The Leclerc store had certainly grown. It now boasted a fabric section, an upgraded fish market, and, especially, a hi-fi and electronics department worthy of the most beautiful shopping centers. In all, some 110,000 square feet of retail space. The store didn’t even close during the remodel, which took place behind plywood partitions while customers went about their shopping.
Once the renovations were done, the whole valley was plastered with flyers promising exceptional discounts on everything from irons to DVD players. People showed up en masse. Cops even had to be dispatched to direct traffic. Since then, two roundabouts had been built. Every Saturday, there were lines in the parking lot, lines at the cash registers, lines at the new McDonald’s. This was heartwarming, at a time when naysayers were seeing the specter of the crisis and the noxious effects of globalization at every turn.
Not that it didn’t cause some inconvenience. In the personal hygiene aisle, for example, Anthony found himself flummoxed. With such discounts, you couldn’t even choose toothpaste without worrying that you might be missing out on something. He finally settled on a tube of Colgate and went on his way with his cart fairly full. Around him, shoppers were cheerfully coming and going in large numbers, especially for a Wednesday. The entire store was decked out. For months, all of France was tricolor, and the same words ricocheted around the whole country. He’d heard them on his clock radio at eight that morning: France is in the semifinals.
This didn’t keep Anthony from running his errands; he just did them as quickly as he could. Because around here you always wound up meeting someone you knew, and then you had to give them the news. “How’s your mother? What about you, what are you up to?” Anthony was twenty; he was young; he had his whole life ahead of him. That was the only thing people could ever think to tell him.
“What about work?”
“I’m looking.”
The baby boomers were understanding. It was a lot easier in their day.
“How’s your mother doing? Say hello to her for me.”
“She’s doing okay.” “Yes,” he would say hello. “Have a nice day.”
Since coming home, Anthony hadn’t done anything worthwhile. It was true that he was young. At least that’s what people kept telling him. He had to get moving. Just go to Canada. Or sign up for some training. Everybody had a piece of advice. People are very good at arranging other people’s lives. Anthony didn’t have the words to explain things for them.
He bought more canned food, beans, peas, sardines. Aside from that, his shopping cart contained the usual: ham, sausage, ground beef, noodles. Coca-Cola, some croissants for breakfast. Coffee, bananas, yogurt.
Finally he reached the liquor section. There, he chose two bottles of red wine, a case of beer, and a bottle of Label 5 whiskey. He had a date with his cousin in the late afternoon to watch the game. He grabbed a box of rosé, so as not to arrive empty-handed. He would put it in the freezer until he left.
France is in the semifinals. The loudspeakers reminded the customers of this and announced that, for the occasion, Leclerc was offering exceptional discounts on television sets. Anthony promptly re-crossed the store to check this out.
In the electronics department, big Day-Glo signs announced bargain-basement prices. Shoppers were going from one screen to the next, anxious to find their happiness, and in growing numbers. Over the loudspeakers, the same voice repeated that France was in the semifinals and warned that there wouldn’t be enough televisions for everyone. Anthony made up his mind quickly. A forty-inch Sony for twelve thousand francs, a bargain. It worked with a rear projector inside. When you watched the game, you felt you were actually on the field. The salesman had a little blue vest and the soft face of a prelate. He didn’t bother making a pitch. The TV sets were selling like hotcakes anyway, and not just because of the discounts. Given what was happening, buying one was practically an act of patriotism. Anthony tried to bargain, out of habit, but the guy wasn’t having any of it. At that price, it wasn’t worth the trouble. While his invoice was being prepared, Anthony got absorbed in contemplating the wall of screens showing highlights of the game against Italy. Kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor, gazing wide-eyed. Even from a distance, each player was recognizable. Liza, Desailly, Zidane, Petit with his ponytail. Like fifty million other losers, Anthony was caught up in the game, his misfortune temporarily at bay, his yearning merging with the great national aspiration. From stock traders and kids in Bobigny to Patrick Bruel and José Bové, everyone was on the same page, and it didn’t matter whether you were in Paris or Heillange. From the top to the bottom of the pay scale, from the boonies to La Défense, the country was cheering in unison. Basically, the thing was simple. Just do like they do in America: think your country is the best in the world and revel in that forever.
