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Translation in progress © 2009 Blake Ferris.

LIFE MAKES YOU SICK

(From La vie est dégueulasse, Léo Malet, 1948)

Life has been nothing but a slow suicide since.

LACENAIRE

Then we passed some tall smokestacks vomiting thick black fumes into the air. I touched Albert’s bare arm to let him know we had arrived. For nothing. He knew the place as well as I did. We had cased it a few days earlier. Now, in the morning, it was almost deserted.

I had Albert stop the sedan. He drew up to the sidewalk and parked just short of a cross street on the boulevard. There was a butcher’s on the corner. On its drawn steel curtain, blue letters surrounded by a bunch of tacky curlicue read “fine groceries.” It sort of reminded me of the curtain of a Punch and Judy show. And that was appropriate, since our Punch and Judy were scheduled to arrive from around that very corner. Now everything was ready for the show, and we were determined—especially I was determined—to have a real good time. I was counting on that. It was sort of a solemn moment, but from somewhere deep in my chest, I let loose with a laugh anyway. I had a solid hard-boiled rep, so I felt like there was no problem laughing out loud at the upcoming amusement. This was going to be one party that people would remember for years to come.

As the clock ran down, Albert started keeping time with his fingers, his paw crawling unconsciously, fingers already drumming, up to the dash. He wore a shrunken wifebeater that barely covered his chest. The guy was a riot to look at, with his bare arms and his little driving gloves on. He was small and stout, with these thick eyebrows, careening through life without the slightest idea where he was going. Intellect-wise, there wasn’t much there, but boy, what a feel for machines. Albert and a car, it was like one single unit. He was a kind of modern-age centaur, the best ride in town.

I half-opened the door, my ass riveted to the seat. Paul and Marcel were also frozen, hiding in the shadow of the car’s interior, not moving a muscle.

A nice old lady came past us and saw me laughing. I could hear her thinking: “those rich kids are spoiled rotten.” If she knew just how rotten we really were, and myself in particular, she would have beat it instantly off that curb and left our car alone. I should add right away that the vehicle didn’t exactly belong to me. For a moment, my eyes followed the oldster down the block.

And then the girl came walking by. She wore a really cute white dress. Molded her curves perfectly. So perfectly that Albert took instant note and dispatched a connoisseur’s whistle in her direction.

—Fuck you, I murmured.

Albert smiled at me and shut his mouth. For a second, he stopped drumming his fingers. The girl went by without even seeing us. Obviously, she was preoccupied by imminent and urgent concerns like the arrival of her gas bill, her rent, the guy who had given up trying to get into her pants, or something like that. I stuck my head out of the car to watch her disappear around a corner, just as I had watched grandma disappear. Then my hands slipped under the leather satchel I was holding. A heavy Spanish revolver of a caliber easily criminal in our country sat on my knees with its bandelero. It was a Primamata. I fondled it tenderly. It was almost like I was possessing the girl who had just walked past, her rolling hips articulating an unspoken promise as she moved by our car.

Suddenly I got nervous about the time. Albert pulled back the sleeve of his glove and looked at his watch. Almost there, he said. Behind me, a match spurted somewhere deep inside the car reminding me that Paul and Marcel were back there. I abruptly pricked up my ears. They were talking and I tuned in on a bit about someone who was “pretty cute in her birthday suit.” I turned away. Marcel made me ill with these little rundowns on his sex life. And he was force-feeding  Paul with this shit. I liked Paul a lot. He was twenty and had a hunchback. Marcel’s stories were no good for him.

—It’d be better if you got ready for the job.

—Hey, everything’s ready to roll, he replied. No doubt about it, Marcel was a handsome guy. Massive chest and probably all those other things girls like. He was wearing a tight wifebeater, like Albert. Paul and I were the only ones that could deal with a jacket in this heat.

—So what’s this, I’m not allowed to talk about my last score? He added aggressively. Look, we’ve got other things to worry about. Who knows what’s going to happen to us anyway? Let me enjoy my memories.

They pissed me off, Marcel’s bidet-flavored memories. I let him know.

—That’s enough, Albert hissed. Cut it out. There’s people around. Someone’s gonna notice us. So just shut up, OK? (Sometimes Albert was common sense itself). Especially cause some of these people are still hanging around for no reason, he added, drumming his fingers faster than ever on the dash. Jesus Christ, what the hell are they doing?

—They’re just not in a hurry, I said, abandoning the now silent Marcel.

Something in what I was saying sounded weird to Paul. The guy had his principles. He said we had to explain what we were doing to the armored car guard; that the guy was a pawn like everyone else, just a stupid pawn, not responsible for any of the bullshit, an innocent, and so on.

I’ll give him a speech all right, I said to myself.

Something was going on out on the sidewalk. A paper boy was ambling up the curb, weaving between people, marauding around here and there howling “Extra!” as he hawked his merchandise. He said something after each “Extra!” but the motor drowned it out.

—I wonder what he’s got, screaming like that, Albert said nervously.

—He should save a little breath for the late extra, I laughed. He’s gonna need it.

Meanwhile, the kid had worked his way over to us. I bought a paper from him and unfolded it. Immediately, the headlines leapt out at us.

MINER’S STRIKE: BLOODY CLASHES: The mob of strikers, violating every rule laid down by the forces of order, gave the soldiers no choice but to open fire. At first report, 4 are dead and many more wounded.

Among the dead, a 10 year-old girl. Her presence among the strikers remains mysterious. It is thought that the organizers were using her as a human shield.

—The bastards! Growled Paul, who had moved up between the seats and was reading over my shoulder. Bastards! Shield or not, they opened fire…

—No photo of the kid?

—No, I said, no photo.

—There might have well have been a photo, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, I don’t need a photo to see what happened. Look at the paragraph with the latest news. A triumph for the cops. The massacre got the talks started again. They’d been stalled since forever. In a few days it’ll be back to the harness again for those losers. They’re done for.

—Same old shit, Marcel piped up sententiously. It’s been going on now for a month. And right when they thought their pockets couldn’t get any emptier, they come and take their balls right out of their pants…

He started to hum a song about a rifle, “Le fusil Lebel.”

—So let’s go, huh? Paul stammered.

I could feel the adrenaline cresting in him, like me. He wouldn’t have liked it if I had said no. And I didn’t want to disappoint him either.

—We’re going ahead. We’ll put something in their pockets.

Albert interrupted, starting up in the seat.

—Here they come.

—Adelante! I cried. And think of the kid, Marcel. Seven years down the line, if those pigs hadn’t plugged her, who knows, maybe you could have done her yourself. Let the lead in her belly put a heart in your chest.

Marcel coughed up an ugly curse. The car lurched forward.

We only had a few meters to go. It took all of three seconds, but in those three seconds my skull became a fucking volcano.

I had surmised that maybe I didn’t give a fuck about what the miners were whining about, didn’t give a shit about their struggle and how it would come out, win or lose. It hadn’t ever been so mixed up in my head as it was now. If they had gunned down that kid eight days earlier, the present expedition, to which I was ferociously devoted, would have been put off, if not scrapped altogether. I was like Marcel, as far as the kid was concerned. I would have liked to linger over her picture. I would have liked to know that she was beautiful. She had to be beautiful, that was absolutely necessary. With her poor little dress, a poor girl’s dress, tricked out with pretty little blooms of blood. She was laid out, legs spread, on a pile of coal, cinders caught in the strands of her blonde hair, her virgin’s belly violated by the hot, sharp seeds of death, shoved into her by a bunch of grunts gorged on booze. She was ten years old. No idea why, but I would have liked to have been ten years old right then. Huge longing to be ten years old. Life made me sick. It was a horrific, ignoble machine, and every one of us just helped keep it running. The fucking soldiers were disgusting and so were we. Grotesque butchers, every fucking one of us. An overpowering urge to vomit rose from my gut and I leapt out of the sedan, the revolver in my hand. The smile on my face was capable of instantly and simultaneously causing a battalion of pregnant women to abort.

*

*   *

The armored car had just come down the cross street to discover that it was blocked by our sedan. Albert had maneuvered the car like a watchmaker, roaring into the street, then hanging an exquisite U-turn. His maneuver was so flash that he almost screwed everything up. But Albert knew exactly what he was doing. Now, we were turned directly towards the best way out, and the other vehicle was cut off. The guy driving the armored car evidently thought that he was dealing with lousy drivers or else a drunk, and had slammed on the brakes to avoid a wreck as soon as he saw our sedan coming his way. Leaning forward, he showed us his lips, which had been ready to spew a stream of curses. But now, they were frozen in a stupid-looking rictus. That expression was quickly replaced by terror as he realized what was happening, and then realized it was too late to realize. He was in the middle of a holdup. That’s right, guy. He was nailed, like the cash he was carrying. Albert, still at the wheel, kept him at the snub-nosed business end of his Mauser, letting just enough of it poke out from behind the dash. I couldn’t see Albert anymore, but I knew that the fingers on his left hand were still drumming. Covering us, Marcel kept his gun and a foul expression trained on the few passers-by who had wandered into our little music-hall number, immobilizing them.

Then I was running towards the rear of the armored car. Paul was right behind me. The back door suddenly swung open and I just missed catching the slab of iron in the face. There were two of them in there: a withered, gray old man in some sort of uniform with fancy sleeves and another, more respectable-looking citizen. His mustaches were cut as fancy as his suit. I instantly fixed on this guy’s eyes. He vaguely reminded me of someone. The old man shot his hands in the air as soon as he saw us. The other idiot, however, waved a pistol around and called the old man a coward. Apparently, this suit figured he was going to teach us a lesson.

