Total Chaos (18 page)

 

Ecco quello che io ti darò,

E la sensualità delle vite disperate...

 

The sensuality of desperate lives. Only poets talk like that. But poetry has never had an answer for anything. All it does is bear witness. To despair. And desperate lives. And who the hell had beaten me up?

 

Of course, I was late for Leila's funeral. I'd lost my way in the cemetery looking for the Muslim section. It was in the new annex, a long way from the old cemetery. I didn't know if more people died in Marseilles than anywhere else, but death extended as far as the eye could see. All this part was treeless. Paths hastily tarred. Side paths of beaten earth. Rows of graves. The cemetery followed the geography of the city. This section was like North Marseilles. The same desolation.

I was surprised how many people were there. Mouloud's family. Neighbors. And a lot of young people. About fifty of them. Mostly Arabs. I recognized some of them. I'd seen them in the projects. Two or three of them had even been brought into the station house for trivial offences. Two blacks. Eight whites, also young, boys and girls. Next to Driss and Kader, I recognized Leila's two girlfriends, Yasmine and Karine. Why hadn't I called them? I'd put my head down and charged straight ahead, and hadn't even questioned her closest friends. I wasn't thinking straight. But then I never had.

Mavros was standing a few steps behind Driss. He was a good man. He'd see things through with Driss. Not only as a boxing coach, but as a friend. Boxing isn't just about hitting. The most important thing is learning to take the blows. To roll with the punches. To make sure the blows caused the least possible harm. Life was nothing but a series of rounds. Roll with the punches. Hold steady, don't flinch. And land punches in the right place, at the right time. Mavros would teach Driss all that. He rated him highly, even thought he was the best fighter in the gym. He'd pass on everything he knew. He'd treat Driss like a son, even if there were sometimes conflicts. Driss could become what he hadn't been able to.

I was reassured by that, because I knew Mouloud wouldn't have the strength or the courage to do it anymore. If Driss did anything stupid, he'd give up. Most parents of the kids I had dealings with had given up. Life had kicked them around so much, they refused to confront what was happening. They turned a blind eye to everything. Bad company, bad behavior at school, fights, shoplifting, drugs. A million times a day, a slap might have done the trick, but never came!

I remembered going the previous winter to collar a boy in the Busserine project. The youngest of four children, and the only one who hadn't so far either been arrested or spent time in prison. He'd been identified as being involved in some minor holdups. A thousand francs maximum. His mother opened the door to us. All she said was, “I've been expecting you,” then she burst into tears. For more than a year he'd been extorting money from her to buy drugs. By way of persuasion, he'd beaten her. She'd started hustling tricks around the project to keep her husband out of it. He knew everything, but preferred to keep his mouth shut.

The sky was leaden. Not a breath of air. The asphalt was burning hot. Nobody could keep still. It was impossible to stay here much longer. Someone must have realized that, because from that point the ceremony picked up speed. A woman started crying. She was the only one. For the second time, Driss avoided my eyes. But I knew he was watching me. There wasn't any hatred in his eyes, but a hell of a lot of contempt. He'd stopped respecting me. I hadn't been equal to the task. As a man, I should have loved his sister. And as a cop, I should have protected her.

When my turn came to embrace Mouloud, I felt out of place. Mouloud had two big red holes where his eyes should have been. I hugged him. But I meant nothing to him anymore. Just a bad memory. The man who'd told him to hope. Who'd made his heart beat faster. On the way out, Driss hung back with Karine, Jasmine and Mavros just to avoid me. I'd said a few words to Mavros, but my heart wasn't in it. I found myself alone again.

Kader put his arm around my shoulders. “Dad's stopped talking. Don't be angry. He's like that with us too. You have to understand him. It'll take Driss a long time as well.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Leila loved you.”

I didn't answer. I didn't want to get into a discussion about Leila. Or about love. We walked side by side, in silence.

“How did she let herself get picked up by those guys?” he said.

