To close the mass, the organist played a customary Bach toccata. The staccato, tubular, vaguely metaphysical chords rose very high. Despite Anthony’s refusal to believe in this biblical fantasia, the soaring stone, the blues of the stained glass windows, and the church’s verticality wound up moving him. In the nave a little farther away, four men were carrying a corpse sealed in a box. People shuffled toward the light. Thousands of Sundays had been spent this way, in hymns, canticles, anxiety, and hope. He shivered. It certainly was cold in here.
Anthony gave his father a hug when he reached him, and recognized his cologne. Hélène gave him a peck on the cheek. Then they found themselves outside on the forecourt, dazed, having lost some of their composure. They needed to get oriented. Hélène folded the little yellow pamphlet that helped people follow the service, and rummaged in her purse for her sunglasses. She avoided meeting her ex-husband’s eye. She put on the glasses and crossed her arms under her bosom.
“Are you doing okay?” asked Patrick.
“Yes. How about you?”
“I’m fine. Feels funny, though.”
“Yes, it does.”
He was talking about the dead man; she, about their being together. The kids nudged each other with their shoulders, and Anthony nearly took Vanessa’s hand.
On the forecourt, the faithful emerging from the church mixed with the people who hadn’t wanted to attend the mass. There was a heck of a crowd. It was easy to spot Luc Grandemange’s old Muslim coworkers and the union diehards who’d rather be run over by a train than set foot in a church. But for all their acting like wise guys and renegades, they felt uncomfortable. A big chunk of their history was being buried along with Luc. Since he paid his first union dues back in 1963, he’d been a little of everything: union rep, workers’ delegate, officer at large, secretary. He even became a movement figure during the big Metalor strikes. He wasn’t one of the ideologues, and he didn’t have a gift for negotiating. Other guys were smarter, stupider, more committed, had more to lose, or would hang in over the long haul. But Luc had a seemingly superfluous quality: He set the mood. In a struggle, you needed guys like him, to goof off, slap the waverers on the back, call the hotheads “sweetheart.” Sometimes it was a drag. It wasted time. Luc’s jokes were rarely funny, and with him, it was always party time. But in his own way, he created bonds between people and held them together, right to the end.
Since then, his involvement and good cheer had taken a distinctly chauvinistic turn. He gradually began to think that the poor suckers whose cause he served weren’t just workers, wage earners, provincials, and dropouts. They were also native-born Frenchmen. The real problem was the influx of immigrants. You could just do the math. The number of immigrants, about three million, exactly matched the number of the unemployed. Hell of a coincidence, right? When you thought about it, a lot of complicated problems got simpler once you realized that those lazy people from abroad were the main cause of our current woes.
Plenty of people around Luc agreed with that diagnosis, and pleaded for quotas and deportation flights, a sharp reminder that France was our home, after all. But despite their popularity, those ideas stayed out of sight and under cover. They weren’t mentioned in places where you had to behave yourself. A kind of vague shame, like politeness, kept them in check. The priest didn’t say anything about those questionable beliefs when he summed up Luc’s biography. Nor did they appear in his obituary in L’Est républicain. And when they were mentioned within Évelyne’s earshot, she minimized them with a sigh and a wave of the hand. Her husband had just gotten carried away. He was like that about soccer, too.
Once the coffin was in the hearse, Évelyne’s nephew stood at the top of the steps between the forecourt and the church porch and clapped his hands to get people’s attention. Évelyne, who hadn’t stopped thanking people and nodding gravely, took the opportunity to light herself a cigarette. The flame shot up and her cheeks hollowed as she inhaled the brown smoke.
“We’re going to Saint-Michel cemetery,” said her nephew. “Those who care to are free to follow us. But there may be no point in everyone coming.”
Almost apologetically, he went on to say that there wouldn’t be enough room in the parking lot, and that the family would like a little privacy. The forecourt was jammed with people; you’d think the whole town was there. Everyone listened to him impassively. They silently exchanged glances and little signs. At one moment Anthony caught his parents looking at each other without a word. Then his mother looked away. His father stared at his feet.
“On the other hand, we’re not going to part like this,” the nephew continued. “Évelyne is inviting you to L’Usine for brioche. I don’t suppose I need to give you the address.”
The comment was greeted by laughter, and another murmur went through the crowd when he announced that Évelyne was also paying for coffee and the first round of drinks.
“Champagne!” someone yelled.
Évelyne smiled, and the lout was put in his place. The mood had changed, anyway. Death was all very well, but we’re going to go have a drink.
“Hey, there!”
Anthony’s cousin was walking toward them, tightly holding his girlfriend’s hand.
“So what’s new?”
“I’m okay. What about you?”
“I’m doing great.”
Patrick seemed delighted at this little family get-together. He grabbed the cousin by the shoulder and gave him a friendly shake.
“Been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, it has,” he said, embarrassed but also pleased.
“Your mother told me that you’re moving in together,” said Hélène.
“Not yet; we’re looking,” he said.
“We’ll find something,” said Séverine.
“Where are you looking?”
