On the beach, a thousand faces were lifted to the sky, reflecting bursts of red, blue, and white light. Roman candles shot up through the night, sparkling and rigid, before thumping people’s chests and blasting their eardrums. It was a swarming of light, a cascade of color and thunder. City Hall had gone all out this time.
Even Steph and Clémence couldn’t find anything to mock, despite the deeply gregarious atmosphere, despite Céline Dion and Whitney Houston. The sound and light captivated them, and they forgot to keep themselves detached. Nearby, a father held his daughter in his arms as she said, “Beautiful red one…Beautiful blue one,” her finger pointed at the sky. The cops had their noses in the air, too. The whole valley was looking in the same direction. It was July 14, Bastille Day.
The final display was launched to the strains of “Que je t’aime.” Steph felt Clémence leaning against her. Their eyes were shining with the same damp spark while the lyrics my body on your body kneaded their bellies with a brute, animal emotion, an irresistible grip.
And then it was over, people whistled and applauded, and everybody rushed off to get a drink. The audience had worked up quite a thirst. Now the dancing could start.
Very quickly, the mood changed. What had begun as ambling goodwill turned into a kind of frenzy. Bodies heated by alcohol, noise, and fatigue mindlessly attracted and repelled each other. On the dance floor, couples began to sway under garlands of light bulbs. The DJ, who knew his classics, started the dancing with the Jackson Five, then Gloria Gaynor. If you looked, you could glimpse dampness in the cleavages. The old people cast an affectionate gaze over all this disorder. Some of them were nodding off. The teenagers, on the other hand, were in no danger of falling asleep. Tightly wound and pretending to be cool, they watched each other along the edge of the dance floor, their eyes like daggers. For each generation, desire had to overcome the same shyness. It’s such a drag not knowing how to do that.
Steph and Clémence had also stepped onto the dance floor. Anthony found them there when he came back from the forest. They were dancing, a little shakily, copying each other’s moves, arms in the air, doing a whole number, and looking super pretty. After a couple of songs, they whispered something to each other, and Clémence left the dance floor.
This seemed like the right time.
“Hi, there,” he said.
Steph turned to him. It took her two full seconds to realize who he was.
“Damn, whaddya know!”
She was smiling broadly. They tried to talk, but the music was too loud. She took the initiative to leave the dance floor.
“So what have you been up to?”
“I’m in Paris now,” she said.
“Ah, that’s cool.”
“Are you kidding? I’m studying like a maniac. I’ve gained twenty pounds.”
Anthony looked her over. Much of the extra weight had clearly gone to her breasts. Her tank top strap was cutting into the skin on her shoulder, the way her bathing suit strings once cut into her hips.
“Hey, there!” said Steph, snapping her fingers under his nose.
“You’re beautiful.”
“That’s so stupid…”
Just the same, hearing this pleased her, and she struggled to hide it. Just then Clémence came back carrying two tumblers of beer.
“I couldn’t find you. Where were you?”
“I was here.”
Steph didn’t know what to say. Anthony kept quiet. They were off on the wrong foot.
“Am I in the way, by any chance?” asked Clémence.
“Of course not.”
Nothing was happening. The music blared. Anthony chose to sacrifice himself.
“I’m getting myself something to drink. I’ll be back.”
“Right,” said Clémence.
There you had it: dead in the water again. Anthony tried to look cool as he walked away, though he felt completely disgusted. He’d come here to enjoy himself, to take one last breath of this shithole town before leaving forever, and Steph had screwed everything up, as usual. He couldn’t even turn around, because she and her bitch friend were probably watching him. He went to stand in line at the bar. He was dying to look over his shoulder but didn’t dare. It all made him feel like hitting something, hurting himself, though he thought he’d gotten over all that. Girls…what a plague!
“Hey!”
Anthony turned around. Steph was walking toward him, alone. Her girlfriend had disappeared. A miracle.
“Would you mind driving me home a little later?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Clémence had to go, and it felt like a drag having to leave.”
“No problem.”
“Okay, but don’t go getting any ideas.”
