Total Chaos (3 page)

 

The sun woke him. Nine o'clock. He lay there on his back, and smoked his first cigarette. He hadn't slept so deeply in months. He always dreamed that he was sleeping somewhere other than where he was. A brothel in Harar. A Tijuana jail. On the Rome-Paris express. Anywhere. But always somewhere else. During the night, he'd dreamed he was sleeping at Lole's place. And that's where he really was. It was as if he'd come home. He smiled. He'd barely heard her come back and close the door of her bedroom. She was sleeping in her blue sheets, rebuilding her broken dream. There was still a piece missing. Manu. Unless it was him. But he'd long ago rejected that idea. That would have been to put himself in too good a light. Twenty years was a hell of a long time to mourn.

He stood up, made coffee, and took a shower. The water was hot. He felt much better. He closed his eyes, and imagined Lole coming to join him. Just like before. Clinging to his body. Her pussy against his dick. Her hands gliding over his back, his buttocks. He started to get a hard-on. He turned on the cold water, and screamed.

Lole put on a record.
Pura salsa.
One of Azuquita's first recordings. Her tastes hadn't changed. He attempted a few dance steps, which made her smile. She moved forward to kiss him. As she did so, he caught a glimpse of her breasts. Like pears waiting to be picked. He didn't look away quickly enough. Their eyes met. She froze, pulled the belt of her bathrobe tighter, and went into the kitchen. He felt wretched. An eternity passed. She came back with two cups of coffee.

“A guy asked after you last night. Wanted to know if you were around. A friend of yours. Malabe. Frankie Malabe.”

He didn't know any Malabe. A cop? More likely an informer. He didn't like them approaching Lole. But at the same time it reassured him. The Customs cops knew he was back in France, but not where. Not yet. They were angling for leads. He still needed a bit of time. Two days maybe. Everything depended on what Batisti had to sell.

“Why are you here?”

He picked up his jacket. Don't answer, he told himself. Don't get involved in a question and answer session. He wouldn't be able to lie to her, and he wouldn't be able to tell her what he was going to do. Not now. But he had to do it. Just as, one day, he'd had to leave. He'd never been able to answer her questions. There were no answers, only questions. That was the only thing he'd learned in life. It wasn't much, but it was more certain than believing in God.

“Forget I asked.” Behind him, she opened the door. “Not asking questions has never gotten me anywhere.”

 

The two-storey parking garage on Cours d'Estienne d'Orves had finally been demolished, and what had once been the prison canal was now a lovely square. The houses had been restored, the fronts repainted, the ground paved. An Italian style square. The bars and restaurants all had terraces, with white tables and parasols. People wanted to be seen, just like in Italy. The only thing missing was elegance. The Péano also had its terrace, which was already full. Young people mostly. Very clean-cut. The interior had been refurbished. The decor was hip but cold. The paintings had been replaced by crappy reproductions. But he almost preferred it this way. It helped him keep the memories at arm's length.

He sat down at the bar and ordered a
pastis
. In the room, there was a couple who looked to him like a hooker and her pimp. He might be wrong, of course. Although they were talking in low voices, their discussion seemed rather animated. He leaned an elbow on the brand new zinc counter and watched the front door.

The minutes passed. Nobody came in. He ordered another
pastis
. He heard the words “Son of a bitch!” followed by a sharp sound. Eyes turned to the couple. Silence. The woman ran out. The man stood up, left a fifty-franc bill, and went out after her.

On the terrace, a man folded the newspaper he'd been reading. He was in his sixties. A sailor's cap on his head. Blue cotton pants, a white short-sleeved shirt over the pants. Blue espadrilles. He stood up and came toward him. Batisti.

 

He spent the afternoon staking out the place. Monsieur Charles, as he was known in the underworld, lived in one of the opulent villas overlooking the Corniche. Amazing villas, some with pinnacles, others with columns. Gardens full of palms, oleanders and fig trees. After the Roucas Blanc, the road winds across the little hill, a crisscross of lanes, some of them barely tarred. He had taken the bus, a no. 55, as far as Place des Pilotes, at the top of the last slope. Then he'd continued on foot.

