Leper Tango (24 page)

“What matters?”

“Only two things. Where you come from, and where you're going to. Tell me about your family.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Not much to tell. In the current jargon, I'm what you call a deadbeat dad.”

She frowned.

“Not that family. I mean where you come from.

Where's your father?”

“Dead. A tumour. Something devoured him.” “What about your mother?” “Dead too.”

My mind was on a basic rule of trial strategy. Never introduce evidence of good character, if you have something to hide. Opens you up to cross-examination. Sheba smiled expansively. All the earlier troubles of the day had vaporised. Something on her face, something like, this oyster took a good week to shuck, but lookee here, what a pearl inside.

“Take off your sunglasses, Franck.” “What for?”

“I want to see your eyes.”

I removed my shades, lit a cigarette.

“How did she die, Franck?”

“Let's just say it's my
jardin secret
.”

“You feel responsible. But, you aren't.”

“Sometimes, I wonder. Let's just say I unwittingly may have provided the
modus operandi
.”

“I'm listening, Franck.”

“Let me put it this way. Society might not call my mother a whore, but she was a whore. W hich never really bothered me. But I had a brother, Richard, who was strict on standards. He had a code. In his books, she had broken the code. Betrayed him.”

We were outside in the yard at this point. It seemed like the day had been going on forever. She was wearing an apron over a blue flowered peasant dress, a scarf, wooden clogs, and was hanging the wash on one of those ancient clotheslines in the shape of a sawhorse. It was one of her strengths — providing appropriate settings and props.

“Have you ever thought of your mother in other terms?”

“What do you mean, other terms?” “As a woman. With her own needs and desires.”

“It was pretty hard to think of her as anything but a woman. So, any ways, R ichard, for his own reasons, fucked mother. And, while fucking her, he stabbed her.

So, why do you think he would do something like that, Sheba?”

“Because words failed him, Franck.”

“What about your daughter?”

“What about her?”

“I've never quite figured out what the story is there.”

“There's no story, Franck.”

“Don't you want to take her back?”

“Franck, you really are naïve.”

“Why wouldn't you?”

“If I could, of course I would.”

“What's preventing you?”

“She serves as currency. A sort of
monnaie d ' échange
.”

“I don't get it. What's being purchased?”

“Silence.
La paix
. Why the sudden curiosity, Franck?”

“Well, daughters usually live with their mothers.”

“Children usually live with their fathers.”

“That's different.”

“
Vraiment.
”

She was wearing a spaghetti-strapped top and a white miniskirt, so short that her lower buttocks were partially exposed. I'm thinking, whatever way this plays itself out, there's no going back to the day-to-day after this calibre of poontang. Like asking a drug dealer or a hold up artist to work as a gas station attendant. Not an option.

“Sure. When push comes to shove, women will hold their children hostage. Use them as bargaining chips.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

“Me? Hell, no. Much more basic.” “How so, basic?”

“Well, put it this way. If you marry someone for her tits, and those go, end of story.”

Sheba looked at me. I thought I detected some disbelief.

“You Americans are
marrant
.”

“Seriously, Sheba. Don't you want your daughter back?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“
Mère indigne
. Unworthy mother.”

“So what. Deadbeat dad. Not the point.”

I poured out a coffee. Then, thought, why not, might not like the answer, but what the hell.

“Tell me, Sheba. How old are you?”

“Would you believe twenty-one?”

I looked at her. Enough lights went on in my head to light Times Square.

“I see. How old's that girl of yours?”

“Six.”

“Which makes you about ...”

“I was fourteen.”

“Should I be asking who the father is?”

“No, you shouldn't.”

“I'm going out for a smoke. I want to think about this.”

“Be my guest. You're a free man, Franck.”

I stepped outside, closed the door behind me, descended the stairwell into the street. I walked several steps down
rue Général du Clerc
towards the gate leading out of the old city. Hearing her voice and looking up. She was perched on the window-sill, holding a bouquet of handpicked azaleas. Casting for another part which would never reach the big screen.

“
Adieu
, Franck.”

“
Adieu.
” A slow walk along the ramparts of the old port in the direction of the train station. I arrived at a beach, where we had spent some time just staring at the water while she spun out tales, some true, some manufactured to titillate parts of my brain which had never been activated.

