Chourmo (4 page)

“What of it?”

“I think she's in trouble.”

Honorine was never wrong about things like that. I looked at the sea, and told myself that my peaceful life looked as if it might be coming to an end. In a year, I'd put on four and a half pounds. I'd been so idle, I was starting to get fat. So, whether she was in trouble or not, Gélou was welcome. I emptied my cup and stood up.

“I'm going.”

“How about I bring a
focaccia
, around noon?” Honorine said. “She'll want to stay for lunch, won't she?”

G
élou turned, and the whole of my youth caught me by the throat. She'd been the most beautiful girl in the neighborhood. She'd turned a lot of heads, none more than mine. She'd been there all through my childhood, and had haunted my adolescent dreams. She'd been my secret love. My inaccessible love. Because Gélou was a grown-up. Nearly three years older than me.

She smiled at me, and two dimples lit up her face. A smile like Claudia Cardinale's. Gélou had always known she looked like her. Almost the spitting image. She'd often played on it, even dressing and doing her hair like the Italian star. We never missed any of her movies. Luckily for me, Gélou's brothers didn't like going to the movies. They preferred soccer matches. Gélou would come and get me on Sunday afternoons and we'd go together. Where we lived, a girl of seventeen never went out alone. Even to meet up with her girlfriends. There always had to be a boy from the family with her. And Gélou liked me.

I loved being with her. On the street, when she gave me her arm, I was on top of the world! The time we went to see Visconti's
The Leopard
, I nearly went crazy. Gélou had leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, “Isn't she beautiful?”

Alain Delon was taking her in his arms. I'd placed my hand on Gélou's, and had replied, almost voicelessly, “Like you.”

Her hand stayed in mine for the rest of the movie. I had such a hard-on, I didn't know what the movie was all about. I was fourteen. But I didn't look anything like Alain Delon, and Gélou was my cousin. When the lights came back on, life reasserted itself. I knew at that moment that it was going to be totally unfair.

Her smile was fleeting. Like a flash of memory. Gélou came toward me. I barely had time to see the tears misting her eyes before she was in my arms.

“I'm so glad to see you,” I said, holding her tight.

“I need your help, Fabio.”

The same cracked voice as the actress. But it wasn't a line from a movie. We weren't at the movies anymore. Claudia Cardinale had married, had children and led a happy life. Alain Delon had gotten fatter and made lots of money. The two of us had grown older. Life, as I'd foreseen, had been unfair to us. And it still was. Gélou was in trouble.

“Tell me all about it.”

 

Guitou, the youngest of her three sons, had run away. On Friday morning. He hadn't left a note, or any clue about his whereabouts, but he'd taken a thousand francs from the cash register in the boutique. Since then, she'd heard nothing. She'd hoped he'd call her, like he did when he went to stay with her cousins in Naples. She'd thought he'd come back on Saturday. She'd waited all day. Then all of Sunday. Last night, she'd finally broken down.

“Where do you think he went?”

“Here. Marseilles.”

She'd spoken without hesitation. Our eyes met. Hers were staring into the distance, at some place where it couldn't be easy being a mother.

“I have to explain.”

“I think so, yes.”

I made coffee again, for the second time. I'd put on a Bob Dylan album.
Nashville Skyline
. My favorite. The one with
Girl from the North Country
, a duet with Johnny Cash. A fantastic album.

“That's an old one. I haven't heard it in years. You still play it?”

She sounded almost disgusted.

“That and other things. My tastes haven't really changed. But I can put on Antonio Machin if you prefer.
Dos gardenias para tí.
” I hummed, doing a few bolero steps.

It didn't make her smile. Maybe she preferred Julio Iglesias! I didn't ask her, and went into the kitchen.

We'd sat down on the terrace, facing the sea. Gélou was sitting cross-legged in a wicker armchair, my favorite. She was smoking, lost in thought. From the kitchen, I watched her out of the corner of my eye, as I waited for the coffee to boil. Stashed away in a cupboard somewhere, I have a superb electric coffee maker, but I prefer to use my old Italian coffee maker. A question of taste.