Too late. Anthony was already hoping for everything. He got his beer and they went off to one side, at the edge of the woods, to talk. Actually, talk mainly meant sitting on the grass, waiting. Steph asked him questions. He answered yes or no, evasively, almost unable to look at her. He in turn tried to find out what she’d been doing these last two years. She wasn’t much more talkative. None of this was happening the way it was supposed to.
“You’re a drag,” said Steph.
So he turned and kissed her. Their teeth banged together. It was a rough kiss, one last chance. It hurt her, and she grabbed him by the hair. They nearly lost their balance. They closed their eyes, their tongues tangled, their hearts beat fast. Gradually, the clumsiness fell away. They tumbled over onto the scratchy grass, him on top of her. He kissed her cheeks and her cheekbones, breathed into her neck. He was heavy and Steph felt herself yielding under this weight of a man, opening up to him. She wasn’t thinking about anything anymore for once. And neither was he. They were excited, and it was the end of the world. But as he began to fumble in her panties, she changed her mind.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“My parents are here. I don’t want them to catch me making out with some guy.”
“They can’t see us. We’re cool here. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Still…”
To get out of it, Steph said the first thing that came to her mind:
“Anyway, I want to dance.”
“Are you serious?”
“Come on, I love this song.”
“I don’t feel like dancing.”
But it was already settled. She pushed him aside and quickly straightened her clothes.
“Come on. It’s not late, you can fuck me later.”
In his career as a drinker, Patrick Casati had known various eras. The era of pals and parties, which left you with a spotty memory and was dealt with in the morning with two aspirins and a Coke. Later came the binges that lasted several days, followed by self-pitying repentance, where he went so far as to lecture his friends and consider returning to the church. He had also known the phase of continuous, medium-intensity drunkenness, bottles hidden in the locker room and chewing gum for breath, the thousand screwups at work that his friends covered up for him, the good times laughing at the bistro and the gloomy returns home. Those ended in shouting matches, sleeping on the living room sofa, and the kid seeing it all. After Metalor shut down, there was therapeutic drinking, to relax, buck yourself up, forget your problems; even the unemployed have a right to have a little fun, for chrissakes. There had been times of quitting when he stopped for good, not even having a drink on the weekend. Which basically consisted in waiting for the backsliding, when a drink would eventually do him in—just a splash of port, and then the deep dive. At times like that, when he wasn’t drinking, Patrick didn’t want to go out or see anybody; Christmas became a threat. He was afraid of his friends, afraid of cocktail time each evening. Around seven, the need would make itself felt, always. Nothing to beat yourself up over, but the temptation of a drink, just one. It couldn’t do any harm. The drink had its moments, and also its voice. That of the friend who knows that life is short, that we’ll all wind up in a hole, may as well enjoy ourselves. So Patrick would take just one break, and the next day find himself completely screwed up, and having to start all over again.
Those phases had followed each other again and again, in confusion, he had experienced them all. But they were nothing like what was happening now. Now he was drinking like an athlete aiming for a personal best, like a bodybuilder seeking the weight he couldn’t lift, the one that would leave him drained. And during this whole effort, until he fell asleep, Patrick lived like a king. All-powerful, brutal, generating fear and trembling because you knew at a glance that he was capable of anything and that his thirst had no other end except the cemetery.
“All right, this isn’t the whole story.”
He and Rudi had found themselves a little spot where they could watch the dance floor without people seeing them. They quietly emptied a bottle they’d stolen from one of the tables. It had practically nothing left. They lay stretched out, leaning on their elbows, legs crossed. They weren’t waiting for anything; they were just there.
“I’m gonna go.”
“Where?” asked Rudi.
“Nowhere. If I stay here, I’ll fall ’sleep.”
“So what?”
“I don’t wanna fall asleep, tha’s all.”
Patrick stood up as best he could. He was swaying on his heels. He patted himself down.
“What are you looking for?”
“My knife.”
“Where d’ya’ put it?”
“Rhaaa.”
Patrick knelt down, felt around, and found it. He slipped the knife back in his belt and pulled his polo shirt over it. Then he grabbed the bottle.
“I’m finishing this.”
Rudi didn’t react. Not that he had any choice. Patrick was looking the way he did on bad days, anyhow. His mouth shrunk to a bitter slit and the skin tight over his cheekbones, he looked like a corpse. He didn’t have many more drinks ahead of him, and firmly intended to down them all. He raised the bottle to his lips and drained it.
