Total Chaos (21 page)

“Do you want another glass?”

“Yes, please.”

I poured her another glass, and sat down next to her. The hardest part was over.

“Do you want to leave your pimp?”

“This life is the only thing I know.”

“I wish you'd do something else.”

“Oh yeah? Like what? Become a cashier at Prisunic?”

“Why not? My partner's daughter does that. She's your age, or just about.”

“That's hell on earth!”

“And getting laid by guys you don't even know is better, is it?”

She stared at the bottom of her glass in silence, just like the other night when I'd met her at O'Stop.

“Were you thinking about it before this happened?”

“I've lost count, you know. I can't do it anymore. Fuck all these guys. That's why I got beaten up.”

“I thought it was because of me.”

“You were just the pretext.”

 

By the time we finished talking, day was breaking. The story of Marie-Lou was the story of all the Marie-Lous in the world. Give or take a detail or two. Starting with her unemployed father raping her, while Mom was out working as a cleaning woman to support the family. Her brothers who didn't give a damn, because she was only a girl. Except when they saw her going out with a white guy, or, worse still, an Arab. Getting beaten for the slightest thing. Other kids are given candy, poor kids get beaten.

Marie-Lou had run away at seventeen. One evening after school. Alone, because her boyfriend, a classmate, had chickened out. So it was bye-bye, Pierrot. And farewell, La Garenne-Colombes. She headed South. The truck driver who picked her up was on his way to Rome.

“It was on the way back that I realized I'd end up a hooker. He dumped me in Lyons with five hundred francs. His wife and kids were waiting for him. He'd fucked me for more than that, but what the hell, I'd liked it! He could have screwed me for nothing. He was the first, he wasn't the worst.

“After that, all the guys I met had one thing on their minds. It usually lasted a week. In their little minds, I was too beautiful to ever become a respectable woman. I guess it kind of scared them that I'm such a good lay. Or else they saw me as the hooker I was going to be. What do you think?”

“I think the way other people look at you can be a deadly weapon.”

“You're a good talker,” she said, wearily. “But couldn't you love a girl like me, huh?”

“All the women I ever loved left me.”

“I could stay. I've got nothing to lose.”

Her words stunned me. She was sincere. She was opening up to me, giving herself.

“I couldn't stand to be loved by a woman who has nothing to lose. That's what love is, the possibility of losing.”

“You're sick, Fabio, you know that? I don't think you're very happy.”

“But I don't boast about it!”

I laughed, but she didn't. She looked at me, and there seemed to be sadness in her eyes. I didn't know if she was sad for herself or for me. Her lips touched mine. She smelled of cashew oil.

“I'm going to bed,” she said. “I think that's best, don't you?”

“I guess so,” I heard myself saying, thinking it was too late to throw myself on her. And that made me smile.

“You know something?” she said, as she stood up. “I know one of the guys in that photo.” She picked up the photo from the floor and pointed at a man sitting next to Toni. “That's my pimp. Raoul Farge.”

“Shit!”

 

Even the best couch is always uncomfortable. It's a place you only sleep if you have to, because someone else is using your bed. I hadn't slept on mine since the last night Rosa spent here.

We'd talked and drunk till dawn, hoping once again to save our relationship. It wasn't our love that was in question. It was her and me. Me more than her. I refused to satisfy her true desire: to have a child. I couldn't give her any logical argument. I was simply a prisoner of my own life.

Clara, the only woman I'd ever made pregnant—without intending to, admittedly—had had an abortion without telling me. I wasn't reliable, she yelled at me, after she'd done it, as a way of justifying her decision. I was too interested in women. I loved them too much. I was unfaithful just looking at them. I couldn't be trusted. I was a lover. I'd never be a husband. Let alone a father. That had put an end to our relationship, obviously. I thought I'd killed the father in me, but maybe he was only taking a nap.