—Listen comrades, Paul started out, well aware that I wasn’t going to say a thing.

But now the well-dressed man had decided that he was at some town meeting. His speech hadn’t convinced, so he was going to add some emphasis. A shot rang out and Paul nearly caught it full frontal. Then a second one I dodged I don’t know how.

—Peace be with you, you fucking bastard, I chuckled.

He made it so easy. I broke out the artillery. My hand and arm were shaking with delectation as the gently unrolling bandolero caressed my wrist. The old guy’s hands suddenly dropped to cover his legs. He was hit. I wasn’t really after him, but things were bound to happen, given the frantic rage with which I sprayed the interior of the van. The shots roared, echoing inside the steel sound box of the armored car, already making me drunk. And when the smell of powder, hot iron and blood leapt into the air, well, then I was positively beside myself. Already the well-dressed guy was curled up in a ball in the corner. I sent two more bullets off toward his kidneys as a follow-up message. If he got out of this, I promised myself, I’d carry his suit to a plumber, since that particular piece of clothing now seemed little more than a collection of holes with a few threads for decoration.

The guys had probably been holding the two sacks on their knees when we interrupted them. Now they lay on the floor of the van, spotted with red. One of them had opened and the cash was spread around. I scooped up the stuff in a hurry and pushed a handful at the hunchback. Then we sped back to the waiting sedan.

—Move it! I gasped. All this had taken too long, much too long. I thought it would never be over.

The car started. Marcel jumped onto the running board. Just then, more shots rang out. The cops had been alerted and were rushing to add their finale to our act. Already half in the car, Marcel shrieked and spilled out onto the sidewalk. His hand clenched as he hit the ground and his gun vomited all of its lead into the street.

—Get Marcel! I roared. Albert threw the car into reverse and came back beside to the body. I sent a second gun into the dance to cover the maneuver as Paul flung open the door and seized our friend violently by the belt. His nails reddened as he worked the body into the car.

—The cushion!

Paul tossed a shapeless little package into the street, something we had come up with to confuse the police.

—Now! Drive!

The car seemed to fly. One cop who had planned to block our route, reflected  at the last moment that he was probably not yet ripe for the police Medal of Valor, at least not if it was going to be awarded posthumously. He slipped out of our way with the grace of a torero. Which didn’t stop him, as we careened past, from saluting us with his revolver. The safety glass spiderwebbed and exploded onto floor, and then that was it.

Albert was like a bronze statue. Foot crushing the gas, gloved hands locked fiercely on the wheel, he and the machine were one. We took curves in a rabid shrieking of burnt rubber. In my imagination, the car was like some ferocious animal.

Paul studied the road through the back window. One car tried to follow, then gave up. Now we were hurtling through the country at an insane speed, without soul one on our tail.

I drew a hand across my eyes.

—Jesus Christ, how long that took.

—No, said Albert. Everything went real quick.

—It seemed to me like it was never going to end, I repeated. Maybe because in a few seconds, I felt like had done many months’ worth of work.

—Got nasty, hm?

—A real bloodbath, said Paul, in a matter-of-fact tone.

I lit a cigarette. A real bloodbath. And this was just for starters.

CHAPTER II

Marcel

We drove through two small hamlets. If any telegraph was working out here, we certainly didn’t notice, so we drove through the place at a leisurely pace to avoid attention. Only out on the open road, and then only when it was deserted, did Albert get busy with the accelerator. At this speed, we’d be at Duval’s in no time.

Marcel had passed out on the floor between the seats. Paul, with nowhere to put his feet, had collapsed on the seat, the stolen bags stashed as far away as possible, in a corner. The reason was to avoid messing the bills up with the blood. We’d got away from the fight without too much damage. Paul had a stain on his pants and that was it. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to get off so easy after a bloody job like that, and with our hands barely dirty. The blood on Paul’s pants was Marcel’s, anyway. But it hadn’t been a useless precaution, after all, to bring a change of clothes.

I leapt across the seats to check out Marcel.

As far as I could tell, his wounds were not life-threatening. I lingered on his face. I hated that pretty-boy thing he had. Even wounded, and even though he was obviously exhausted from the recent tumult, his face was still seductive. I looked him over carefully, from his feet all the way up to that head I detested so much.

He lay there like a wounded god; his perfectly-proportioned body deserved the attentive, concerned care of a lover. I saw him wishing us a sweet goodnight with a pout from his feverish lips. The soft hair of a little girl caressed  his cheeks. I didn’t believe in Providence, but apparently it existed, because without it, out of us four, it wouldn’t have been Marcel that would have bought it. I had no idea how this was going to end, but already one thing was sure—it was all over for Marcel.

—Serious? Paul asked.

Unconsciously, I had begun to mimic the gestures of a doctor, and the hunchback was taken in.

—Yes.

I turned to Albert and added: two or three kilometers before you get to Duval’s, there are some woods, on the left. We’re going there.

I had an important appointment in those woods.

*

*  *

 

The car jumped onto a dirt road, backfiring loudly. Low branches whipped across the roof. A rabbit fled before our wheels. Birds were singing. Albert stopped where the trees were thickest. Through a tiny chink in the massed trunks, we spied a meadow sprinkled with flowers. The place couldn’t have been more deserted; it felt as though it were 100 leagues to the nearest living soul.

We got out of the car. Marcel was weakly stirring, but I assured him that it was nothing. More important was what I was going to say to them.

We all sat down and I lit a cigarette.

—Nothing happened like we thought it was going to happen, I said. We’ve got the cash. Already, not bad, OK? But it didn’t go off like we thought. One more time, the eternal gulf between theory and practice. We were going to make a speech to those guys, tell them exactly what we were doing. We were going to show them that it wasn’t worth defending their boss’s millions for the change they were getting paid each month. We all wanted it to come off without anyone getting hurt. The guns were just there to scare them… But they didn’t give us any time to talk. One of the guys in the armored car, he decided to start a fight first. We could have been a lot luckier, as far as the idiots who were working the armored car went. The old guy would have listened to us. He didn’t put up any resistance. But that didn’t keep him from getting his dose. Life just makes you sick sometimes. He didn’t deserve a bullet, it was his friend’s fault, the guy thought he was going to be smart. With his little gun. It should have all come off without the slightest hitch, no blood, but, well, I never seen a bullfight that was any bloodier.

I threw away my butt and chewed on a stalk of grass.

—…Since everything should have been…like, no damage, I went on, the other thing we didn’t think about was carrying wounded with us. Now we’ve got one. Marcel. That means: we’re fucked. If we turn this car into an ambulance and ourselves into orderlies, well, then we’re just fucked. And for nothing, because this guy’s hurt bad. He’s finished.

That was the right word.

—So? Albert asked.

—He’s finished. And we’re finished if we keep him with us. That friendly doctor, who isn’t going to save him anyway, lives in the city. You know how smart it would be to go into the city. Dragging this around, we’re not going to make it, and we’ll be fucked.

—He’s really finished? Asked Albert. Those heavy wheels in his brain had begun to turn.

—I know what I’m talking about. He’s not going to make it.

As far as that went, I did know.

—So? Albert repeated.

I spit into the grass and lit another cigarette.

—I’ll finish him off, I said slowly. And then we’ll get rid of the body. No one’s going to come looking for him here in the woods.

—Jesus Christ! Albert swore. That’s a pretty fucked-up thing to do.

—Well, maybe it is fucked up. But life is fucked up. Life does as life is. The old guy in the car shouldn’t have taken a bullet. But it happened. If we continue dragging Marcel around, it’s over for us. I mean, that’s it.

—Jesus fucking Christ! Jesus Christ! He looked at Paul. The hunchback, silent just until now, nodded and said:

—Jean’s right.

I liked Paul a lot. And he liked me. Especially since the day I told him that women were either bitches or whores.

I got out of there, tossed my butt, crushed it under my heel and walked back to the car. As I came near, Marcel raised his eyelids. You could read an enormous fatigue in his eyes. He’d lost lots of blood. I was happy that he’d come to.

—Listen, old friend, I murmured in a gentle voice. The situation is pretty screwed right now. I…we’re in sort of a desperate way and it makes me sick, but… You were with us because you’d hoped we’d succeed. Right? You don’t want this business to fail, right? You’re hurt and it’s really bad. You don’t have a chance, my poor old friend, so…

I took my Colt from its holster.

—You won’t suffer. I’m just here to keep you from a slow death. You were a good friend Marcel. Think of all the women you’ve had. Think of their breasts, their thighs. Think of the whole horde of them and all the pleasure they gave you.

I wondered a little where that voice came from. It filled my mouth, like honey. I hung on its words, so consoling. The specter of the pleasures of the flesh he would taste no more made him panic completely. Terror and despair flooded his eyes.

—Jean… Jean…, he babbled, is it true? I’m not going to make it?

I looked rapidly around. Albert and Paul were pretty far off. They couldn’t hear me. I bent down. I made my voice even more gentle. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

—No, my old friend. You’re not finished. You might make it, but it’s just that I don’t think it’s a good idea. Bye-bye all the pretty girls, huh? I’m going to do you.

All of a sudden he reacted. He gathered all his strength and let loose a wild howl, baying like a beast in agony. The heels of his shoes struck me right in the chest, but I managed to get my piece up in plenty of time. A cloud of birds erupted from the grove.

I straightened myself, rubbing my belly. The Colt was still gripped in my hand. I slipped it still hot into my pocket. Albert and Paul were coming over.

—He’s dead, Albert said, after a glance at the interior of the car. The atmosphere was strained. He was shaking.

—Doesn’t seem like he took it very well, Paul opined.