He could see out over the harbor. The whole sweep of it from L'Estaque to Pointe-Rouge, with the Frioul islands and the Château d'If. Marseilles in Cinemascope. Beautiful. He started on the downward slope, facing the sea. He was only two villas away from Zucca's villa. He looked at his watch. Four fifty-eight. The gates of the villa opened. A black Mercedes appeared, and parked. He walked past the villa, and the Mercedes, and continued as far as Rue des Espérettes, which cuts across the Roucas Blanc. He crossed the street. Another ten paces, and he'd reach the bus stop. According to the schedules, the 55 passed at 5:05. He leaned against the stop, looked at his watch, and waited.

The Mercedes reversed along the curb, and stopped. Two men inside, including the driver. Zucca appeared. He must have been about seventy. Elegantly dressed, like all these old gangsters. He even had a straw hat, and a white poodle on a leash. Preceded by the dog, he walked down as far as the crossing on Rue des Espérettes. He stopped. The bus was coming. Zucca crossed to the shady side of the street, then came down the Roucas Blanc. He passed the bus stop. The Mercedes set off, at a snail's pace.

Batisti's information had been worth the fifty thousand francs he'd paid. It was all there in writing, without a single detail missing. Zucca took the same walk every day, except Sunday, when his family visited with him. At six o'clock, the Mercedes drove him back to the villa. But Batisti didn't know why Zucca had gone after Manu. He'd gotten no farther toward understanding that. There had to be a connection with the break-in at the lawyer's. That was what he was starting to think. But the truth was, he didn't give a damn. All he was interested in was Zucca. Monsieur Charles.

He hated these old gangsters. On intimate terms with the cops and the judges. Never done time. Thought they were better than anyone else. Zucca had a face like Brando in
The Godfather
. They all had faces like that. Here, in Palermo, in Chicago. Everywhere you went. And now he had one of them in his sights. He was going to take one of them out. For friendship's sake. And to give vent to his hatred.

 

He was looking through Lole's things. The chest, the closets. He'd come back slightly drunk. He wasn't searching for anything in particular, just looking, thinking maybe he'd uncover a secret. About Lole, about Manu. But there was nothing to uncover. Life had slipped through their fingers, faster than money.

In a drawer, he found a whole bunch of photos. That was all they had left. He was disappointed. He almost threw everything in the trashcan. But there were these three photos. The same photo taken three times. Same time, same place. Manu and him. Lole and Manu. Lole and him. It was at the end of the big pier, behind the commercial port. To get there, they'd had to slip past the guards. We were good at that, he thought. Behind them, the city. In the background, the islands. The three of you came out of the water, breathless and happy. You feasted your eyes on boats leaving in the setting sun. Lole read aloud from
Exile
by Saint-John Perse.
The wind's militias in the sands of exile.
On the way back, you took Lole's hand. You dared to do that. Manu never had.

That night, you left Manu at the Bar du Lenche. Everything had turned upside down. No more laughter. None of you had spoken. You'd all drunk
pastis
in embarrassed silence. Desire had distanced you from Manu. The next day, you had to go pick him up from the station house. He'd spent the night there. For starting a fight with two legionnaires. His right eye wouldn't open. He had a cut lip. Bruises everywhere.

“I got two of them! I really did!”

 

Lole kissed him on the forehead. He hugged her and started sobbing.

“Fuck,” he said. “This is hard.”

And he fell asleep, just like that, on Lole's lap.

Lole woke him at ten o'clock. He'd slept soundly, but his tongue felt furred. The smell of coffee pervaded the room. Lole sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hand brushed his shoulder. Her lips rested on his forehead, then on his lips. A furtive, tender kiss. If happiness existed, he'd just come close to it.

“I'd forgotten.”

“If that's true, get out of here right now!”

She handed him a cup of coffee, and stood up to get hers. She was smiling and happy. As if the sadness hadn't yet reawakened.

“You don't want to sit down. Just like before.”

“I prefer—”

“To have your coffee standing up, I know.”

She smiled again. He couldn't get enough of her smile, her mouth. He clung to her eyes. They shone the way they had that night. You'd taken off her T-shirt, then your shirt. You'd pressed your bellies together and stayed like that without talking. Just breathing. Her eyes on you all the time.