The years had been kind to Gélou. She was pushing fifty, but she was still a beautiful, desirable woman. The few lines on her face, fine crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, only made her more attractive. But there was something about her that bothered me. That had bothered me since she'd freed herself from my arms. She seemed to belong to a world where I'd never set foot. A respectable world. Where you can smell Chanel No. 5 even on the golf course. Where there's always something being celebrated: first communions, engagements, weddings, christenings. Where everything matches, right down to the sheets, the quilt covers, the nightdresses and the slippers. And the friends and acquaintances you invite to dinner once a month always return the compliment. I'd seen a black Saab parked in front of my door and I was willing to bet that the gray tailored suit Gélou was wearing hadn't come from a mail order catalog.

There must have been whole chunks of my cousin's life since Gino had died that I'd missed out on. I was dying to know more, but that wasn't the priority right now.

“This summer, Guitou met a girl. Just a flirtation, you know. She was camping with a bunch of friends at Lake Serre-Ponçon. He met her at a village fête. At Manse, I think. There are village fêtes all summer, dances, that kind of thing. Ever since, they've been inseparable.”

“It's normal at his age.”

“Yes. But he's only sixteen and a half. And she's eighteen.”

“Well, your Guitou must be a handsome kid,” I said, jokingly.

Still no smile. Nothing I could say would cheer her up or console her. She was too anxious. She picked up her bag, which was lying on the floor by her feet. A Louis Vuitton bag. She took out a purse, opened it, and handed me a photo.

“Skiing, last winter. At Serre-Chevalier.”

Her and Guitou. He was a whole head taller than her, and as thin as a rake. Long, unkempt hair falling over his face. An almost effeminate face. Gélou's face. And the same smile. But standing next to her, he seemed out of sync. While she radiated self-confidence and determination, he appeared not frail but fragile. I told myself that he was the baby of the family, who'd come along when she and Gino hadn't planned on having another child, and she must have spoiled him rotten. What surprised me was that although Guitou's mouth was smiling, his eyes weren't. They stared sadly into the distance. And from the way he was holding his skis, I guessed that he was bored by the whole thing. I didn't say that to Gélou.

“I'm sure you wouldn't have been able to resist him when you were eighteen.”

“Do you think he looks like Gino?”

“He has your smile. Irresistible, like . . .”

She didn't catch the allusion. Or didn't want to. She shrugged and put away the photo.

“Guitou has a vivid imagination. He's a dreamer. I don't know who he gets it from. He spends hours reading. He doesn't like sports. He hates making the least effort to do anything. Marc and Patrice aren't like that. They're more . . . down to earth. More practical.”

I could imagine. Realists, they were called these days.

“Do Marc and Patrice live with you?”

“Patrice is married. He got married three years ago. He runs one of my shops, in Sisteron. With his wife. It's going really well for them. Marc has been in the States for a year. He's studying tourism. He went back ten days ago.” She paused to think. “She's Guitou's first girlfriend. Well, the first I know about.”

“Has he talked to you about her?”

“She left on August 15, and since then they haven't stopped phoning each other. Morning, noon and night. At night, they talked for hours. Imagine if things had continued like that! I had to talk to him about it.”

“What were you hoping? That they'd break up, just like that? A last kiss, and so long, it's been great to know you?”

“No, but—”

“Do you think he came to Marseilles to see her? Is that it?”

“I don't think it, I know it. First he wanted me to invite her for a weekend at our house, and I refused. Then he asked permission to go see her in Marseilles, and I said no. He's too young. And besides, I didn't think it was a good idea, just before the start of the school year.”

“You think this is better?” I said, and stood up.

This conversation was getting on my nerves. Of course I could understand how afraid a mother might be, seeing her son fly the nest to be with another woman. Especially the youngest. Italian mothers are great at that game. But it wasn't just that. I sensed that Gélou wasn't telling me the whole story.

“It isn't advice I want, Fabio, it's help.”

“If you think you're talking to a cop, you've come to the wrong address,” I said, coldly.