—He took the short road to hell, and well or not well, it doesn’t really matter, I replied.

Sweat salted my lips. I wiped my face.

—It didn’t feel good, but it was what the doctor ordered.

—So what do we do now?

—I spotted a hole in the thicket, Albert said. We can throw him in and cover it up with dirt.

—No shovels.

Albert cursed.

—Let’s get him out of the car, anyway, I said. It took a couple of hard tugs to pull him completely out. Like Marcel didn’t want to go. The way his hands were, he stayed stuck in the opening for a few seconds. Finally, he fell to the ground with this awful noise, the head banging on the running board.

—Let’s see that hole, I said to Albert.

I followed him inside the thicket. He pushed aside the brush over a sort of sinkhole from which a stench of decay already issued. Marcel would be right at home there.

—OK. We’ll throw him in there, I decided. We’ll bury him in the sod and leaves as good as we can. That will be enough of a precaution. It doesn’t look like anyone comes around here that often.

We gathered around the body. Paul had gone through his clothes and made a little heap of the contents of his pockets. He stood there, arms flailing gently, his head strangely bent to one side, crushed by his hunchback, weird-looking. But he agreed with me. I put my hand on his shoulder.

—It’s horrible, I said, but that’s how it is. We can’t take any risks. C’mon guys, I added, turning, we’re not little girls, right? Let me tell you what I really think. It’s good, what happened to Marcel, that he got hurt and…the consequences. Yes. It’s a good thing that he bought it on our first job. With that guy’s taste for the ladies, sooner or later, he would have given us away. Pillows always give lousy advice.

—Let’s just not talk about it anymore, Albert interrupted. Grab his feet, Paul. The patient shuddered and prepared to comply. I snapped my fingers.

—Just a minute, I shouted. Marcel had trouble with the cops. He told me. They’ve got his prints and his picture. He might be found sooner than we need. We’ve got to make sure they can’t ID him…

I moved Paul away, seized the dead man by the ankles, hauled him onto the path and left him lying across it. Then I got into the car. Albert, intrigued, asked me what I was about to do. There was no way I could let him see the fire burning in my eyes. I lowered my head.

—A horrible but necessary task, I whispered, as if I was disgusted.

I started the car and began to slowly crush the head and hands of the corpse.

CHAPTER THREE

The Return

 

We got rid of the car as planned, in a river close to Duval’s place. They had an underwater garage there, a true wonder of modern convenience, with the best insurance and security in town. The car comfortably submerged, we headed across the fields to Duval’s, which was only about a kilometer away.

Duval ran a kind of truck stop at a deserted crossroads, a place that, as twilight fell, probably began to resemble those hayseed shitkicker dives that produce corpses on a weekly basis. But Duval was very respected by the locals and the farmers. He was an old friend and for the moment, he would help us. Without really trying to make money, he had just ended up doing much better than the rest of them, and he so did a thousand different little things to atone for this affront. There are people like that, who never think they deserve the bread they eat.

He knew where we were coming from and waited at the back door of his house, his hands nervously picking at the straps of his oil-stained overalls.

—So you did it, huh? I heard about it on the radio. I figured you guys were history. The radio didn’t say so, but it’s what they don’t say that you have to listen to. You’re a little late, but everything’s OK now.

—A friend of ours got hit, I said. We had to get rid of the body. That took some time.

—No problem, he repeated.

He didn’t want any more details. The less he knew, the better. He was already enough in bed with us. He added:

—Guy who’s coming to pick you up won’t be here for another half-hour… Come on in.

Once inside, I pointed to the radio.

—What’s the radio saying?

For the moment, the radio wasn’t saying anything. It was singing. Some woony chanteuse was making it clear that:

Because of you I’m dying

My love, oh my baby…

Sentimental shit, but it moved me. Because of you I’m dying! I had said that myself once, to Gloria. I said to her “Because of you, I will die…” Gloria! Christ! I went to the radio and spun the dial, cutting off the singer’s voice.

I lit a cigarette and sat down at a table. Bottles and glasses had traced violet-colored circles on the tabletop. Flies were stopping off there, refreshing themselves before heading off to get stuck on a sticky paper hanging from a lampshade. Once trapped in the glue, you could hear their wings buzzing furiously.

—There won’t be any more updates before the afternoon, our host told us. But just fifteen minutes ago, they ran the bit with the whole story.

—What’d they say?

He nodded.

—Shit really hit the fan, huh?

—Yeah, well, we gave as good as we got. They tried to fight back. Not particularly understanding people.

—One guy’s dead. He was a big deal at the company. Other was just hired help, but he’ll make it, they say.

—We thought we’d killed them both. I hummed a few bars of “Because of you, I’m dying.” I don’t give a shit about either of them. What did they say about us?

—Everyone’s seen you. North, south, east and west. Sounds pretty good.

—Someone see us here?

—Oh, just like they saw you everywhere else. Nothing special. The police are drowning in contradictory reports, nothing that’s going to make their work any easier. Especially with what people are saying about you all.

—What are they saying?

—Whatever. A big guy. A little guy. A fake hunchback.

—The cushion thing worked, I said, exchanging a glance with Paul.

I was satisfied with my little plan. I took off my jacket.

—You’ll want to dump all that in the fire. Hand us some new clothes.

Duval went off to a metal closet, opened it and brought out three full suits very different from the ones we’d been wearing. Actually, there were four suits in the cabinet, but we didn’t need the last one anymore. We changed rapidly and kept on talking. The cops were up to their necks. That was the most important part. One general rule to the reports was that everyone was shocked by the savagery of our heist.

—We didn’t want it to come off like that, I said to appease what I suspected were Duval’s scruples. But it’s spilled milk now.

—Obviously. Eat something?

Once he’d taken our order, I looked at the contents of the bags. Lots and lots of brand new bills. Far too many. I didn’t like it. I got together some of the used bills for my companions. Paul was going to stay at Duval’s as a ‘boarder’ for a few days. He was too conspicuous, with his hump. The cushion thing had worked, or maybe it hadn’t. You couldn’t believe everything the police said. Albert would travel to the capital on his own, using a bizarre system of rail connections. As for me, I had to wait for a truck.

The truck arrived in no time, and filled up. The driver had a nice face, and seemed like an alright guy.

—Here’s the passenger, Duval told him. He works with you, starting this morning.

—Got it, said the other. So, buddy, you’re a loader?

—It looks like it, I said.

—Never carried cement before, huh?

He was proud of his muscles. He had so many of them that it was just disgusting. He was just a bunch of squirming glands. I had taken off my jacket, and my skinny arms made me seem harmless. Did I ever carry cement? Sure, I had carried cement. And sulfur, and coal. Fifteen years ago, and it almost killed me, zigzagging around like crazy and the rest of them always thinking it was so funny. Since then, I’ve been carrying something heavier. Something… Jesus, whatever it is, it’s damn heavy.

—I’m not exactly built, if you see what I mean.

—It takes all kinds, he said.

The big leather bag I had been carrying around since the morning, into which we had dumped the contents of the sacks, I hid amongst the cargo piled on the truck. After saying goodbye to the others, I climbed into the seat next to the driver and we got going.

The sun beat down hard on us. We were literally cooking in that cab. Sweat ran down my companion’s face onto his biceps. I wasn’t any drier—dark stains blossomed beneath both my armpits. I had folded my jacket and placed it on my knees. In my pocket, my right hand gripped the stock of the Colt, just in case.

We took more or less the opposite route that Albert had taken during our flight. The driver hardly said a word. I wondered what he thought of a runt like me.

As we approached the city, three motorcycle cops flashed us to pull over. Their steel helmets gleamed sharply in the sunlight. Beneath their dark uniforms, the fat was melting off their bones. One of them, an officer,  had undone his collar. They did not exactly radiate sweetness and light. I gripped the revolver more tightly.

My companion braked, the tires screeched, and we came to a stop in a cloud of dust. The cop with the open collar approached the truck with his hand in the air. Leaning on his machine, one foot on the ground, he asked:

—Where are you coming from, you guys?

The driver said the name of some place and produced all the papers necessary to back it up. He did it with the air of someone used to dealing with green patrolmen during his hauls.

—What’s up? He asked as he folded up the documents the other was handing back.

—You haven’t seen a car like this? The cop said, giving a more or less exact description of the hulk that was now parked at the bottom of the river.

—Nope. What did it do?

—Gangsters. They grabbed the payroll for the workers at the Folk plant and killed a couple of employees.

—Really? I exclaimed. Some people don’t have to worry about where they’re going to get their next paycheck from, huh?

—They worry others, the cop concluded. So, anyway, you guys didn’t see anything suspicious?

—No, nothing suspicious.

—You can go, the cop said, touching his helmet with a liberating gesture.

—See you! I said, taking my hand from the grip of the pistol.

We took off again.

The driver avoided my eyes, concentrated on the road. He drew his tongue over his thick lips, collecting the huge drops of sweat that ran down from his forehead and along the sides of his nose to flood his mouth. I wasn’t doing any better. We didn’t say a word until we’d got to the city.

He left me on a deserted street. I retrieved the precious bag and said, see you! He shook his head. He was still sweating, and a few drops hit me in the face.

—I’d rather not, comrade, he breathed through a fake smile. I couldn’t believe that it had been so hard for him. You see, comrade, I still like this shit job. It’s a pain in the ass, but it ain’t the same as your job.

—It takes all kinds, I laughed.

A holdup of unprecedented savagery was committed this morning in the western suburbs. The armored car carrying the payroll for the Folk plant, estimated at five million francs, was attacked near the factory by 4 men in a brown car who had been lying in wait for some time.