“Over by Blonds-Champs. There are some brand-new apartments there. We went to see at City Hall. They don’t have anything right now. Anyway, we don’t have priority. It’s always the same thing.”
They knew what she meant.
Anthony asked a couple of questions out of politeness, but his mother and his aunt had gotten much closer since his parents’ split, so he already knew all about the couple’s problems. His cousin had decided to quit school and was working part-time on stupid little stuff, maintenance, cleaning, odd jobs. The beautiful Séverine wanted to earn a technical diploma, but that was complicated because she hadn’t passed the baccalauréat. She’d taken a few vague steps to get an equivalency, but her zeal was greatly undermined by her love for the Spice Girls and her secret conviction that she was destined for a career in show business. She was making the rounds of karaoke bars and local beauty contests, taking acting classes, and sending her resume off to Paris. Anyway, the two of them loved each other. That clearly justified anything.
Once the hearse and the immediate family had left, a kind of wavering ran through the ranks. People couldn’t decide whether to drive or walk to L’Usine. Considering the distance, the second option soon carried the day, and nearly three hundred people set out through Heillange on foot. From the church to the bar was about half a mile, down two streets in a row. The crowd poured into the street and very quickly started talking loudly and carrying on. People came out onto their stoops to watch the parade go by. They recognized faces, asked for the news.
Some joined the procession, because the dead man’s name was vaguely familiar and because they weren’t about to pass up a free drink. People wondered how the bar was going to hold everybody. Jokers were already yelling comments in crude, heavily accented voices. The humor gradually turned raunchy. People started laughing, even shouting, as their nerves settled. Life, always lusty and tireless, revived to create red noses and sweaty necks. It was a hot Saturday, a real scorcher. An urge to sing started to fill people’s chests. Soon the blast furnace appeared. They were almost there. Anthony had walked the whole way with his cousin, with Vanessa next to him. His parents were walking side by side in front. They weren’t talking very much, but at least they weren’t arguing.
“Things seem to be going okay,” said Vanessa.
“Yeah.”
“It’ll be fine.”
Anthony was living with his mother and wasn’t about to blame her, but he couldn’t help putting himself in his old man’s place. There he was, twenty pounds lighter, dried out, balding and knotty. His fangs blunted. What was left of him? Ashes and fading strength. And, in the end, regrets. Their house had been liquidated in nothing flat. Patrick and Hélène’s efforts, twenty years of sacrifices and acrobatic struggles to make ends meet, all gone. The furniture, the knickknacks, the clothes that had to be thrown away. Plus they were forced to sell quickly, for peanuts. The bank wound up getting the money to settle their debts.
When they were dividing things up, Anthony’s father almost got into a fight. He really didn’t have a lot of friends, had no real work, and only then discovered that he didn’t even own the house, and that all those ideas he’d had were more or less bullshit. He thought he was the one bringing in the money, that he was in his own place, that it was his wife, his house, his kid. The notaire bulldozed those preconceptions away. And two years later, Patrick was still coughing up money to pay his lawyer, who hadn’t done squat except to tell him that he was in the wrong and that the law would decide. In that world of paperwork, lawyers, and judges, what was left wasn’t a man. Only arrangements.
During this whole wrenching period Anthony had been pressured to take sides. He didn’t want to. Each of his parents had their reasons, and he had his. Hélène concluded that he didn’t love her enough. Patrick, that his mother had spoiled him. She had passed on her weakness and indecisiveness, that soft virus that all the Mougels carried. Those people never finished anything. The men did whatever their wives told them. They were a race of slaves, and Anthony had embraced the chains. In fact, when they lived next to the Jules-Ferry school, Hélène was always on the alert. From her kitchen, she watched him playing with the other kids in the courtyard. She didn’t hesitate to shout to him from upstairs to behave. Once, when she caught him fighting, she came down to stop it. The kids called him pussycat for weeks after that. His mother arranged with the doctor to get him excused from sports. He didn’t learn to swim until third grade.
“I don’t know why she was like that,” his father had said. “Maybe it was that little Grégory business in 1984. You remember, the four-year-old who was drowned in the Vologne River? The cops thought the kid’s relatives had done it, but they could never prove it.”
“So what?”
“You looked exactly like him. You know, in that famous photo? Exactly the same. To be honest, it made me feel weird when they fished him out.”
When they got there, the sidewalk outside L’Usine was already jammed. The doors had been thrown wide open for once, and people were going in and out, waiting for things to get under way. Tables had been set up on sawhorses with white paper tablecloths and all the necessities: a big pump-action thermos, trays of brioche, nonalcoholic drinks, and plastic tumblers. The sky cast a veiled, opalescent light that hurt the eyes. The smell of coffee filled the air. Cathy, the owner, had come out and was greeting people in a friendly, businesslike way. This would be a good day for her, she knew. As she added up the totals in her head, her smile widened.
Stupidly, Patrick decided this was a good time to trot out his idea.
“So, how about that trip?”
“What are you talking about?” asked Hélène.
She had clutched her purse strap and answered a bit sharply. Patrick’s eyes almost completely disappeared underneath his eyebrows.