Anthony made the down payment on the TV with a Crédit Mut check. He was already overdrawn, but the set could be paid for in six installments with no interest, and, at worst, his mother would bail him out. He passed through the checkout line, stowed his purchases in the Clio’s trunk, and picked up his new TV from the warehouse behind the store. He drove home unhurriedly; it was a beautiful day, he wasn’t working. On the radio, they were still talking about the semifinals. Croatia was clearly beatable. But you had to stay focused and not get overconfident, otherwise you risked a bad surprise. It was almost noon when he got home. He hooked up his new purchase and programmed the channels. To celebrate, he poured himself a small whiskey. On channel La Une, Jean-Pierre Pernaut kept talking excitedly. Croatia certainly had technical skills and some great players. Plus it was a brand-new country full of energy, with everything to prove. But France was a great soccer nation, playing at home and riding a totally unprecedented wave of popular fervor. All the commentators agreed on that, and on the rest. Actually, everybody agreed on everything, so long as Zidane stayed on his feet. We’d had the baptism of Clovis, the Battle of Marignano, the Battle of the Somme. And now, France-Croatia. A people and its rendezvous with destiny. It was cool.
Anthony had another whiskey, a somewhat bigger one this time. The liquor began to affect him. He opened a bag of chips, cut a few slices of sausage, and started to nibble in front of his new TV. He was pleased with his purchase. The image quality left something to be desired, but the set’s format largely compensated for it. The Leclerc guy said that with gear like this, you’d think you were there. Meanwhile, the reports continued one after another, and Anthony’s excitement grew. It was going be a great game. Reporters fanned out to interview the French and found them all tricolored, shouting, and self-confident. Their kids could hardly keep still. People had appealing faces and accents from every part of the country. Then there was a commercial break. Anthony switched off the set, thinking he ought to move a little, fix something to eat. He could see his reflection in the black screen, legs spread, the glass on his knee. The least thing made him feel sad again. He turned the TV back on.
Anthony had injured himself in the army, playing soccer after class, as it happens. The meniscus. It hadn’t seemed serious, and he spent a first week in the infirmary with a bandage on his knee and taking Doliprane, bored out of his mind and in constant pain. A nurse once found him tangled in his sheets on the floor, unconscious. He was then prescribed codeine and was finally able to read magazines without getting nauseated. When the chief doctor came back from leave, he examined him anyway. He was a well-groomed little man with a signet ring on his pinky who used words like “dipshits” and “fuckwads.” He chewed out his entire staff and had Anthony shipped back to France for immediate surgery at the Saint-Mandé military hospital. Six months of physical therapy followed, after which he was sent back to Germany. But after a series of physical tests to measure his fitness to serve, he was told there wasn’t any point in trying any longer. Anthony found himself in an office ten feet square where a guy in civvies gave him the news: he would receive his two years of pay and could go home. Sign here. At the time, it seemed like a good deal.
So that’s how Anthony wound up on a train platform with a check for nearly twenty thousand francs in his pocket and his possessions in a duffel bag. A gray day, kind of chilly. It was a German train station, and none of the destinations—Dortmund, Munich, Poland—appealed to him. Should he go straight home to Heillange? Either way, he had to go through Paris. He would see when he got there. Maybe he’d stay for a day or two and enjoy himself.
Arriving at the Gare de l’Est, his heart sank. Here he was in Paris, for the first time in his life. Right away, he disliked the size of the place. A city full of blacks, threats, shops, all those crowds and cars. He had the confused impression that every person there was determined to rip him off. He took refuge in the nearest bar, on rue d’Alsace, and started playing pinball and drinking beers. There, at least, he felt at home. It was a little punk bar whose owner sported an old Elvis-style pompadour, played ska, and served draft Belgian. Anthony bought a few rounds and made friends. At one in the morning the owner announced he was closing, and Anthony found himself out on the sidewalk, drunk. He asked the owner if he needed a hand. The guy wore rings on each finger and had a fur collar on his denim jacket, and he looked cool. He said, “No thanks, I’m good.”
“So what we do now?”
“I’m going home, buddy. My day’s over.”
“Do you know where I can sleep tonight?”
“At a hotel, of course.”