“Don't ever leave me.”

You'd promised.

But you'd left. Manu had stayed. And Lole had waited. But maybe Manu had stayed because someone needed to take care of Lole. And Lole hadn't followed you, because she'd thought it was unfair to abandon Manu. He'd started to think these things, since Manu died. Knowing he had to come back. And here he was. Marseilles had caught in his throat again. With Lole as an aftertaste.

Lole's eyes were shining more brightly. She was holding back the tears. She knew that something was going down. And that whatever it was would change her life. She'd had a premonition after Manu's funeral, during the hours she'd spent with Fabio. She could sense it now. She was good at sensing when something was going to happen. But she wouldn't say anything. It was up to him to speak.

He picked up the brown envelope he'd left beside the bed. “This is a ticket for Paris. The high speed train, 1:54 today. This is a checkroom ticket. The Gare de Lyon. Another one, for the Gare Montparnasse. Two suitcases to be collected. In each one, there's a hundred thousand francs, hidden under a pile of old clothes. This postcard is from a very good restaurant at Port-Mer, near Cancale in Brittany. On the back, Marine's number. Get in touch with her. She can get you anything you want. Whatever she does for you, don't haggle over the price. I've booked a room for you at the Hotel des Marronniers, on Rue Jacob. Five nights, in your name. There'll be a letter for you at the reception desk.”

She hadn't moved. She was frozen. Her eyes had gradually emptied of all expression. “Don't I get a word in edgewise?”

“No.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

What he had to say would have taken ages, but he could have summed it up in a couple of sentences. I'm sorry. I love you. But they didn't have time for that anymore. Or rather, time had overtaken them. The future was behind them. Ahead, nothing but memories and regrets. He looked up at her, with as much detachment as he could muster.

“Close your bank account. Destroy your credit card. And your checkbook. Change identity as soon as possible. Marine will arrange that for you.”

“And you?” she said with difficulty.

“I'll call you tomorrow morning.”

He looked at his watch, and stood up. He passed close to her, averting his gaze, and went into the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He didn't want Lole to join him in the shower. He looked at his face in the mirror. He didn't like what he saw. He felt old. He'd forgotten how to smile. Bitter creases had appeared at the corners of his mouth, and they wouldn't go away. He wasn't yet forty-five and today was going to be the worst day of his life.

He heard the first guitar chord of
Entre dos aguas
. Paco de Lucia. Lole had turned the volume up. She was standing in front of the stereo with her arms folded, smoking a cigarette.

“You're getting nostalgic.”

“Screw you.”

He took the gun, loaded it, put on the safety, and wedged it between his shirt and the back of his pants. She'd turned around and was watching his every movement.

“Hurry up. I wouldn't want you to miss that train.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Set the cat among the pigeons. I think.”

 

The moped's engine was idling. It hadn't misfired once. Four fifty-one. Rue des Espérettes, just down the hill from Zucca's villa. It was hot. Sweat ran down his back. He wanted it to be over with.

He'd spent all morning looking for the Arab kids. They constantly changed streets. That was their rule. It probably served no purpose, but he supposed they had their reasons. He'd found them on Rue Fontaine-de-Caylus, which had become a square, with trees and benches. They were the only people there. Nobody from the neighborhood ever sat in the square. They preferred to stay by their front doors. The older kids were sitting on the steps of a house, while the younger ones were standing, the moped beside them. When the leader saw him coming, he'd stood up, and the others had moved aside.

“I need the bike. For the afternoon. Till six o'clock. Two thousand, cash.”

He looked anxiously around. He'd counted on there being no one to catch the bus. If someone showed up, he'd let it go. If any passenger wanted to get off the bus, he wouldn't know until it was too late, but that was a risk he was prepared to take. Then he told himself that if he took that risk, he might as well take the other. He started calculating. The bus stops. The door opens. The passenger gets on. The bus starts off again. Four minutes. No, yesterday, it had taken only three minutes. But let's say four. Zucca would have crossed by then. No, he would have seen the moped and let it pass. He emptied his head of all thoughts, counting the minutes over and over. Yes, it was possible. But after that, the shooting would start. Four fifty-nine.