It appears that the thief behind the wheel of the car was an ace. The manner in which the driver blocked the route of the armored car showed as much mastery and skill as it did daring and nerve.

As the driver of the brown car locked horns with the armored car, three men leapt out. The first, armed with a tommy-gun, kept passers-by immobilized before his weapon. The other two, waving automatics, rushed to assault the armored car. They then  immediately turned a steady stream of bullets on its passengers, a Mr. Bernard and a Mr. Lebas.

Mr. Bernard, his legs seriously injured, will most likely survive the attack. He will be crippled for the rest of his life. Mr. Lebas, a member of the management at Folk, was literally chopped up by the gunfire. The coroner noted that he had been struck by over twenty rounds.

Arriving on the scene, the police opened fire in their turn, wounding the gangster who had his gun tuned on the passers-by. In spite of that, he managed to slip into the car and flee the scene with his accomplices.

As of this reporting, we so far have no word of the gangsters. Witnesses at the scene described two perpetrators in jackets and ties, and two men who were virtually bare-chested. According to the authorities, the diversity of the group’s clothing suggests an attempt at disguise, or else an effort to hide tattoos that would be too conspicuous. Another member of the gang wore a different type of disguise. He appeared to be a hunchback, but in the haste of the getaway, and in the confusion during which they attempted to hurry their wounded companion back to the car, a crude cushion fell to the sidewalk. Apparently, it was a false hump, which was worn by one of the thieves, and intended to confuse the police. The man presumed to carry too many tattoos to safely appear in shirtsleeves in public is the killer in the group. He opened fire on Bernard and Lebas. To the uninformed, he appears to be handsome, young and from a good family, deceptively unlike the cold-blooded killer he is. A Mrs. Berger, who encountered the car a few minutes before the attack, testified that the young man seemed very good-natured, and that she would have never imagined that such a nice boy was actually preparing to commit such an atrocious crime. Another witness heard him pronounce the word “Adelante!” (or “let’s go!”) just as the sedan accelerated to block the armored car. Could we be dealing with foreigners here? Pistoleros? Some of the shells found on the site seem to confirm this hypothesis. Police experts believe that the shells came from a Spanish revolver.

The emotion…

CHAPTER IV

 

Cucaracha

I read an almost identical story, with minor and unimportant variations, in a few dozen other newspapers as soon as I got to the headquarters of the committee. Public sentiment about the holdup was at its peak. Apparently, no one had even seen anything like this before. But the police would do their duty, we could count on them, and a handful of leads were henceforth under investigation, of course, like always. Our car, which had evidently leapt out of the river all by itself, had been spotted more or less all over the place. One harmless driver had even taken bullets from some overzealous highway patrolmen in the area exactly opposite the escape route we had chosen. Certain reporters, displaying a memory and intuition rather surprising for the species, compared the job to the Bonnot affair.

As a general rule, it seemed to me that what pissed off the journalists most, even more than the savage peppering of Lebas—and as for that fellow, I was sort of glad he was called Lebas, not that that name meant anything to me one way or another, but I was pleased to know it all the same; Lebas, Lehaut, Lecentre, I couldn’t give a shit. The thing was that the guy had a name, that’s what mattered. Killing some anonymous stick-figure just doesn’t satisfy in the same way. It’s too abstract. I’m all about the concrete. To come back to the famous journalists—and I was going to provide so much fucking copy to those losers that they would have to build me a fucking monument—, one of these days, they’d decide that the fact that I walked off with the take was a personal insult. That’s what really pissed them off. My own cynicism dwarfed theirs. They were ridiculous! Could they have possibly imagined that I had put this whole thing together just to let the cash flow back into the Folk Factories’ coffers?  If they had had the slightest idea of what I wanted to do with the money, the realization would have probably cut off their air. But chuckling over the keys of their typewriters, and whipping around their skinny little pens, to console themselves over the loss of five million francs, they announced that the lion’s share of the stolen banknotes were registered. You couldn’t believe everything you heard from cops and journalists, but it was clear that on this point, they weren’t bluffing. The abundance of new bills in the take had made me nervous from the start.

*
*   *

 

The members of the committee were seated around a table of white wood. The whole place reeked of damp and printing ink. From the neighboring workshop came the drone of two pedal-operated presses, which were printing the organization’s broadsheet. One anemic bulb stuck to the ceiling spread a parsimonious light throughout the room. With his beard and vast, bare forehead, the guy we called Christ did in fact look more and more to me like Our Savior. But there wasn’t a drop of resignation in his eyes, and I gathered that this guy wasn’t exactly an apostle of nonviolence.

—Here’s the cash, I announced, placing the bag on the table.

—How did it go, asked Christ. I’ve seen the papers. Not exactly like clockwork, huh?

—It went completely opposite to how we’d planned. The Lebas guy opened fire right away. There was no way Paul and I could avoid shooting back. I was enraged. More than that, Marcel’s dead. The cops hit him real bad.

I explained how it went.

—I really wonder, someone piped up, if we’ve exactly followed your thinking here. Going back to armed struggle again. Well. After all, what’s done is done…

—The money is here, I said, trying to justify myself. The miners have been bled dry and are about to give up. With this, they can stand their ground. Is there someone here who’s going to deliver it to them?

—One of our friends, a member of the movement, will be here within an hour, Christ said. He’s aware of where the money’s coming from, but it’s better if he doesn’t meet you.

—On that note, the comrade who picked me up at Duval’s, he’s safe? The guy was scared, and wouldn’t go through with what he did again for a million bucks. I prefer saying it up front. He’s scared. Is he going to keep his mouth shut?

—Absolutely, Christ said. So, he added, opening the drawstrings of the sack and spreading the banknotes on the table, two-thirds of these bills are useless, huh?

A few of them slipped out of the bands and went fluttering down onto the dirt floor.

—These numbers are all in sequence. Registered.

From his pocket, he took one of the few papers that I hadn’t bought. The front page was just serial numbers, they had printed them on the front page. Christ compared them with the numbers on a few bills taken at random. They matched. He made a pile of the new bills.

—Burn these, he decreed, after some silent counsel from the rest.

I scooped up two big bills.

—I’m keeping them for sentimental reasons, I explained. Their rough feel reminded me of the deaths of Lebas and Marcel.

*

*  *

Some time later, I went out on the boulevards to enjoy a first mingle with crowds already abuzz with the news of our exploits. I then realized that apart from some small change and the two marked and unusable bills, I was completely broke.

We had sort of mixed up the money at Duval’s place, when it was time to set something aside for Albert and Paul. My personal share must have stayed in the sack, and now was the property of the Committee. From the Committee itself, I’d asked for nothing. And Christ and the others, naturally assuming that I had helped myself, had said nothing.

I looked at the hour. It was too late to return to the headquarters, and at bottom, I couldn’t give a shit about the money.

I wasn’t your average gangster. The pathetic cretins who weaved around me, jostling me occasionally, had no idea that they were rubbing shoulders with the killer whose bloodthirsty conduct had disgusted the most hardened among them. They’d figure it out one day.

Suddenly growing hungry, I realized that I was flat broke. I had hardly touched the meager snack Duval had offered us, and I didn’t recall eating the day before. I didn’t eat much in general. The toil of it revolted me. I had never been able to understand why it was such a central thing for people, eating. Jump on something and get it down, OK. But getting together, people who don’t even know other, like in restaurants, or even friends having like a what do they call it, a banquet, a family dinner—that seemed grotesque, the height of disgusting. The noise of the silverware and the jaws grinding away, the faces undulating in the throes of chewing, the way their cheeks would puff out with balls of food and deflate in rhythm to bobbing Adam’s apples; every physical change that the eaters went through—I could see them right in front of me, swelling, shrinking—the whole spectacle filled me with a sad, contemptuous rage. But still…the digestive tract was after all at the bottom of strikes and riots…I remembered a film in which a single piece of meat shimmering with maggots and crawling with bugs was the cause of a mutiny. But weren’t all of them on their way to becoming something like that ignoble, briefly fascinating hunk of meat anyway? So? Contemplating the eater at his task filled me with a certain ease in spite of my revulsion. I would sit back and wait for various accidents and mishaps. I took a special pleasure in watching drinks go down the wrong pipe, scalding soup sampled too soon, the diverse effects of pepper and hot mustard, the errant bone catching in someone’s throat… I adored the end of meals when peoples’ faces had grown purple and the business of extracting well-entrenched debris from the teeth began. Everyone would dive into it, using whatever means they had at hand, some using the customary little utensils that they would fetch from a little mica box or a pouch. Others would just use a whittled matchstick or the point of a knife. Jesus! It was so ridiculous and tragic and disgusting to eat right in front of everybody. No, there wasn’t anything more depressing and grimly obscene. I’d put off the tiresome duty of sitting down at a table until the absolute last moment. Being hungry didn’t bother me. I knew what hungry was. I was used to it. I only ever listened to my hunger when it really started to grab me deep down. That was the case now. It might be true what they say, that you’re a slave to what you feel.

Before going into a restaurant, out of an ancient instinct familiar to people who are used to floundering in shit, I’d feel in my pocket and realize that I didn’t have dime one. Nevertheless, right now, I had to feed. The most basic common sense was drumming that message hard into my gut. I was beginning to feel muddy-headed, and now was no time to start passing out, not with the stolen bills and the piece I was carrying. It was not like I was going to fuck it all up right at the beginning.

*

*  *

Suspended by a few tacks, the card on the door barked their names in italics: Mr. and Mr. Frederic Lorboit, a spelling mistake—their last name really finished with an “S,” but the printers who served people that moved around a lot didn’t look that closely at what they printed. In some apartment on the floor, a radio was playing. I rang the bell and my guts chose that moment to begin rumbling around. The door opened and Freddie appeared.