“I told you. I’m paying for that famous trip of yours. Your vacation.”
Hélène said nothing. She had told him a hundred times that it was out of the question.
“You can let me know when you make up your mind.”
She didn’t reply to that, either. Anthony caught Vanessa’s eye. She grimaced. This looked like it might be pretty complicated after all.
Two girls hired as extra helpers were standing outside. Chubby Goth types, probably sisters. When they started serving people coffee right on the sidewalk, Cathy jumped on them.
“Stop that! Are you out of your minds, or what?”
It was bad enough that nobody wanted to go into her bar because of the heat; now the street was turning into a terrasse. Up the road, cars were at a standstill because of the confusion. The first honking began. People raised their arms to the sky. Relax, we’ll all be dead soon enough.
“The cops are going to come if this goes on,” said Cathy anxiously. “Thierry!”
The tall guy with the crew cut standing behind the bar looked up. He was a drywaller in civilian life and lived with Cathy. Just seeing him red and sweating in his shirtsleeves, you could feel the heaviness inside, the stifling air, eighty-five degrees at least.
“Open the back doors,” she said. “We need to make a draft.”
Then, turning to the two girls:
“Get people inside, for heaven’s sake. We have to clear the street. And go upstairs, we have some fans there.”
Baffled by this barrage of orders, the girls just stood there. Apologetically, Cathy made herself clear:
“Carine, you deal with the customers. Sonia, you go get the fans. Can you do that? Do you need a Post-it note?”
Without getting flustered, Sonia asked:
“Where should I plug in the fans?”
She was the chubbier of the two, and the prettiest. She had pierced ears, and little rings that ran all the way around the edges. Along with that, she had jet-black hair, pretty legs, and creamy skin.
“There are adapters in the kitchen. Just figure it out.”
Sonia sighed. Her sister was leading people inside. It was comical. But gradually, under the combined pressure from Carine, Cathy, and the cars trying to get through, people crowded into the café. Anthony wound up with his parents and Vanessa at a table in the back, not far from the bathrooms. Everything settled down in a hubbub of chairs and voices. At that point a man emerged from the crowd and came toward them. He was a handsome, knotty old North African, all earth and ochre. He was wearing a pair of big white sneakers from which his legs rose like sticks. He looked like a potted plant.
“Good afternoon,” he said, bowing his head.
He had a beautiful, gravelly, hoarse voice. It took Anthony a few seconds to recognize him, then his stomach tensed. His mother was already on her feet, extending her hand. Memories came back in waves. The motorcycle, the little apartment where they drank tea. Old man Bouali. When Anthony saw his father getting up as well, he said to himself, “Now it’s all over, we’re done for.”
But instead of that, Patrick seized the hand of the man with the big white sneakers and shook it warmly. They knew each other.
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“How are you doing?” asked the old man.
“I’m good. It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”
“It sure has,” said Bouali with a broad wave of his hand. His raised eyebrows had come together, and he looked moved. Patrick grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, laughing to cover his embarrassment. He explained to Hélène and Anthony that he and Malek Bouali had worked at the mill together, on neighboring stations, until Patrick was assigned to the pour. Those were the good old days. Well, not that good, but at least they were younger. Still, having Luc Grandemange in the cemetery kind of hit you.
The two men then brought each other vaguely up to date, health, children, family, everything was fine, yes, yes, labes alhamdulilah—all is well, praise Allah. And they agreed that it was really stupid that they never saw each other, given that they lived, what? Not three miles apart? One of these days, they would have to get together with the others, Michelon, Rosicky, Pellet, and the Heizenberger brothers. Sure, sure. Old Bouali’s eyes were two dark, liquid expanses. Patrick had stopped shaking him. Before leaving, the old man nodded to Hélène. He hadn’t looked at Anthony. Then he went to join some friends across the room. Each of his movements was measured. He was already on the other side, that of slowness and diminution, of long patience and sleepless nights.
“Poor guy,” said Patrick, sitting down again. “Just think of it. He worked like an animal and this is the result. He’s disabled at some percent or other, with a tiny pension. And kids who shit in his boots.”
At the mention of that problematic offspring, Anthony felt his stomach knotting again. He didn’t dare look at his mother. To finish, his father magnanimously added:
“You know, those people aren’t the problem. I’ve never seen guys work as hard as them.”
Across the way, the little troop of Magreb immigrants was gathered around the same table. There were about a dozen of them, aged and low-key, drinking Picon like everyone else, but still not speaking French. Their wives had stayed at home. Nobody paid any attention to them. They’d made the effort to come, though.
“All right, I think I’m going to the bar,” said Patrick, gesturing at the table in front of him. “We’re dying of thirst here. What are you having?”
Everybody chose beer. He went to order three beers, plus a Perrier for himself. Hélène looked at him. She couldn’t help thinking, “What a pity, all those years wasted, ruined by pride and binges.” To wind up like this, with him drinking water and wanting to send her on a trip.
Patrick came back with the drinks, passed the glasses around. The beer was cold and delicious. Anthony took a big slug. It did him a world of good.