Total Chaos (30 page)

I stood at the window, naked, a glass in my hand, looking out at the sea. I was in luck: it was a starless night. I didn't dare go out on the terrace for fear of meeting Honorine. I was washed and scrubbed, but the smell of death still clung to my body. It was in my head too, which was worse. Babette had saved my life. So had Auch. I loved one and hated the other. I still didn't feel hungry. And even the sound of the waves was getting on my nerves. I took two Lexomil and went back to bed.

I did three things when I got up the next morning about eight. I had coffee with Honorine on the terrace. We talked about this and that, the weather, the drought, the forest fires that were starting up early this year. Next, I wrote a letter of resignation. I kept it brief. I didn't really know who I was anymore, but I certainly wasn't a cop. Then I swam, for thirty-five minutes. Unhurriedly, without forcing. As I came out of the water, I looked at my boat. It was still too early to take it out. I should have been fishing for Pérol and his wife and daughter, but now there was no need. Maybe I'd go out tomorrow. Or the day after. I'd get back my taste for fishing. And for simple pleasures. Honorine was watching me from the top of the steps. She was depressed to see me like this, but she wouldn't ask me any questions. She'd wait for me to speak, if I wanted to. She went back inside before I climbed the steps.

I put on walking shoes and a cap, and took a backpack with a thermos of water and a terry towel. I needed to walk. The road through the
calanques
had always had a calming effect on me. I stopped off at a florist's shop at the Mazargue crossroads, and chose a dozen roses to be delivered to Babette.
I'll call you. Thanks.
Then I set off for the Gineste pass.

 

I got back late. I'd walked from one
calanque
to the next. Then I'd swum and dived and climbed. Concentrating on my legs and arms and muscles. And on my breathing. In, out. Putting one leg, one arm in front of the other. Then another leg, another arm. Sweating out all the impurities, drinking, sweating again. Pumping oxygen back into my blood. Now I could return to the land of the living.

Mint and basil. The smell filled my lungs, which were now as good as new. My heart started pounding. I took a deep breath. On the low table were the mint and basil plants I'd watered every time I'd been to Lole's place. Next to them, a canvas suitcase, and another, smaller one in black leather.

Lole appeared in the doorway leading to the terrace. Wearing jeans and a black sleeveless top. Her coppery skin gleamed. She was just the way she'd always been. The way I'd never stopped dreaming about her. Beautiful. She'd moved through time, untouched. Her face lit up in a smile. Her eyes rested on me.

Her eyes. On me.

“I called. There was no reply. About fifteen times. So I took a taxi and here I am.”

Here we were, face to face. Just a few feet between us. Neither of us moved. Her arms hung by her sides. It was as if the surprise of finding ourselves in this situation had rooted us to the spot. We were alive, and we were too scared to move.

“I'm glad. That you're here.”

I talked.

I came out with more trite phrases than I ever knew existed. How hot it is! Would you like to take a shower? How long have you been here? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want to put on some music? Would you like a scotch?

She smiled again. No more small talk. She sat down on the couch, in front of the mint and basil plants. “I couldn't leave them there.” Another smile. “Only you could have done that.”

“Someone had to. Don't you think so?”

“I think I'd have come back, whatever you did, or didn't do.”

“Watering them was my way of reviving the spirit of the place. It was you who taught us that. If the spirit is alive, the other person can't be far away. I needed you. Without you, I couldn't live, couldn't move forward, open doors. I was living an enclosed life. Out of laziness. You always make do with less. One day you make do with what you have, and you think that's happiness.”

She stood up and came toward me. With her ethereal walk. My arms were open. All I had to do was hug her to me. She kissed me. Her lips had the velvety quality of the roses I'd sent that morning to Babette, and they were more or less the same dark red. Her tongue searched for mine. We had never before kissed like this.

The world was falling back into place. Our lives. Everything we'd lost or forgotten, all our failures, finally had a meaning. With one kiss.

That kiss.

 

I reheated the
farci
, and drizzled olive oil over it. We ate it with a bottle of Terrane, a Tuscan red that I'd been keeping for a special occasion. The souvenir of a journey to Volterra with Rosa. I told Lole everything that had happened. In detail. It was like scattering the ashes of someone who's died, to be borne away on the wind.

“I knew. About Simone. But I didn't believe in Manu and Simone. anymore than I believed in Manu and Lole. I didn't believe in anything anymore. When Ugo showed up, I knew it was all going to end. He didn't come back for Manu. He came back for himself. Because he was tired of chasing after his own soul. He needed a good reason to die.

“You know, if Manu had stayed with Simone, I'd have killed him myself. Not out of love, or jealousy, but for the principle of the thing. Manu had lost all his principles. Anything he could have was good. Anything he couldn't have was bad. You can't live like that.”

I packed some sweaters and blankets and the bottle of Lagavulin, and took Lole by the hand and led her to the boat. I rowed out as far as the sea wall, then started the engine and set sail for the Frioul islands. Lole sat down between my legs, her head on my chest. We shared the bottle, passed each other cigarettes. We didn't talk. Marseilles was getting closer. I left Pomègues, Ratonneaux and the Chateau d'If on the port side and continued straight ahead toward the channel.

Once past the Sainte Marie sea wall, beneath the Pharo, I cut the motor and let the boat drift. We'd wrapped ourselves in blankets. My hand rested on Lole's stomach. Her soft skin glistened.

At last Marseilles was revealed. From the sea. The way the Phocian must have been seen it for the first time, one morning many centuries ago. With the same sense of wonder. The port of Massilia. I know its happy lovers, a Marseilles Homer might have written about Gyptis and Protis. The traveler and the princess. In a soft voice, Lole recited:

 

O procession of Gypsies

May the sheen of our hair guide you...

 

One of Leila's favorite poems.

Everyone was invited. Our friends, our lovers. Lole placed her hand on mine. It was time for the city to burst into flame. White at first, then ocher and pink.

A city after our own hearts.

Jean-Claude Izzo was born in Marseilles in 1945. Best known for the Marseilles trilogy (
Total Chaos
,
Chourmo
,
Solea
), Izzo is also the author of
The Lost Sailors
, and
A Sun for the Dying
. Izzo is widely credited with being the founder of the modern Mediterranean noir movement. He died in 2000 at the age of fifty-five.