—Hey. how’s it going, Jean? He mumbled. He was chewing and held a napkin. I pointed a finger towards his face.

—I see you’re getting down to business there, I chuckled. That’s pretty remarkable, cause I was just about to invite myself to dinner.

—Still alone, huh? Come on in.

He shook my hand. I walked in front of him, into their familiar dining room. The radio was coming from their place. The machine sat on a piece of furniture specially built for that purpose. It babbled on quietly. Mrs. Lorbois was sitting at the table.

—Good evening, Mr. Fraiger, she said. We were just asking ourselves why we hadn’t seen you lately. How are you doing?

—Same as always, her husband answered for me, with a well-meaning chuckle. Flat broke once again. Set the table.

Mrs. Lorbois got up and went into the kitchen. Freddie sighed. I had known him since forever. I used to be his right hand in the plumbing business where he worked. I quit the place, but we’d stayed buddies. He was always around to help me out. This good, sturdy prole was over fifty and thought of me as a kid. Which was fine with me.

—Talking about always…, he added with a hint of affectionate reproach. Well, anyway, everyone’s got something different that works for them. But it’s been awhile, huh? How’re you making out these days? You’re looking pretty shabby.

I sat down.

—You should find some real work, Mr. Fraiger, she said. You’re a smart guy.

I looked at her. It was very nice of her to find me smart, even if everyone else said that. No one would ever think to say to a guy, you’re royalty compared to the rest. No. People say instead, “you’re a smart guy…”  As if there weren’t one single idiot on the surface of the planet, nothing but smart guys. I guess that’s reassuring when you think about it. The radio sprinkled these thoughts with pillow talk. I made some vague gesture.

—Come on, she finished. Don’t get down in the dumps. One day, you’ll find your place.

She pushed a plate overflowing with food in my direction. Laughing, I started to dig in, assuring them that I wasn’t even close to despair yet. If they had known that I had rounded up five million during the day and that in spite of that I had been reduced to begging dinner from them, they probably would have figured that I couldn’t have been as smart as all that. “That’s guy’s a little funny,” they would have said instead. They wouldn’t have been the first. It was the fucking radio that reminded me of that expression. “A little funny!” Gloria had said that to me, one day…

I had leaned forward and turned my head to look Gloria straight in the eyes, and she leaned forward and then I was drunk with the flash of her eyes and with her teeth like little pearls, because she had smiled, a kind smile, with her red hair caressing her shoulder.

“—Gloria,” I had asked her, how long have we known each other?”

“—I don’t know, she said in her clear, transparent voice. The question seemed strange to her.

“—…Three years, maybe…”

It didn’t matter to her.

“—Four years, two months,” I corrected. “I’ve kept track.”

“Why?”

“Because…hmm.”

I continued. Swarms of bugs began gathering under my skin. But I hadn’t called this meeting for any other reason except to say what I was going to say.

“Because it’s been exactly four years and two months that I’ve been in love with you.”

And right away—for the sake of vanity, for dignity’s sake, for the sake of I still don’t know what bullshit, I underlined my long-anticipated declaration with a long laugh. Because there are, apparently, situations that are just ridiculous for a man. At the same time, my heart was sending out multiple alarms for the paramedics. Everything had been changed by those few seconds in a café. I fell apart. I was bleeding from every place. A shipwreck in a maelstrom of utter despair. And all of it had started with her eyes, which radiated an unspeakable astonishment and nothing more. Oh fucking shit! I should have just shut up. Oh fucking God, fucking God!

—Pass me another glass of red, Freddie, I purred.

—You like your wine huh? Lorbois laughed as he served me.

—One had better, I said, trying to be funny.

—I think you should concentrate on eating and not so much on drinking, advised Mrs. Lorbois in a maternal tone. Your plate is still full, and you look like you’re lost in the clouds. What are you thinking about?

I was thinking about how after that we left the café. We stopped in a corner of the doorway. Night had fallen and the street was dark. I took her by the waist, I pulled her close, I buried my face in her hair. It smelled like life, happiness, some rather exotic scents for someone like me. I saw myself wandering the open road again, sleeping in the tall wheat. That wheat would become bread! Life! Her hair was my bread, my beautiful coppery bread. She trembled, and so did I. I was seized by a wave of panic, submerged in an irresistible desire to flee. We went off in different directions.

I saw her again the next day. I had to go see her. I saw her. She laughed with that clear laugh, faintly mocking.

–You’re a little funny, aren’t you, Jean, she’d said.

I should have slept with her that night.

–Every other time I turn on the radio, there’s that song “Because of You I’m Dying,” I said, thrusting the tip of my knife in the direction of the set. You think they could play something else for a change.

–People like it, said Mrs. Lorbois. It’s the hit of the moment.

–Yeah, but it’s not only that song, Freddie said. This gangster thing too. Just a minute ago they were going on again about those gangsters that hit the payroll for the Folk plant. See, he added, laughing, that’s what you should do to get out of this shit, Jean. Go do a holdup.

–Little too risky for me, I laughed as I emptied my glass.

–What times we live in! sighed the woman. I swear, people are just crazy. Did you hear, down at the mines, that ten year-old girl?

My head nodded, without clearly communicating agreement. I no longer knew anymore if I should feel good or bad about it. The little girl was dead. Now becoming a cow or a whore were no longer likely prospects for her.

–Life just makes you sick sometimes, I said, feeling that there was some need for commentary.

–It’s has it’s moments all the same, you’ve gotta admit it, opined Freddie, with a wink towards the bottle.

He poured me a drink.

–No higher than the rim, I said.

–…And now, dear listeners, warbled a nasal voice, the Gonzales Orchestra is going to play La Cucaracha for us.

–No way! They had it all figured out at the radio station. They must have suspected that I’d be listening. They were bent on driving me completely berserk. I got up and silenced the machine as soon as the first bars of the Mexican song started to play.

–Hey, maybe you’re right, Freddie laughed. They’re screwing with us. Here, have a drink.

La Cucaracha… La Cucaracha… She had gone down into the subway humming La Cucaracha. From that day forward, the song of Pancho Villa’s partisans never again evoked for me the long march of the rebels towards the mountains nor even, as it once had, the celebrations when the march stopped, the beautiful dark-haired women and their long legs, clad in tall black stockings flashing out from skirts lifted by their dancing, engulfed in a chaos of castanets, of clapping and in a haze of dust and alcohol, of rut and sweat. It was a strange association: the Cucaracha was a roach. But I could no longer separate La Cucaracha from Gloria going into the subway humming the tune. Now I would see myself going down behind her, followed by some friends. There was a terrific brawl. At one point, four of the “friends” were playing football with my carcass. When it was over, I was shaking myself, bruised all over, when suddenly there was a hand touching my arm and a gentle voice, softly vibrant with concern, murmuring: “Did they hurt you?” And then my eyes were meeting the most beautiful gaze in the world, flecked with gold like a glass of Geldwasser, and just as intoxicating, and I was seeing the most adorable face ever, framed in red hair… For five whole years it had been like that.

–Hit me just one more time with that, Freddie, and too bad if you don’t like Mexican music. La Cucaracha, it ain’t so bad after all. Hey Mama Lorbois, why don’t you hunt up those Mexicano fellas for us again…

La Cucaracha… La Cucaracha…

I hunkered down in my seat, crossed my arms, all to the tune of that song. I felt in my big front pocket, right up against my heart, the weight of the Colt, hard and powerful, stiff as a hard cock… She’d gone down into the subway, humming the hymn of the cockroach.

CHAPTER V

 

Gloria

Leaving the Lorbois’ place, I worked on my blossoming drunk in two or three bars. I had a few bits of honest money, since Freddie had discreetly and imperiously shoved a light goodbye present into my pocket.

My head was full of Gloria. I felt her walking around in there as if it were her place. I savored the delicious bruises from her high heels. I could go 15 days, three weeks, sometimes, without thinking of her and then, boom!, it would hit me in the temples, the heart, the stomach, everywhere. Like some nasty, sweet fever working its way through my system. So there was no choice but to see her…

I showed up at her place without calling. I wanted to make sure she wouldn’t tell me to come back some other time.

The building where she lived was a little different from Freddie’s. It radiated contentment. A little while after we’d met, Gloria married a guy who made a lot of money. He was no loser like me. He had everything you needed for the perfect life. But he was still suspicious of me. He especially thought it was weird that Gloria and I talked so familiarly. Thinking about it a little, I had to say I thought that it was a little weird too. How did that happen? It just did. It was chemistry or something.

I rang the bell. Lautier, the husband, opened the door wearing the funereal expression he always donned for my visits, rare as they were.

–Good evening, I said. I was in the neighborhood, I…

–You know all about it, then, he said, his voice strangely muted.

I didn’t know anything about anything, but I instantly realized that something special was going on. I nodded with understanding, without responding any more explicitly than that.

–Come in, he invited. But don’t stay too long.

I followed him into a quaintly done-up room. Gloria was there, sitting on a couch, with some older woman that looked something like her. Reflexively, I looked around for the onions, imagining that I had just disturbed a chopping session. It was obvious that the two women had been crying. Perfect timing, I told myself. I always arrived at exactly the right time. I mean, I had a real gift. Gloria had no make-up on, but she was as beautiful as ever. The fatigue legible in her face even amplified her attractiveness. Her moist eyes, red, her red eyelids, all this only made the flecks of gold more brilliant.

–Hello Jean, she said, squeezing my hand. She introduced me to her mother.

–…Nice of you to come, she added.