I loved Rosa. An angel's face surrounded by a mass of curly hair, chestnut shading to red. She had a magnificent, disarming smile, almost always slightly sad. It was her smile that first drew me to her. I could think about her now without it hurting. It wasn't so much that that I'd lost interest in her, as that she'd become unreal to me. But it had taken me a long time to get over her, to forget her body. When we were together, I just had to close my eyes and I wanted her. Images of her had obsessed me. I often wondered if I'd want her just as much if she suddenly showed up again without warning. I still didn't know.

Not true. I did know
.
Ever since I'd slept with Lole. You couldn't get over loving Lole. It wasn't a question of beauty. Rosa had a magnificent body, full of subtle curves and lines. Everything about her, the slightest gesture, was sensual. Lole was thinner, more willowy. Ethereal, even in the way she walked. She resembled Gradiva in the Pompeii frescoes. She seemed hardly to touch the ground. Making love to her was like letting yourself be carried away on a journey. She transported you. And, when you came, you didn't feel as if you'd lost something, but as if you'd
found
something.

That was what I'd felt, even though, in the moments that had followed, I'd completely blown it. One night at les Goudes, Manu had said: “Shit, why is it that when you come, it never lasts?” We hadn't known what to answer. But with Lole, something did last.

Ever since, I'd been living with what lasted. My one desire was to find her, to see her again. Even though I'd been refusing to admit it for three months. Even though I had no illusions. I could still feel her fingers on my skin like fire. My cheeks were still red from the shame. Since Lole, there'd been only Marie-Lou. With her, when I came it was like losing myself. An act of despair. It was despair that drove you to sleep with hookers. But Marie-Lou deserved better.

I changed position. I was sure I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. I was torn between the persistent desire to see Lole again and the repressed desire to sleep with Marie-Lou. What did her pimp have to do with all this? Leila's death was like a stone cast into water, sending ripples in all directions, and cops, gangsters and fascists were moving within those ripples. And Raoul Farge, who was using Mourrabed's cellar to store enough weaponry to attack the Bank of France.

Shit! What were all those weapons intended for? An interesting thought suddenly occurred to me, but the last mouthful of Lagavulin put a stop to further reflection. I didn't have time to look at the clock. When the alarm went off, I didn't even feel as if I'd closed my eyes.

 

Marie-Lou must have been fighting monsters all night. The pillows had been rolled into balls, and the sheets were crumpled where she'd hugged them to her. She was sleeping on top of the sheet, on her stomach, with her head turned away. I couldn't see her face. I could only see her body. I felt a bit stupid, standing there with the cups of coffee and the croissants.

I'd swum for a good half hour. It cleared my lungs of all the cigarettes I'd been smoking. I felt my muscles tense as if they were about to burst. I swam straight ahead, beyond the sea wall. I didn't enjoy it. I forced myself on, and only stopped when I felt a shooting pain in my stomach that reminded me of the blows I'd received. The memory of the pain changed to fear, then panic. For a second, I thought I was going to drown.

I took a shower, and the feel of the lukewarm water on my body finally calmed me down. I drank an orange juice, then went out to buy croissants. I stopped off at Fonfon's, to grab a coffee and read the paper. Despite pressure from some of his customers, the only papers he kept were
Le Provençal
and
La Marseillaise
. Not
Le Méridional
. Fonfon deserved my custom.

There'd been a big raid last night. Several squads had taken part, including Auch's. It had been a methodical raid, covering the three main areas: bars, brothels, and night clubs. All the trouble spots had been hit: Place d'Aix, Cours Belzunce, Place de l'Opéra, Cours Julien, La Plaine and even Place Thiars. More than sixty people taken in for questioning, all of them Arabs without the right papers. A few prostitutes. A few punks. But no major gangsters. Not even a minor gangster. The captains of the squads involved had refused to make any comment, but the journalist implied that this kind of operation might be repeated. Marseilles' night life had to be cleaned up.