The same question again. When you're a girl, an Arab, and you've lived in the suburbs, you don't just get in any old car. Not unless you were crazy. But Leila had her feet on the ground. The Panda was in working order. Kader had brought it back from the university residence, with Leila's things. So someone had come to pick her up. She'd left with him. Someone she knew. Who? I had no idea. I had the beginning and the end. Three rapists, according to my theory. Two were dead. Was the third one Toni? Or someone else? Was he the one Leila knew? The one who'd come to pick her up? And why? But I couldn't tell Kader what I was thinking. The case was closed. Officially.

“Luck,” I said. “Bad luck.”

“Do you believe in luck?”

I shrugged. “I don't have any other answers. No one does. The guys are dead and—”

“What would you have preferred? To see them in jail?”

“They got what they deserved. But I still wish I could have had them in front of me, alive.”

“I've never understood how you can be a cop.”

“Neither do I. It just happened.”

“It's a pity it did.”

Yasmine joined us. She slipped her arm into Kader's, and snuggled up to him. Kader smiled at her. A loving smile.

“How much longer are you staying?” I asked Kader.

“I don't know. Five, six days. Maybe less. I don't know. There's the store. Uncle can't manage it anymore. He wants to leave it to me.”

“That's good.”

“I also have to see Yasmine's father. We may go back up together.” He smiled, then looked at her.

“I didn't know.”

“Neither did we,” Yasmine said. “I mean, we didn't used to. It wasn't till we were apart that we realized.”

“Are you coming to the house?”

I shook my head. “It's not my place, Kader. You know that, don't you? I'll go see your father later.” I glanced at Driss, who was still hanging back. “And don't worry about Driss, I'll keep an eye on him. So will Mavros.”

He nodded.

“Don't forget to invite me to the wedding!”

The one thing I could give them now was a smile. I've always been good at smiles.

A
t last it had rained. The kind of short, violent, even angry storm Marseilles often gets in summer. It wasn't much cooler, but at least the sky had cleared. The sun lapped the puddles on the sidewalks. A damp smell rose from them, a smell I loved.

I sat down on the terrace of Chez Francis, under the plane trees of the Allées de Meilhan. It was almost seven o'clock, and the Canebière was already starting to empty. In a few minutes, the stores would be pulling down their shutters, and the Canebière would be a desert, with only groups of young Arabs, riot police and a few lost tourists still circulating.

Fear of Arabs had made the people of Marseilles flee the downtown area to other neighborhoods away from the center, where they felt safer. Place Sébastopol, Boulevard de la Blancarde, Boulevard Chave, Avenue Foch, Rue Monte-Cristo. And farther east, Place Castelane, Avenue Cantini, Boulevard Baille, Avenue du Prado, Boulevard Périer, Rue Paradis, Rue Breteuil.

Around Place Castelane, an immigrant was as conspicuous as a hair on soup. Some of the bars were full of preppy high school kids and college students, who stank so much of money that even I felt out of place. People didn't usually drink at the bar here, and
pastis
was served in big glasses, just like in Paris.

The Arabs had regrouped downtown. They'd taken over from the whites who'd fled, who'd washed their hands of Cours Belzunce and Rue d'Aix, and all the narrow rundown streets between Belzunce and the Allees de Meilhan and the Saint-Charles railroad station. Streets full of hookers. Buildings unfit for human habitation, flea-ridden hotels. Successive waves of immigrants had passed through these streets, until redevelopment had pushed them out to the suburbs. The latest redevelopment was happening now, and the suburbs had moved to the very edge of the city. Septèmes-les-Vallons, and out toward Les Pennes-Mirabeau. They were farther out all the time, until they'd be out of Marseilles altogether.

One by one, the movie theaters had closed, then the bars. These days, the Canebière was just a monotonous succession of clothing stores and shoe stores. One big second-hand emporium. Only one movie theater left, the Capitole. An eight-screen complex, with a young Arab clientele. Bouncers at the entrance and inside.