–Uh, I don’t know, I drawled clumsily. What’s happened?

–You don’t know? Said Lautier, amazed.

–I just got back from a long trip, I said, lying only halfway.

–But if you read the papers… Her father was murdered… Mr. Lebas…

In the beginning, she had only been Gloria to me. Then when she got married she was Madame Lautier. I had never known her maiden name. So it was Lebas, the Lebas I knew, the same one whose body I had stuffed with bullets.  Convulsively, my hand went swishing into the new bills that sat folded in my pocket. I had to work hard to keep myself from laughing out loud. There she was right in front of me, crying, and it was my fault. Those tears were my creation. Jesus Christ! I didn’t regret a thing. I was right to go for that guy, to turn him into a veritable sieve. If I had killed him properly, with a bullet in the forehead or in the heart, she would have grieved, sure, but not as intensely as this. It was the horror, the brutality of the murder that really hurt. She might have actually seen the body. Anyway, they probably more or less described it to her, or she had guessed at the carnage. She… I dropped into an armchair.

–Oh!, I sighed.

With a totally false read on my feelings, she turned a grateful gaze in my direction. Inside, I was laughing like it was the end of the world. I was happy. I satisfied the weepy entourage with some platitudes and, after a minute or two, got up.

–So, I said. I’m going to go.

It was getting late and I was worried about running into people I didn’t want to see. I approached Gloria. Making like I was sharing her grief, I came close to hugging her, running my hand through her hair. There were two reasons I didn’t do it. He husband was suspicious and kept staring me down, and Gloria, it I had held her against me, would have felt the stock of the Colt.

Just afterwards, when I was going down in the stairway, for some reason that last idea made me laugh. It was a bitter, fake laugh.

*

*  *

Albert and me took rooms in two different hotels on the same street. We lived in the middle of a gasworks and a rail depot. The street smelled of soot and coke. The flickering yellow glow of the little bars scattered here and there along the street were the only lights in the streets since an evening already long ago where some Polish guy, after having killed his wife and before doing the same to himself, decided that the light was his enemy and shot out all the bulbs with a pistol.

I went over to Albert’s hotel.

He had got his rooms without a hitch. Sitting on his bed in a suit, he slowly became aware of the newspapers splayed out on the bed and floor and around him. He grabbed one and thrust it at me.

—Have you seen this job?

It was a sensational tabloid that specialized in scandal and the so-called criminal element. One reporter had managed to get a photo of Lebas’ body. The ex-assistant director of the Folk Factories was not much to look at. His body resembled a map of troop movements, ink blots, a traverse cut through a roll of mortadella, anything else besides a human body.

—Talk about a peppering, Albert belched cynically. He really should have just relaxed.

I didn’t share his opinion.

—It reminds me of this funny thing, I said. This guy must have family somewhere. Assuming–cause he’s old enough anyway, right?–assuming that he’s got a daughter that’s married. Do you think she’s going to fuck her husband tonight?

—You asshole. You’re always thinking about this kind of bullshit.

—Intellectual curiosity, I laughed.

—Jesus Christ! Sometime I wonder just what kind of unholy shit you’ve got churning around in that skull. Well, listen, if it were my dad, and hey, I don’t even really like the guy, I think that it would be enough to make me lose it, totally. And now, a girl…

—Yeah. Me too, I said.

No. She wasn’t going to fuck him this evening. So basically, for tonight, she was all mine.

*

*   *

It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d haunted my sleep. She was in my dreams pretty often. It usually happened in a café or a public square, some public place. Never anywhere else. I would come into the café or walk out into the square. In the first case, she would always suddenly appear at the top of a stairway while I was at the bar ten or so steps below. And as soon as I’d see her, my muscles would freeze up and the ceiling would seem to drop until it was pressing hard on my shoulders. Like some unfortunate caryatid, and hurting from my head to my feet, inside and out, I would feel a desperate urge to move, but was reduced to tears at the absolute impossibility of making the slightest gesture. And, around me, the rest of the people seemed utterly indifferent to my predicament. The ceiling didn’t seem to bother them; they just went about their business. And Gloria there at the top of the stairway, wrapped in a long white dress.

In the second version, – when the dream took place outside  – just after I walked into the square, I would be thrown to the ground by a similar strange and unknown affliction that left me completely out of breath. Streetcars would pass by, and I would be wholly unable to climb up onto one. It was like both my legs were broken, and it was impossible to move. And in each car that passed, each car that I couldn’t reach, there was Gloria, wrapped in her virginal dress as if in a shroud.

Invariably, at that point in the dream, the unbearable physical and psychological pain that I felt woke me.  The darkness, which I had often found terrifying, wove a clinging, poisonous net around my bed. The walls exhaled a fetid damp, and their unwholesome fumes made me feel as though I would be sick. It was dark, but in the writhing shadows I could make out the rotting screen, the poorly-mended furniture, the washbasin, the toilet and the scaly enamel of the bidet and the rest of the squalor that had always been my lot. And I imagined that, in sweeter surroundings, feeling of silk and satin, of the touch of finely-woven sheets, Gloria was getting it on with someone else. Fists and teeth clenched, I seized the bolster and buried my head in the oily pillow. I shrieked silently at the thought of every woman who was at that instant feeling pleasure, of every male who was giving it to them. An immense, exhausting hatred filled me.

But the dream that night was pure delight, while it lasted, anyway. It took place in a café, a low place, but not without charm. The clientele were vague, harmless people. Their features did not bear the awful, fearsome aspect people wore so frequently in my dreams. I had a date with her. She arrived. Instead of the dress, she wore an elegant gray suit, and her blouse was buttoned low. When she bent down to sit, I could see the troubling swell of her breasts. My trembling hands reached to grasp her waist. Our lips came together. She held in her mouth all the fruits of the earth, its beautiful landscapes and murmuring streams. And I took her there, among those nondescript, vague people who were indifferent to whatever we did.

I awoke with my forehead bathed in sweat and my thighs still sticky from our phantom lovemaking. That night, I had her all to myself. An immense sorrow filled me and became sharper as the dawn begin to furtively creep into my room. I never liked the dawn; it was always like the dawn of the condemned man. Twilight was no better, as it only signaled the approach of the shadows that would paralyze me in my solitude. An immense sorrow filled me. The low-down leaden blues. La Cucaracha. I felt just as broke up and as pathetic as in my usual dreams. I had to face it: there wasn’t any solution to the problem. Never would I have Gloria except in a dream, and I couldn’t schedule these phantom appearances. The wall that separated us was impenetrable. And certainly, what I had done, the direction in which I had taken my life wouldn’t help to break it down.

The dream had been delicious. Too delicious. It only made reality worse.

Chapter VI

 

Night

I went by the headquarters to get a little money. I explained to Christ how I had forgotten to take any during the distribution.

—Martyr for the cause, huh?

—I wonder sometimes, I chuckled grimly.

A guy could talk to Christ. He gathered up some of the less dangerous-seeming bills – less dangerous, anyway, than the ones I had used the other day—and asked me what I had planned. He didn’t seem in very good shape himself. I recalled that not everyone on the committee had a high opinion about what we’d done.

—Well, I said dryly, I don’t think they all have really much taste for what we did.

—Don’t worry about it, he grinned. We need money to help our friends, get our publications out, and…

He stopped short.

—And what?

—I’ve had it with the theories. Since the moment we started fighting for a better world, my impression is that it’s only gotten worse. If it were possible, even individually, to find a more peaceful life…
—Well, we’re on our way, aren’t we? I laughed harshly.

He looked at me strangely.

—I see, he murmured. You’ll never know what a peaceful life is. You’ve never had much of that, have you? You see that as some kind of forbidden world. Well, you’re not alone. I’ve had the same thoughts. We’re born from the same bad seed, you and me. And the funny thing is, it seems like we like it that way.

A profound sadness crept across his face. He went over to the glass door that led to the print shop and glanced absently inside.

—What do we believe in Jean?

—I don’t know.

He turned and looked me in the face.

—Personally, do you still believe in anything at all?

I started to laugh quietly, as though I were retching in little bursts, with difficulty.

—I wanted to believe in love…sounds stupid, but that’s how it is… Love is what life is all about, it’s the center of gravity. But life makes me sick, so love…women fuck it all up. They’re all either bitches or whores.

—Whores. Well, could be worse, he said dreamily, with a lewd gleam in his eye.

—Either they’re whores so bad it’s just disgusting, or they’re not whore enough. Know what I mean? It’s not like you’re going to find one that’s just right. And even when you try to imagine that, all kind of bullshit comes up, it gets all fucked up…it just…I mean there’s no absolute, just this constant feeling of dissatisfaction, this feeling that somehow things were better way back when.

—Oh hell, let’s stop putting everything under a microscope. That’s what’s fucking with you. Do you have any plans?

Now my feet were on the ground once more.

—Are we gonna keep going?

—I think we should. The first thing didn’t go so bad. You pulled off a pretty fine job, and the cops are completely lost, and that’s even better. And I think we could pull it off again. Then they’ll be totally disoriented.

—Then maybe they’ll get totally rabid and they’ll get some ideas.

—And that would be a problem for you?

—It was you who was talking about the peaceful life, I chuckled. How do you think it’s gonna end up, this little spree, huh? You think that the government’s gonna put me on a pension or something, once the police have got my number? Huh? But they haven’t got it yet. And they’ll be hearing from me again, I promise you. I guarantee it. I told you, keep going like this and the cops are just going to go rabid. Well, I certainly hope so. And it won’t be just them either. The whole fucking country. They’ll be shrieking for my blood, screaming for it and dying of terror.