To anyone who could read between the lines, the situation was clear enough. The criminal hierarchy of Marseilles lacked a recognized leader. Zucca was dead, and Al Dakhil had joined him wherever bastards go when they die. The police were moving in, and Auch was trying to get his bearings. He needed to know who he was dealing with now. I'd have staked my life that Joseph Poli would be the one to come out on top. That gave me the creeps. His rise was being backed by a group of extremists. Some politician must have bet his career on it. I was sure now that Ugo had unwittingly been doing the devil's work for him.

 

“I'm not asleep,” Marie-Lou said, just as I was leaving the coffee and croissants beside the bed.

She drew the sheet up over her. Her face was tired, and I supposed she'd slept as badly as me. I sat down on the edge of the bed, placed the tray beside her, and kissed her on the forehead.

“Are you OK?”

“That's kind of you,” she said, looking at the tray. “It's the first time anyone's ever brought me breakfast in bed.”

I didn't reply. We drank our coffees in silence. I watched her eat. She kept her head lowered. I offered her a cigarette. Our eyes met. Hers were sad. Mine I tried to make as gentle as I could.

“You should have made love to me last night. It would have helped me.”

“I couldn't.”

“I need to know that you love me. If I want to get out of this life. It's the only way I can do it.”

“You can do it.”

“You don't love me, do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So why didn't you fuck me the way you'd have fucked any other girl?”

“I couldn't.”

“What is it you can't do?”

She quickly slipped her hand between my thighs, grabbed my dick through my pants, and squeezed it, squeezed it hard, her eyes still on mine.

“Stop it!” I said, without moving.

“Is this what you can't do?” She let go of my dick and just as quickly caught hold of my hair. “Or is it this? Is it in your head?”

“Yes. That's it. You'd have to stop being a hooker first.”

“I have stopped, asshole!” she cried. “I have stopped. In my own little head. Why else would I come here? Here, to your house! You don't see it, do you? You must be blind! And if you don't see it, then nobody will. I'll always be a hooker.” She wrapped her arms around my neck and started to sob. “Love me, Fabio. Love me. Just once. But love me the way you'd love anyone else.”

She fell silent. My lips were on her mouth. My tongue found her tongue, full of words that would never be spoken. The tray went flying. I heard the cups smashing on the tiles. I felt her nails pierce the skin on my back. I almost came as soon as I entered her. Her pussy was as hot as the tears coursing down her cheeks.

We made love as if for the first time. Shyly and passionately. Without any ulterior motive. The shadows under her eyes vanished. I collapsed to the side. She looked at me for a moment, seemed about to say something, but instead just smiled at me. Her smile was so tender that I too couldn't think of anything to say. We lay like that, silently, staring into the distance, each searching for a possible happiness. By the time I left her, she'd stopped being a hooker. But I was still just a fucking cop.

And waiting for me on the other side of the door, without a shadow of a doubt, was all the world's corruption.

P
érol's face said it all: there was trouble in the air. But I was ready to confront anything. “The chief wants to see you.”

That was an event. It was two years since the last time my chief had sent for me. After the riot triggered by Kader and Driss, Varounian had sent a letter to
Le Méridional
, in which he talked about his life, the way the Arabs were constantly harassing him in his store, the endless robberies, and gave his own version of events. His conclusion was that the law was on the side of the Arabs. Justice was their justice. France was capitulating in the face of the invasion, because the police were with them. He finished his letter with one of the National Front's slogans:
Love France or leave it!

OK, it didn't cause as much stir as
J'accuse
. But the local station, who'd never much liked outsiders muscling in on their territory, spent good money to produce a damning report on my squad. I was the main target. My team was good at protecting public places, everyone recognized that. But I was accused of not being firm enough inside the projects, and spending too much time negotiating with delinquents, especially immigrants and gypsies. There followed a list of the cases in which I'd been seen to be too lenient.

I was given the standard dressing down. First by my boss, then by the Big Chief. My mission wasn't to understand, but to crack down. I was there to maintain order. It was up to the judges to apply the law. In the case that had made the front page of
Le Méridional
, I'd failed in my mission.