-six. He is the author of eight novels, including Soleil noir
, recently published by la Série Noire, an imprint of Gallimard. He won Le Grand Prix de Littérature Policière in 2002 for Les brouillards de la butte.
CHANTAL PELLETIERwrote for theater and film before publishing her first novel, Eros et Thalasso, featuring Inspector Maurice Laice. Her subsequent novels include Le chant duBoucand More Is Less.
JEAN-BERNARD POUYis a celebrated figure in the French literary landscape and the author of many groundbreaking works of fiction. Born in 1946, Pouy is the creator of the highly acclaimed Poulpeseries featuring protagonist Gabriel Lecouvreur. His novel La Belle de Fontenaywon the Trophée 813 and Prix Mystère de la Critique; and La Clef des mensongeswon the Prix Polar in 1989. He also writes for film and radio.
HERVÉ PRUDONwas born in 1950. His novels include Mardi-gris, Le Bourdon, and Nadine Mouque, which won the Prix Louis Guilloux in 1995.
MARC VILLARD has written books revolving around a wide variety of subjects, including dead jazz musicians (La dame estune traînée) and redemption for junkies (La vie d’artiste). But his talent shines brightest, according to Villard, in his short stories.
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Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Table of Contents
Introduction
PART I: CITY OF LIGHTS, CITY OF DARKNESS
MARC VILLARD : Les Halles
The Chauffeur
CHANTAL PELLETIER : Ménilmontant
The Chinese Guy
SALIM BACHI : Quartier Latin
Big Brother
JÉRÔME LEROY : Gare du Nord
Berthet’s Leaving
PART II: LIBERATION LOST
LAURENT MARTIN : Place de la Nation
Like a Tragedy
CHRISTOPHE MERCIER : Pigalle
Christmas
JEAN-BERNARD POUY : Le Marais
The Revenge of the Waiters
DOMINIQUE MAINARD : Belleville
La Vie en Rose
PART III: SOCIETY OF THE SPECTACLE
DIDIER DAENINCKX : Porte Saint-Denis
Rue des Degrés
PATRICK PÉCHEROT : Les Batignolles
Dead Memory
DOA : Bastille
Precious
HERVÉ PRUDON : Rue de la Santé
No ComprendoThe Stranger
About the Contributors