—Hey, you’re getting a little excited, Christ said, trying to calm me down. And that’s what’s queering the committee here, the guys who already have problems with direct action the way you see it. Yesterday’s slaughter didn’t make anyone real happy.

—There wasn’t any other way to go. That guy Lebas was the one who invited us to dance.

—I’m sure he was. But next time, you’ve got to keep the damage down.

—It’s what happens that decides what happens.

—Yeah, I know, he intoned. I know what you believe in, he added. But regarding that…

He reached for my chest pocket intending to pat the lump my revolver was making in my shirt pocket. Instinctively, I leapt back. I felt my face go white.

—Whoa, he cried. You scared I’m going to try to take you out or something?

—I don’t know, I said, as surprised as he was by my reaction. I don’t know, but it spooked me. I guess I realized that I don’t like anyone touching that rod but myself. It’s like a piece of my body, get it?

—Exactly what I was thinking.

—How about we change records here.

—OK, the other side, then. The papers are talking about the miners going back to work. They sound pretty sure.

—That news is from yesterday. The boys just haven’t got their war guts yet. It’ll give them practice.

—It’s possible.

We locked eyes. Each of our gazes expressed something indistinct and undefinable. And weary.

*

*   *

Leaving Christ, my first stop was a florists. I ordered a handsome wreath for the hearse of Mr. Lebas, assistant to the director of the Folk plant, deceased during the exercise of his duties and on the field of honor of those whose profession it is to sort the lettuce, whether it belongs to them, or whether it belongs to someone else. I didn’t know the date of the burial, but I immediately had the wreath sent to Gloria. She’d deal with it.

My duty as a good citizen accomplished, I fucked around all day long. When night began to fall, I went back to my room.

The hotel clerk told me that “a guy” had asked for me during the day. He delivered only a murky description when I tried to get a sense of the visitor.

Based on that portrait, it could as well be a bishop or a punk. Hell, it could have been a movie star or a gas nozzle for that matter. However, it wasn’t as though the clerk didn’t get a look at him. He came not once but twice during the afternoon. Apparently, he was persistent. He’d be back.

—All right, I said, pretending not to give a shit. If he comes back here, tell him I’m home.

Climbing up the rotting stairway, which stunk of damp dust, I couldn’t help asking myself whether or not the pigs were already snuffling up the right trail. It would be a little surprising, but you had to expect anything.

Once in my room, I got my piece in working order. After that, I figured that since detectives always came in twos, I could probably relax. Still, I left the Colt at arm’s reach, ready to speak. After going before the mirror a few times rehearsing how I’d receive the cop, if he decided to visit again, if it was one, I waited.

Just a little bit after, I heard the staircase groan. Then someone knocked. According to the script, I was supposed to answer the door dressed up like an arsenal. It wasn’t any cop, it was Marcel, a different Marcel, not the one who was now up in heaven hitting on female angels. No, it was the guy that had been hanging around during the afternoon. Apparently, the Committee wanted to see me. There was a special session being convened that evening.

*

*   *

The big pine table was almost completely hidden by spread-out newspapers. Christ presided over it, and Albert sat at the side of the table, his butt unsteadily perched on the peeling seat of a rickety chair. He was carving a daisy into the wood of the table with a knife. He looked like a sentimental idiot, but he had no idea. The sight of him, with his ass like that on the chair, gave you the intense impression that he had taken laxatives. As for the other two assistants, at least one of them did not harbor very Christian feelings for me. It was this guy Raymond, a 50 year old guy, whose life had been like one big sedative. He still basically believed in Santa Claus. My own way of thinking, as far as the class struggle went, disgusted him totally. For him, there was no enemy more execrable than those whom he claimed were guilty of “deviations from the doctrine.” Christ was about the same age, but he thought differently.

The other character, whom I did not know, really needed very much to wash his face. But it’s not easy to get coal dust out of your pores. There’s no easy thing for that. Not even if you scrub and scrub. Coal dust just doesn’t want to come out of your pores. What I knew about miners was limited to vague memories of a few photos I’d glanced at here and there in the papers, but it was obvious that we had a representative from that group here this evening.

The silence was total. A heavy unease reigned. The smell of tobacco and the odor of ink aggravated the depressing atmosphere. Poorly lit and stinking, the place was about as funereal as you could get. I had the feeling they were about to ask me to go over the books with them. I looked at Albert, worried that maybe the execution of Marcel had proved to be a little hard for him to digest, after thinking long and hard about it. But when he looked back over at me, there wasn’t a trace of hostility in his face.

—What’s up, I asked.

—Nothing good, Christ snorted. The miners are going back to work tomorrow.

—Ah! We waited too long?

—No, Raymond broke in. But the miners didn’t want the money.

—Didn’t…didn’t want it? I stammered, feeling the refusal as a deep betrayal.

—Illegalism’s time has come and gone, he proclaimed triumphantly, and anyway, illegalism never bore anything but poisonous fruit. It brought discredit on our doctrine. I did my utmost to get you to understand that when you were telling us that we should start pulling these…hold-up jobs. You didn’t want to hear it. Now the workers are teaching you a lesson. They don’t want money stained with other people’s blood…and the rest of us here have also come back to a healthier way of thinking.

—You’d make a good congressman, I hissed. Fucking hell, what a great congressman you’d make, you and your manufactured little expressions. You shut the fuck up! I added, exasperated, pulling my gun on him. Shut your fucking mouth, or this will shut it for you.

—Easy does it! Christ yelled. Have we had a setback? Yes, we have. But we can still talk about this here.

—We can’t talk with murderers like this, the other guy kept on, pulling out the campaign phrases one after another. Already, we should be ashamed for having stopped to acts of crime. But carried out in the manner we say the other day? And anyhow, I’ll say it again, all our associates think we should abandon this practice immediately. It’s too dangerous and it discredits the movement. I want to know how it was possible to have given you and your gang carte blanche here…and to do what you’ve done, this ignoble butchery! Some humanitarians you are!

He didn’t have it all wrong actually, but life makes you sick. What could I do?

—It was the Lebas guy that started everything, I said, sticking to my self-defense story. Right.

—Let it go, Albert advised. And put away the gun, whyncha. This guy’s a little sensitive.

I obeyed mechanically. I felt alone and tired. Just to have uttered the name Lebas made me think of Gloria and a pile of other things. For the rest of the discussion, it was like I was somewhere else. I was out of it. I figured that everything was going to hell right in front of me. That the miners were all half-wits, that the associates from down south had obviously made a big mistake in letting slip where the money came from, but especially that the miners were just stupid fucking half-wits. Those assholes deserved their filthy, mediocre existence completely. Jesus Christ, since they were so squeamish, let them go back to work. Let them keep getting their asses kicked, let them keep screwing their ugly wives and making little miners. Maybe God will come and rescue them Himself while they sit there fantasizing about the revolution, a better society and the rest of that crap they’re always promising and never delivering…

I awoke from my torpor, suddenly anxious about the money. The associate I had made for a miner started to speak, the guy who was supposed to have brought the take up with him. He told me that in spite of trying to bring certain members of the strike committee around to our point of view, in the end, none of them were having any. I didn’t give a shit about the details. I wanted to know where was the money. In fact, the “tainted” money had never even made the trip.

—Of course, I laughed, those honest workers must have realized who the money belonged to and sent it to me parcel post instead of divvying it up.

—They didn’t want to do nothing with it, the miner protested. And since they ain’t pigeons, they won’t say nothing. They’ll burn it. Besides, only two or three of them’s got any idea.

—Well, they’d be advised to keep their mouths shut.

I got up.

—See you Christ. I’m no longer needed here. It’s going to be a while before we see each other again. I’ve had it with all these discussions and arguments.

He shrugged. I guess he was used to people coming and going at the drop of a hat.

—What are you going to do? he asked. He never asked questions unless he already knew the answer. I started to laugh sharply.

—In the meantime, why don’t you go and whip me up a nice peaceful little life. My dream is to get a little cottage with the same name as that. You know, with a nice girl, and two kids to boot…all that and a pair of slippers too.

—Well then, he said, leering, I’m sure you’ll have it all in no time.

—Sure I will. I feel like it’s as good as done. I turned to Albert. He raised his hand.

—I’ll go with you.

He followed right behind without saying goodbye to anyone. We left. The street was deserted. A fine rain was falling, making this generally empty part of town seem even more desolate. The sidewalks shone beneath the street lamps, whose flickering glow revealed tiny, rainpricked puddles in the hollows in the cobbled street. Through windows left open to the night, you could see hanging light, snatches of wallpaper, the corner of a piece of furniture, so much peaceful scenery it was depressing. People lived there! Everything was too calm and too quiet. It was enough to make one despondent.

With slow steps, heedless of the rain, we moved off from the headquarters.

—What a bunch, Albert groaned, finishing some inner rumination.

—I was expecting something like that. The tradition we tried to bring back really is dead for good.

—And we’ve got heat on us now and for zero? I say screw ‘em, Jean. They don’t play square.

He lit a cigarette. I did the same.

—Not for zero, I whispered. I’m not stopping.

—What’s your plan?

—Call Paulie back here, and set us up like respectable folks. This time, the money’ll be for us. The charity work is over. It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. The miners let us know the score on that one. They’re swell guys, half-wits, but swell guys. We’re on a roll my friend, and the brakes are out. We have nothing more to fear from fifteen murders than from a single one. Might as well get something out of this fucking life for once. You hear me?

He stopped walking, grabbed my by the back of my soaking jacket and gave me a hard look. The cigarette at the corner of his mouth. A tendril of smoke rose from his stub and he squinted his left eye to avoid it. His thick eyebrows to grow more bushy.