The guy had rolled down the metal shutter and padlocked it. Crisscrossed with quick shadows, boulevard Magenta descended toward the heart of the city with its colorful signs, its restrained ferment. Anthony didn’t much like it. He needed someone to guide him. He felt scared.
“Please, man, I was in the service. I don’ know nothin’ about Paris.”
The owner studied him for a moment, vaguely amused. Clearly, he didn’t quite see the connection.
“I can’t do anything for you, buddy. I’ve got a family. They’re expecting me.”
Anthony rummaged in his pockets. He found his check and showed it to him, as if his being solvent settled everything.
“Yeah, cool. So what?”
“Can’t you put me up, just for one night?”
“Cut it out with that stuff.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Anthony put his hand on the man’s shoulder, who jerked free.
“Look, buddy, I don’t know you. You keep on like that, and I’ll fix your face with a wrench.”
Anthony took a step backward. The guy had seemed cool, and Anthony had paid for drinks for him, for everybody.
“Okay, good night.”
The guy’s cowboy boots echoed on the pavement until he disappeared behind the train station.
Anthony had wound up alone in Paris. Even from a distance, this city of theirs seemed complicated, with its ten thousand streets, its misleading lights, the mix of all sorts of people, the buildings, a church, money streaming over poverty, the feeling of being awake, of always being on your guard, immigrants at every turn, incredibly numerous and diverse, kinky hair, blacks, Chinese, millions of them. He walked down toward République. On either side, there was nothing but barbershops for Africans and luggage stores, narrow snack bars with neon lights and young men out front talking loudly and drinking cheap beer. Nobody looked at him. It was a weekday night, and though the streets were never completely empty, they were still pretty quiet. Anthony wondered where all those people could be going. He found them different, without knowing why. The women were prettier than in other places, maybe. Some of the guys seemed a little swishy, but were out walking with their girlfriends. Overall, it was a place of mixing and menace. Gradually, Anthony’s drunkenness faded. He walked some more. From time to time he made sure his check was still in his pocket. He wanted Paris. He wanted those women, wanted to drink in those cafés, wanted to live in one of those apartments whose chandeliers and moldings he could glimpse from the sidewalk. It was tempting, promising. But unattainable. Which end were you supposed to start with? At one point he asked two young guys in leather jackets with highlights in their hair where the Eiffel Tower was.
“It’s straight ahead.”
“And if you keep going, you’ll see the ocean.”
Little twerps.
Afraid of getting lost, afraid of running into bad people, Anthony retraced his steps and waited outside the train station. It was November. It was cold. Some homeless guys came over to bum a cigarette and started giving him a hard time because he didn’t have any. He was in good physical shape and was tempted to punch one out to set an example. The guys reeked, and they could barely stand upright. It would be easy. But he decided to split and walked around the area blowing on his hands, sitting down for a moment, then walking on. Hotels intimidated him. It was too late. Dawn wasn’t that far away anymore. What was the point of blowing a hundred francs? The first brasseries opened; he had a cup of coffee at the counter and watched the ballet of the dump trucks and the garbagemen. The black army of cleanliness. As soon as he could, he bought a ticket for Heillange, via Nancy. He showed up at his mother’s place in the early afternoon.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Truth be told, she didn’t seem all that surprised. Anthony’s bed was made. There was some cauliflower au gratin and pasta left, and she cooked him a cutlet in cream. He devoured the food, then went upstairs and slept for twenty hours straight.
Anthony took a series of temporary jobs after that, without touching the check the army had written him. He didn’t dare. He had the feeling that once he cashed it, the money would disappear in seconds. Then it would be penury and misery, he would depend on his mother, be back to being poor, a child again. So he looked for work. Doing temp jobs was fine; all his friends did it. He cleaned the bathrooms at the Saint-Vincent clinic. Same thing for the abattoirs. Then he worked as a school janitor. Soon he wound up on the kitchen crew at the prefecture. Problem was, the job wasn’t right next door and nearly all his pay went for gas. He mentioned this to the woman at Manpower who was handling his case. She advised him not to quit, it would make a bad impression. So for eight weeks Anthony got up at dawn every day to drive sixty miles, work for four hours, and drive home, all to earn barely four thousand francs a month. It wore you out and it drove you nuts. But at least his mother didn’t give him any grief when he got home. She believed in killing yourself working. In her family, this was considered normal. An idea that Anthony was almost starting to subscribe to. At least he had right on his side. It was now his turn to complain about taxes, immigrants, and politicians. He didn’t owe anyone anything, he was useful, he complained, he was exploited, he was dimly aware of being part of a vast majority, the mass of people who could do everything and were sure there was nothing to be done.