“That’s some more that the Germans won’ get.”
He was now in a state of terrible drunkenness, buzzing and metallic. He looked at the idiot with his spiky hair, his already deep wrinkles, his poignant, dazed look. Poor Rudi was useless, just spinning his wheels, and no woman would ever give in to him. He would be just as well-off dead.
“Home safe,” said Rudi.
Patrick snickered and got under way. He was stooped, breathing hard, still holding the bottle. Soon he was weaving between the tables. He had to use his shoulders and hands to make his way through. People didn’t want to move their asses. They stepped on his toes. Some kids shoved him. Little ragheads, besides. Need just one last drink, then go home. He was sure he’d find someone to drive him back. He stopped for a moment at a table, sitting down astride a bench. He looked over the table. There were abandoned tumblers with dregs of beer and red wine. He drank everything he found. He noticed some people looking at him. A whole family, with the grandparents and the kids.
“What?”
Nothing. They didn’t have anything to say. Cowards. He wanted to stand up but his legs got tangled in the bench, and before he knew it, he lost his balance and smashed face-first onto the ground. The father of the family hurried over.
“Wait, don’t move!”
Patrick’s face was pressed against the ground, his legs in the air. He was trapped. He let the guy straighten him out.
Once on his feet again, he touched his forehead. It didn’t hurt, but blood had started dripping onto his T-shirt and his shoes. The whole side of his nose was scraped. He felt it with his finger, which sank in. Facing him, the man grimaced in a way that said a lot.
“You’re pretty banged up, you know.”
“Is it deep?”
The guy took Patrick’s wrist and pulled his hand away, the better to see.
“Yeah, sure is.”
Patrick checked his teeth with his tongue. He had a taste of metal in his mouth; he was bleeding. But no damage, apparently.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
He looked at his hands, his clothes. The guy’s wife pulled a pack of tissues from her handbag, and her husband offered them to him.
“It’ll be okay,” he said.
“Still, it’s really bleeding a lot.”
Patrick felt a little foolish, his legs wobbly. He held his hand out to see if it shook. Tomorrow, he would have no memory of this, only scrapes and bruises. His hand was shaking hard.
“Let’s go see the medics.”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’ve been though worse.”
He wiped himself off with a tissue. When it was wet with blood he stuffed it in his pocket and used another one. It took two more before the bleeding stopped. The guy was insisting that they go see the EMTs. He was a friendly, corpulent man with a pitted face and gray hair. His whole family was watching him. A regular hero.
“Leave me alone, dammit!” said Patrick.
He jerked himself free. He wasn’t very steady on his pins.
“I’ll manage.”
And he left, one step after another.
The shock had woken him up a little. He wandered over to the dance floor. The light had been turned blue to accompany the slow numbers, and he fell to studying the entwined couples shuffling around on the plywood. His hands felt like anvils at the end of his arms. He mopped his brow with a tissue from time to time. That gesture alone cost him the last of his strength. It was past midnight. Long past.
That’s when he saw his son, dancing with a girl. He was holding her tight, and the two kids were moving with the slowness of a jellyfish. In his nasal voice, Eros Ramazzotti was singing about the pain of love, and every embracing couple seemed overcome by the serious sense of their destiny. The women were remembering vague sorrows. Even the men had lowered their guard, and their faces showed a baffled awareness, like disappointment. By the light of this poor tune, life suddenly appeared to them as it was, a muddle, a series of false starts. The Italian’s sad song was whispering in their ear the secret of ill-lived lives, diminished by divorces and deaths, worn out in work, gnawed everywhere, sleepless nights and loneliness. It gave you something to think about. You loved and you died, too; you were the master of nothing, neither your best efforts nor your end.
That kind of thought had no room in Anthony’s head, however. He was dancing with his girlfriend, they were glued together, indistinguishable, mixing their hair and their sweat. Patrick saw the boy’s hand slide up his partner’s back. His son spoke into the girl’s ear. The song ended. And they disappeared, without holding hands or anything.
Patrick stood there for a moment like that, panting, unable to move. He wasn’t even thirsty anymore. He just knew one thing: he didn’t want to go to sleep.