“I know. I called police headquarters. You haven't been with them for more than a year.”

“I resigned. It's a long story. In any case, I was only an insignificant neighborhood cop. In North Marseilles.”

“It's you I came to see, not the cop. I want you to find him. I have the girl's address.”

This is where it got hard to follow.

“Wait, Gélou. Explain something to me. If you have the address, why didn't you go straight there? Why didn't you at least call?”

“I did call. Yesterday. Twice. I got hold of the mother. She told me she didn't know Guitou. That she'd never seen him. And that her daughter wasn't there. That she was at her grandfather's, and he didn't have a phone. Nonsense like that.”

“It may be true.”

I was thinking, trying to see clearly in all this mess. But there was still something missing, I was sure of it.

“What are you thinking about?”

“What kind of impression did the girl make on you?”

“I only saw her once. The day she left. She came to see Guitou at the house. She wanted him to go with her to the station.”

“What's she like?”

“So-so.”

“What do you mean, so-so? Is she pretty?”

She shrugged. “Well . . . ”

“Yes or no? For God's sake! Is there something wrong with her? Is she ugly? Disabled?”

“No. She's . . . She's pretty.”

“Anybody would think you find that painful. Does she seem genuine?”

She shrugged again, which was really starting to irritate me. “I don't know, Fabio.”

There was a touch of panic in her voice now, and an evasive look in her eyes. We were getting close to the truth.

“What do you mean you don't know? Didn't you talk to her?”

“Alex threw her out.”

“Alex?”

“Alexandre. The guy I've been living with since . . . almost since Gino died.”

“Oh! And why did he do that?”

“She's . . . She's an Arab. And . . . well, we're not crazy about Arabs.”

So that was it. That was the sticking point. Suddenly, I couldn't look at Gélou anymore. I turned to the sea. As if it had the answer to everything. I felt ashamed. I'd have gladly thrown Gélou out, but she was my cousin. Her son had run away, he might miss the start of the school year, and she was worried. I could understand that, in spite of everything.

“What were you afraid of? That this Arab girl would stick out like a sore thumb where you live? For fuck's sake, Gélou! Don't you know where you're from? Don't you remember what your father was? What they called him? Your father, and mine, and all the
nabos
? Harbor dogs! That's right! And don't tell me it didn't hurt you, the fact that you were born there, in the Panier, among the harbor dogs! And now you talk to me about Arabs!

“Just because you drive a Saab and wear a tailored suit like some fucking high-class whore, it doesn't mean you've changed. If they did a blood test before they gave you your identity card, they'd put Arab on yours.”

She stood up, beside herself with anger. “My blood's Italian. Italians aren't Arabs.”

“The South isn't Italy. It's the land of the wops. You know what the people in Piedmont call us? The Mau Mau. That includes niggers, Gypsies, and all the wops south of Rome! Fuck, Gélou! Don't tell me you believe in all that bullshit.”

“Alex fought in Algeria. They really gave him a rough time. He knows what they're like. Devious and—”

“So that's it. You're afraid she'll give your kid a blow job and he'll get AIDS!”

“You're really gross.”

“Yeah. It's the way I react to bullshit. Take your bag and get out of here. Tell your Alex to go see the Arabs. Maybe he'll come back alive, with your son.”

“Alex doesn't know anything about it. He isn't here. He's away on a trip. Until tomorrow night. We have to bring Guitou back by tomorrow, or else . . . ”

“Or else what?”

She collapsed back in the armchair and burst into tears. I crouched in front of her.

“Or else what, Gélou?” I asked again, more gently.

“He'll beat him again.”

 

Honorine finally appeared. She probably hadn't missed a word of my screaming match with Gélou, but she'd deliberately kept out of it. It wasn't her style to interfere in my business. Unless I asked her.

Gélou and I were both silent, lost in thought. When you open your mouth, you always say too much. And then you have to take responsibility for what you've said. The little that Gélou had told me about her and Alex didn't make it sound as if their life was always a bed of roses.