After that, he specialized in nursing homes, doing laundry and cleaning. He went through five of them in three months. Then it was the Vivarte warehouse, Liqui Moly, the Merax print shop, and finally the Gordon factory, where he’d found a more or less permanent job in a workshop. The job consisted in stacking sheets of metal, rods, and pieces of grillwork in a precise pattern. This produced a cubic, stainless steel sarcophagus that was then raised by amazing forklifts and put in equally amazing ovens, where the temperature reached two thousand degrees and more. Which is apparently how you make an air conditioner. Gordon sold them all over Europe, though with more and more difficulty. Worried supervisors kept a watchful eye on the workers and an endless series of temps who were bounced at the slightest economic downturn. Above them were the bosses, the engineers, the executives. You saw them at the canteen. It was another world.
Anthony made a few good friends at work: Cyril, Krim, Dany, le Zouk, and Martinet. In the morning, he was glad to see them. They ate at the canteen together and secretly smoked blunts during breaks, sitting on pallets in the little courtyard behind workshop C. He saw them after work, too. They all shared the same kind of entertainment, the same salary level, an identical worry about their future, and especially a reticence that kept them from bringing up their real problems, a life being frittered away almost in spite of them, day after day, in this backwater town they’d all wanted to leave, leading a life just like their fathers’, a slow-motion malediction. They couldn’t admit to having the congenital illness of ever-replicated dailyness. Confessing it would add to the shame of their submission. Because these guys were proud, and especially proud of not being jerk-offs, profiteers, faggots, unemployed. And, in Martinet’s case, of being able to belch the alphabet.
After a while, Anthony was able to rent a little one-bedroom apartment. He furnished it from Confo and bought himself a car, a new Clio Williams that ate up his check. Since then, he ran up debts, but he still planned to buy himself a motorcycle for the summer. His mother criticized his thoughtless spending, but as long as he was working, she had nothing to say. On the other hand, when it came to girls, times were pretty lean.
When Anthony went out with his pals on a Saturday night, he would sometimes pick up a woman at a party or at the Papagayo, of course. But those one-night stands didn’t count. They were with cashiers, nurses’ aides, nannies, or women who already had two kids and were treating themselves to a weekend break while the grandparents minded the little ones. He had a different ideal.
He didn’t talk about it. But from time to time, when it was late and he’d drunk more than usual, he would grab a beer, go down the two flights of stairs from his apartment to the parking lot, and climb into his Clio. He would find something good on the radio, light a cigarette, and drive north. Toward Steph’s neighborhood.
For Anthony, the pleasure was driving drunk through Heillange at night, getting choked up listening to oldies on FM radio. He drove without pushing it, following the docks along the Henne, taking the too-familiar streets of his native town. The glow of streetlights punctuated this smooth trajectory. Gradually he started to experience those deep feelings that sad songs bring up and yielded to them. Johnny Hallyday was his preference. He sang of disappointed hopes, failed love affairs, the city, loneliness. Of time passing. With one hand on the steering wheel and his beer in the other, Anthony crisscrossed the landscape. The gigantic steel mill caught in the spotlights. The bus shelters where he’d spent half his childhood waiting for the school bus. His old school, the busy kebab stands, the train station he’d left from and to which he returned with his tail between his legs. The bridges where he used to spit into the river out of sheer boredom. The pari-mutuel betting shop, the McDonald’s, the emptiness of the tennis courts, the darkened swimming pool, the slow cruise toward residential neighborhoods, open country, nothingness. The lyrics of “J’oublierai ton nom.” Soon he would find himself very close to Steph’s house, almost without intending to. He would turn up the volume and take a sip of beer. From a distance, he would stare at the Chaussoys’ beautiful house, with its grille and electronic gate lock. He wondered if she was in. Probably not. He lit a cigarette and smoked it while letting his thoughts wander. Then he would go home, like a fool.
But none of this mattered, because France was in the semifinals. Around five, he took his box of rosé, got into his car, and drove to his cousin’s place.