I stared up at the twin towers overlooking the old port.
Tour de l 'Ecosse
and
Tour de
something or other. Tour de France, maybe. I was alone again, something which had been hovering on the virtual plane for some time, and now was hyper-real, reopening long dormant mental ducts and passageways, kicking parallel lines of thought into gear. Autobahn A of the cerebral turnpike is seeing for the first time that history has a meaning, i.e. if a city looks with fond nostalgia at its sieges and famines, and medieval plots and vendettas, that history is likely to repeat itself, and that an old brick castle or a walled city might look cozy on a postcard, and a three hundred year old accent might provoke an erection that wobbles the frontal lobe, but that to surrender to the forces of history was the wrong move for someone hailing from a continent suffering from collective amnesia. Autobahn B is didactically looking at the case of Franck Robinson, and thinking, Franck, you got way off the beaten track here, the beaten track being the endless labyrinth of asphalt going by the name Paris, which had nothing to do with the surrounding chrysalidic fringe going by the name of
la France profonde
. I stared at Fort Bayard, which she loved to call the Alcatraz of the Southwest. Then
Ile de Ré
and
Ile d 'Oléron
. Our islands.
It's the water that draws us together, Franck.

VII

During the six-hour drive from the South to the country hamlet of Lusignan, I ran a few mental re-runs of trials I'd participated in or witnessed back in the old days when I worked for a living, particularly the Claire Lortie incident. Claire was a fellow defence lawyer. We called her the “ice queen,” and oddly enough, one day her neighbours saw her burying her fridge in the backyard. Claire's boyfriend, or what was left of him, was inside the fridge. Claire relied on the O.J. Simpson defence, i.e. that a mysterious invader had killed him, and that she was so traumatised when she discovered the crime, she sawed him into pieces and buried him in the backyard.

If there's one thing you learn in life, it is just how little is random or magical. Lightning strikes, and mysterious invaders kill your spouse, or the hand of God inter venes only when you want to ignore some overwhelming evidence pointing in one direction. So, if a girl is waving her cunt in the direction of middle
-
aged Americans while she raves on about death, and an old man is housing her daughter, and the mother is in a cemetery, and nobody's talking about anything, there's a reason for it. You don't have to know what the reason is. You just have to know what you want.

I had brought along a bottle of Pastis just to get through the door. But, after knock ing three or four times, I had to walk around and go through the gate to his backyard. He was sitting in the same chair as the last time, in front of the same truncated oak tree, stirring a drink. A bag of Gauloise blonde tobacco in front of him. The little girl sat at a child 's fold-up table a few paces away, colouring inside a Tintin comic book. She was dressed up in her Sunday best, blue and white summer dress, hair tied back in a single bow.

He didn't stand up to greet me. He didn't look surprised either. I sat down beside him, pushed the Pastis in front of him.

“I am not marrying your daughter.” “
Ça ne me surprend pas du tout.
”

He poured the remainder of his glass onto the lawn, then rolled a cigarette with his left hand.

“What did she do this time?”

“She didn't do anything. She's just too young.”

“That's not why you're here.”

“No it isn't. I've come for the girl.”

His face darkened, but remained expressionless.

“She doesn't deserve her. She is a
mère indigne
.”

“That's not your call. Nobody is worthy of children.

The girl needs her mother.”

He remained silent for several moments. Took a deep drag off his rolled cigarette and looked into the ravine behind his property.

“Over my dead body.” I glanced at the girl, intently colouring, registering everything.

“Who dresses her in the morning?”

“What do you mean?”

“Who takes her clothes off at night?”

He slammed down his glass onto the table. His hand was shaking. I briefly debated whether to send the child inside the house, then thought better of it.

“How's the colouring going,
petite
?”

“
Tu veux voir?
”

Within a few years, she' d be an adolescent. Developing her own bag of tricks in life. Maybe she already was.

“You can show me later. In the car.”

The old man stared straight ahead. He'd lost everything he'd ever fought for. He was used to it. Defeats were his navigational tools in life.

“Didn't she tell you I'm a lawyer?”

I didn't really care what he'd done or not done. It was a question of energy, of vitality. Nothing more. I still had mine. And this old man was gone, well on his way out. My turn would come.

“There's truths in the combat zone, my friend. And there's truth in the courtroom. Your daughter doesn't strike me as the type who would hold back on the witness stand.”