I finished my
pastis
and ordered another. An old friend of mine named Corot said you only appreciated
pastis
when you got to the third one. The first one you drank because you were thirsty. The second because you were starting to like the taste. By the third, you really loved it! Thirty years ago, people came to the Canebière for an after-dinner stroll. You got home, took a shower, had dinner, then went for a walk along the Canebière as far as the harbor. You walked down the left-hand sidewalk, and came back up on the other sidewalk. When they reached the Vieux-Port, everyone had their own habits. Some kept walking past the fish auction as far as the careening basin. Others carried on toward the Town Hall and the Saint-Jean fort. Eating pistachio, coconut or lemon ice cream.

Manu, Ugo and I were regulars on the Canebière. Like all the other young men, we went there to be seen. Dressed up like princes. We wouldn't have been seen dead in espadrilles or sneakers. We put on our best shoes, Italian preferably, and had them shined on the corner of Rue des Feuillants, halfway along the route. We walked up and down the Canebière at least twice. It was where we went to pick up girls.

The girls were often in groups of four or five. They'd walk slowly, arm in arm, on their stiletto heels, but without wiggling their asses like the girls in Toulon. They had a simple, languorous way of walking that was typical of Marseilles. They talked and laughed loudly. They wanted to be noticed, wanted us to see how beautiful they were. And they really were beautiful.

We'd follow them a dozen paces behind, making comments, loudly enough to be heard. Then one of them would turn around and shout, “Did you see that one? Who does he think he is? Raf Vallone?” and they'd all burst out laughing, turn around, laugh even louder. We'd won. By the time we reached Place de la Bourse, we'd have started a conversation. On Quai des Belges, all we had to do was put our hands in our pockets and pay for the ices. Each his own girl. That's how it was done. With a look and a smile. A story that lasted, at most, until Sunday night, after endless slow dances in the half-darkness of the Salons Michel, on Rue Montgrand.

There were already quite a fair number of Arabs around in those days. Blacks, too. Vietnamese. Armenians, Greeks, Portuguese. But it didn't cause any problems. It had started to be a problem with the downturn in the economy and the rise in unemployment. The more unemployment there was, the more aware people became of the immigrants. And the number of Arabs seemed to be increasing along with the unemployment! In the Sixties, the French had lived off the fat of the land. Now they had nothing, they wanted it for themselves! Nobody else was allowed to come and steal a crumb. And that's what the Arabs were doing, stealing our own poverty off our plates!

The people of Marseilles didn't really believe that, but they'd been made to feel afraid. It was a fear as old as the city, but this time they were having a hard time getting over it. Because of the fear, they couldn't think straight, couldn't see how to reinvent themselves the way they'd always done.

 

It was ten after seven, and Sanchez still hadn't showed. What was the idiot playing at? I didn't mind waiting here, doing nothing. It relaxed me. My one regret was that it wasn't a good time to watch girls go by, because they were all in a hurry to get home.

They walked along quickly, eyes down, handbags pressed to their stomachs. Insecurity deprived them of their sex appeal. They'd get it back again tomorrow, as soon as they got on the bus. With that open look I loved about them. If you like a girl here, and you look at her, she doesn't lower her eyes. Even if you aren't trying to pick her up, you'd better take advantage of what she's allowing you to see and not turn away, or she'll make a scene, especially if there are people around.

A green and white Golf GTI convertible slowed down, climbed on the sidewalk between two plane trees, and stopped. Music playing. Whitney Houston, some shit like that. The driver walked straight up to me. About twenty-five. Good looking. White linen pants, a light jacket with thin blue and white stripes, a dark blue shirt. Medium length hair, well cut.

He sat down and looked me straight in the eyes. He crossed his legs, lifting his pants slightly in order to maintain the crease. I noticed his signet ring and chain bracelet. A fashion plate, my mother would have said. To me, he was a typical pimp.

“Francis!” he cried. “A
mauresque
!”

He lit a cigarette. So did I. I was waiting for him to speak, but he wasn't going to say anything until he'd had a drink. A real poser. I knew who he was. Toni. The third man. One of the guys who may have raped and killed Leila. But he didn't know I was thinking that. As far as he knew, to me he was only the taxi driver from Place de l'Opéra. He had the self-confidence of someone who wasn't in any danger, who was protected. He drank a little of his
mauresque
, then gave me a big smile. A carnivorous smile.