—I want to wipe out the whole world, he growled.

—Come on, I laughed, don’t act more ferocious than you are. You say that, and then…

I let myself go. I had never told anyone how much I wanted to see the whole human race exterminated. I limited myself to a few strange fantasies…

Maybe there’s a place on the planet where you can take in the entire universe. If I knew how to find it, I’d go there running, jam a post into the ground and hang myself from it, throw myself into the void and drag the whole fucking world after me as I fell… Then there was the tunnel system: a tunnel drilled right through the guts of the earth, from pole to pole, that you’d stuff with dynamite…

All that was just pretty pictures. It was better to take them out one by one.

—I tell you, I’d do it, said Albert, resuming his sluggish pace.

—While we’re waiting, we’re going to live a little. Maybe not for very long, but I guarantee you that it’s going to be sweet.

—What do you have in mind?

—A bank. Pretty as a flower. And one of these days we’re going to go pick it. But now, I’m getting sick of this rain. I could really go for a little drive, huh? Let’s go rent some wheels.

We found our ride in a dark street. Luck was with us: a nice small car, doors unlocked, easy access, and with a motor as quiet as a coffee grinder. I took the wheel. Albert squeezed in comfortably beside me and flipped through a glossy fashion magazine that had been lying on the seat. A faint smell of carnations haunted the interior of the vehicle. The car must have belonged to a woman. Only some harebrained lady could have left her car such easy picking for thieves.

I started to zigzag through a maze of narrow streets, coming back through the same places again and again at different speeds. Albert began to wonder what I was up to.

—You practicing some maneuver or something?

It was still raining. I hit the wipers.

—What do you think about Raymond, I said.

—Chickenshit. A…I dunno…one of those guys…

—Like in church.

—Yeah, one of those guys who thinks life gets better if they go to mass all the time.

It was pretty to see the raindrops run down the windshield. The wiper slapped them back and forth with a satisfying whirr. It reminded me of Gloria’s tears.

—In my opinion, the guy’s dangerous, I insinuated gently. He was against us from the start. Once he gets wind that we’ve started up again, he might double-cross us.

The scent of the car’s owner was still just as strong. The tobacco failed to cover it.

—You’ve got a point there.

—You bet I’ve got a point.

I took a turn. The motor and the wipers purred. I imagined that I was a big cat. Gloria liked those animals. She had their eyes, all full of mystery and riches. I turned again and swept the headlights across the street that stretched out before us and seemed to see a familiar shadow vanish up at the corner. I stepped on the gas to catch up with it. I did the thing with the lights again. A man was walking through the rain up ahead of us, his jacket collar turned up and his hands in his pockets. I cut the lights and let the car slow down. It slid forward without a sound, caressing the pavement. The man crossed the street. He was in the middle of the road when I called out:

—Hey! Raymond!

He froze, surprised. At once, I trained the headlights on him, pinning him down with the blazing rays of light like a butterfly. Blinded, he staggered and forgot to cry out as he tried to flee. I didn’t let up. I pumped the accelerator. The car leapt forward. The smell of carnations was overpowering. We felt a dull shock.

The owner of the trendy white boutique that stood at that address would have some cleaning to do outside the next day.

*

 

*     *

She looked exactly as I’d seen her in the fashion magazine when she came to me. I remembered every word of the caption. I had only read it once, but it had remained engraved in my mind: “…evening gown…kimono corsage in crepe, crossed just below the arms…natural mousseline pleats…bouquet of flowers at the belt…double bracelet…”

Her face, slightly asymmetric, was framed in a flawless coiffure, her hair pulled back to reveal her ears. Diamonds shone in them. Her nose was delicate, and her nostrils trembled slightly. A light shadow limned her eyes. Through the transparency of the skirt appeared a faint suggestion of the naked skin beneath, as if her legs were enveloped in fog. She sat down at the foot of my bed, without making the springs creak. Her eyes wandered about my squalid habitat with an expression of distain. Clearly, she was wondering what she was doing in this kind of place. Suddenly, I regretted that it was not more filthy that it already was. She stared at me as if to ask a question.

—You’re page 22, I said.

She laughed. Her mouth was large – it could easily have held 40 or more teeth – but it was pretty. Yes, that mouth did something to me. Those teeth too.

—Am I making an impression, she pouted.

—No more than the others did.

I began to feel a pain in my legs.

—Why do you hate me?

—I don’t hate you.

—Oh, you hate me all right. Maybe it’s because you want me.

—She moved, sending a cloud of carnations into the air.

—I wouldn’t sleep with you for all the money in the world.

—And you’re a liar, too, she said, mocking. What a little child you are. Do you know that I like you?

—Look here, horseface, I began, lying again.

I didn’t hate her, I would have slept with her in a second, and I didn’t think she was horsefaced at all.

—You’re one tough customer.

—I don’t know what I am. Now get the hell out of here or I’ll kill you.

I wanted to take her there, in the middle of that filth, mess up her nice dress, get it real dirty, but I couldn’t move. The door opened and Paul appeared with the miner we had met the other night at the Committee. Both of them were armed to the teeth and wore red armbands. As soon as she laid eyes on them, the fashion plate was up and out the window.

It’s happened! Exclaimed Paul. The big fight has finally started. They’re fighting in the streets, across the whole country.

—The miners are marching on the capital, the other added.

—Holy Christ! I said. So the day has finally arrived. I’ve been waiting for this for a long time. Well, we’re going to have a grand old time, Paul!

—They want you at headquarters, he said.

—They want me there! I shot back, pointing at the fashion magazine lying on the floor. That’s where we’re going. Come on!

In the streets, people were just exterminating each other big time. Lead was flying from all directions. Bombs were going off. Buildings were in flames. The nice neighborhoods were still quiet. That would change as soon as we got there.

—Hands in the air! cried Paul.

They were all there, all the sleek little dolls from the fashion magazines, the one who had been visiting me, and her colleagues from the other pages. In suits, in morning clothes, in evening gowns, in lingerie. Paul eyed them coldly, sinister beneath his hump, a cruel expression on his lips, as he held the machine gun against his thigh, his finger glued to the trigger. His breath came in short, whistling bursts. An immense hunger shook him from his head to his toes.

I made a sign to a blonde with a gentle, frightened face. The luxurious nightgown which was her only clothing was decorated with embroidery and rich patterns. She approached me timidly.

I threw her arms behind her back. Her breasts heaved with the movement, and one of them burst out of the silk like a devouring pink flame. I made to grab it, while my lips sought hers. She did not refuse me, but her lips were icy. I pulled her body violently against mine and started to move. We struck something and she fell onto a sofa.

I suddenly had the awful feeling that I could go on pumping for eight days, mechanically heaving back and forth like a windshield wiper, without getting so much as a whimper out of my partner. She was motionless beneath my assaults, and a cold sweat ran between my skin and hers. Paul was sitting on the ground, the machine gun in his arms, taking in the scene and laughing. I got what it was about right away. I examined the girl. Maggots swarmed at the edges of her mouth, in her nostrils and at the corners of her eyes. The flesh was going pale. Already a putrid odor surrounded her. Wearily, I stepped back from the corpse. Glass coffins, piled one on top of another, garnished the walls as far as the eye could see. Each one of these transparent caskets contained the inanimate body of a woman. Still cracking up, Paul pointed to a label on one of them, which read “winter preserves”. Then I burst out laughing myself. He bent down and plunged his hand into a luxuriant shock of red hair that snaked around our feet. He lifted up a severed head. With a theatrical gesture, he swung it back and forth like a lantern. Pearls of blood formed at the nostrils, the lips, the ears and the severed neck. The frozen eyes blazed with gold. Then, right in front of my eyes, Paul showed me Gloria’s face, her bloody mouth ready to bite.

…………………………………………..

I awoke.

Chapter VII

 

Action

During the day, I found out from the newspapers that:

The corpse of Mr. Raymond Labry, age 55, was found this morning on the Rue de la Voie. The unfortunate gentleman was run down by a stolen car left  in the street where the accident took place. Investigators are looking at the hit and run as the result of a drunken joyride rather than the work of professional car thieves. The drivers, most likely youngsters, probably lost control of the car and subsequently abandoned it, after the tragic incident.

Reassured about that, I hunted for the daily article on the Folk business. Buried back on the third page, it didn’t report any new developments. The investigation continued, and a bunch of the usual leads were being put under the microscope. Translated, that meant that the police were gearing up to grope their way to China. Among the other announcements in the papers were the funeral of Mr. Lebas, the “tragic victim,” set for the next day, two failed murder attempts by distraught lovers and one successful suicide by gas. All in all, a pretty meager police blotter. It was time someone handed the journalists some fresh copy. Even if they were gluttons for it, and slobs with what they got. A piece of work like the Folk job should have kept them going for more than a week.

I phoned Gloria. My heart was going like a jackhammer as I dialed her number. Like it always did. I was always scared someone else was going to pick up. And even on those times where I knew there was no one else around to pick up, I still trembled with apprehension waiting for the moment where she would say hello in an impersonal voice. Sometimes I couldn’t help hanging up before anyone had bothered about the ringing.

That day, Gloria answered the phone. I offered her my condolences in the least banal way I knew how and apologized for not being able to be at the service. I didn’t have a moment of free time (I was using it all to examine a certain bank up close). She told me she had got the flowers and that I was kind. I replied that she had no idea just how kind I could be to her if she let me. She advised me, in that tart little voice of hers I loved so much, not to say such things. She was right, and right there, I mumbled a little and as soon as she had invited me to come see her one of these days, I said goodbye.

*

*   *