I could see he'd probably killed men. Maybe even quite a few. It's hard to sustain that type of thing in the long run. It was more organic than anything else. The overall energy remaining the same. He slumped over, his head between his legs, buried inside his one remaining hand. I'd seen it in the courtroom. Some of these people, you need winches to get their faces vertical and exposed to the public again. “C'mon,
petite.
We're going for a car ride.” The girl looked up, clapped her hands. “
Ouais
! A car ride!”

“Kiss your grandpa goodbye. And promise him you'll be back soon to visit.”

It didn't take long to pack her bags and get into the car, but she didn't look too disturbed, one way or the other. More interested in the car.

“
Dis-donc
, we're going fast.” “Ever been in a car before?”

“None of your business.
Mêle-toi de tes oignons
.” “None of my business? Who the hell taught you that?

What's your name, kiddo?” “
Je m'appelle Charlotte
.”

Six years old, and already a seasoned pro. “Okay, Charlotte, know where we're going?” “Sure, we're going to the moon.”

“We're going to see your
maman
.”

“In the moon.
Maman
, she lives on the moon!”

“Sure, she lives on the moon. All
mamans
live on the moon.”

“Can I have ice cream?”

“Later.”

“I want ice cream now! Or else!”

“Keep your mouth shut.”

I stopped at a Total gas pump at roadside. A middleaged bald man wearing orange coveralls approached the car. Charlotte pointed at me.

“
C'est lui, mon nouveau papa! Et je ne connais même pas
!

I don't even know him!”

“Kids.”

I shrugged my shoulders. The attendant glanced at Charlotte. He filled the tank.

“That'll be 223 Francs.” We rolled out slowly. I checked the rear view mirror, and spotted him noting down something.

“You keep your mouth shut from now on. Hear?” “I want ice cream.”

I stopped at a roadside grocery, purchased a Drumstick for her, returned to the car.

“There, eat that. You and your mother are going to make a great team.”

“
Merci, papa
.”

“Cut the
papa
business. W hat do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Rich.”

“What do you want to be, though?”

“A doctor. An astronaut.”

“That's good.”

“Or a geisha. Or a rabbit. Or a bank robber. Have you met my fairy?”

“No.”

“She is always with me. Always. No one can see her but me. But, she is more real than anybody.”

“That's good. Everyone can use one of them.”

“I know a secret.”

“So tell me the secret.”

“Only if you promise not to tell anybody.”

“Promise.”

“No, not just promise. Cross your heart on your mother's neck!
Promis, juré!
”

“Okay,
promis, juré
.”

“On your mother's neck.”

“All right. On my mother's neck.”

“Everyone else are ghosts. My fairy told me.”

“Even me?”

She shrugged her shoulders, cast me a coquettish glance. “You know any songs?” “Sure.”

“Well, sing me a song.”

... lundi matin, l'empereur sa femme et le petit prince sont venu chez moi, pour me serrer le pince comme j' étais parti, le petit prince a dit puisque c'est ainsi, nous reviendrons mardi ...

A couple of hours later, we arrived in the old city of La Rochelle. I parked the car, and we walked inside the walls, Charlotte holding my hand, singing her songs. Somewhere back in the new land, a few other heirs to the Robinson genetic mix were preparing for their kick at the can. Their time would come. And best they navigate that road alone. I picked up a bouquet of Easter lilies.
Muguets
.

We entered the stairwell marked Escalier B, rode the cramped elevator together. I pulled back the wrought iron, grilled gate.

“Okay, Charlotte. The door is at the end of the hallway. When your mother answers, you hand her the flowers.”

“That door?”

“That's right. That one.”

She walked a few steps down the hallway, turned around.

“That one?”

I waved her forward. As she arrived at the door, I closed the gate. Heard the door open.

“
Charlotte, mais qu'est-ce que tu fais là
?”

A couple of minutes later, I walked through the gates of the old city, and onto the beach area outlying the old harbour. Looking out at the Atlantic. For no particular reason, I recalled a book written by a German pacifist who fled Germany during the 1920s after being beaten to a pulp by brownshirt Nazis who had mistaken him for a Jew. Towards the end of the book, the hero, a monastic type known as a meister of an obscure game, stares out at the ocean, and walks into it, fully clothed. The water rises gradually, up to his knees, then past his hips and waist. He continues on into the water, as it gradually envelopes him. I never did figure out what that book was about.

I wondered what the hell had got into my mind, dragging an old world whore back to the junk yard of Montreal. Recalled her sitting in the old port, her garter belt and crotchless panties visible from beneath the trenchcoat, as she stared into the waters of the St. Lawrence seaway.

Do you see, Franck? It is what draws us together. The water, Franck.

A cold wind blowing, as the waves lapped onto the shore. We worked on magnetic principles and undercurrents which drew us towards the water, towards each other. I stepped into the water, felt the salty Atlantic water of the inner harbour seeping through my shoes, soaking my feet, lowering my body temperature a notch or two. Some people just walked into oceans or slit their throats, or put the barrels of hunting rifles into their mouths and pulled the trigger, responding to invisible fields of attraction, particles, induction fields. Others show up on time, pay their ta xes and expire quietly within the confines of their homes, surrounded by heirs, embalmers and clergymen. Nothing personal. Just attraction and repulsion, inversely proportional to the square root of the mass of the opposite body. Or something like that. Whatever. The old harbour was losing its charm. Everything around it had lost its charm. Even the word
charm
had lost its charm. I wanted to be free again. Fuck all these neo-templars and medieval whores. I knew some good people back at Wee Willie's. It was over. No more Sheba and Franck. It was more than over. Time to return to Paris. Things would reassume their true proportions there. Paris the most powerful magnetic field of all. And Franck Robinson a free-floating particle, gravitating towards the bistros and bordellos. A neutral principle. Nothing more, nothing less. Fuck ‘em. I was Franck Robinson and I came from the New and Improved World. Whiter than white. We nuked people and then taught the sur vivors how to run franchises and postholocaust seminars. Then called that democracy.

P
ART
III

I

I tended to gravitate towards
Rue Lepic
from time to time up in the 18
th
arrondissement
, because it allowed me to lurk under the shadow of the old
Moulin de la
Galette,
and because the 18
th
still had a bit more of the old Paris than the rest of the city. I'd been back for a few days, and found myself in front of a ba r nea r the Abbesses station watching a twig of lavender blow its way down an awning over the café. It was the music inside the café that had stopped me, a pianist doing a Michel Petrucciani retrospective. Hearing the music reminded me of
Père la Chaise.

I stopped outside the Frou-Frou club on
rue des Martyrs
to light a cigarette. I was a traditionalist, when you came down to it. Cigarettes, alcohol and whores. A throwback to the past. A mulatto concierge was hosing refuse off the sidewalk in front of the club. She was young, pretty, shapely. And she was hosing down a sidewalk.

“You work at the Frou-Frou?” I asked. She laughed. There was Dom-Tom intonation to her laugh. It was a laugh without ulterior motives.

“I clean,
m'sieur
. The whole building. Every day. From top to bottom.”

“How much does that earn you?”

A primary level schoolgirl walked past us, thoroughly unconscious of our presence. She wore a small leather backpack with gold embroidery displaying the letters CD: a Dior imitation of the apparel worn by her elder counterparts.

Je cherche fortune Autour du Chat Noir Au Clair de la lune

A Montmartre The words came out easily, automatically, as if she used the tune to help her climb the hill on the way to wherever she was going.

“Not much,
m'sieu
r.”

“How much, not much?” I pressed, smiling.

“The
SMIC.
”

“How much is the
SMIC?”

“
Une demi-brique. Cinq mille balles.”

“Tell you what. How would you like to earn a
demi
brique
this afternoon. After taxes?”

Her smile was still there, just a little more wary.

“In exchange for what?”

“Not much. Just suck my cock. An afternoon
pipe
, then you're half a
brique
to the good. Better than the lottery.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Simple as opening your mouth, and whistling Dixie. Even if you're tone deaf.” “Wait just a moment.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Take your time.”

She reached for her mop, a loose-tendrilled tool whose strands hung like a sea anemone. In one quick motion, she swung the mop around and struck me across the thigh.

“
Salaud! Va te faire foutre
! You think I am for sale?!”

“If you don't like Pigalle, honey, there's nineteen other
arrondissements
in the city.”

I looked across the street at a newspaper stand. An Asian man observing the scene from behind page 3 of