Ever since Hacine and Coralie brought the baby home from the maternity ward, their life had become a never-ending series of chores. Getting up at night, fixing bottles nonstop, changing diapers, and taking walks, all while continuing to go to work. The days went by, all the same, all exhausting. He and Coralie couldn’t even talk without getting into an argument. Mainly they passed by each other like zombies, partners in a business whose purpose was to keep this frail life going. The girl. Her name was Océane, an Aquarius. She would be six months old in early August.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, Coralie was depressed about her weight gain. She still had twenty-five extra pounds she’d put on during her pregnancy and wasn’t able to shed them. She would burst into tears at the drop of a hat, and when Hacine tried to put things in perspective, it was worse.
And this wasn’t counting his in-laws, who had invented new rights over the couple’s life since becoming Grandma and Grandpa. They now felt they were entitled to drop by unannounced whenever they felt like it, to see the baby and lend a hand. “By the way, I made soup, I’ll bring you some.” There seemed to be no way to resist this invasion of kindness. Coralie’s mother left an apron and some cleaning products at their place. She was helping to do the housework, so she may as well have the right tools. She had even reorganized their kitchen drawers; the kids didn’t know how to do it right.
Sitting on the living room sofa watching the news with his father-in-law, Hacine sometimes wondered how he ever wound up there. He felt like a stowaway in his own life. Nothing appealed to him; nothing looked like him; he behaved himself, and waited. For her part, Coralie just took one nap after another. They had stopped fucking.
Hacine felt torn. On one hand he was grateful, of course. These people had adopted him. But he hated their little quirks and their way of living. Their absolutely rigid schedule of meals at noon and seven. Their habit of counting everything, rationing, breaking everything down, whether days or slices of pie. The dad’s unbuttoning his pants after meals. The simple, honest ideas they held about everything, being perennial losers. Their bland probity, which left them constantly aghast at the ways of the world. The three or four strong ideas they retained from primary school were useless in helping them understand current events, politics, the labor market, the rigged Eurovision votes, or the Crédit Lyonnais affair. And even then, the most they could manage was to be mildly scandalized, saying it’s not normal, it’s not possible, it’s not human. Those three dicta cut to the heart of all, or nearly all, questions for them. Even though life constantly contradicted their predictions, dashed their hopes, and routinely deceived them, the in-laws clung valiantly to the principles they’d always held. They continued to respect their leaders, believed what the TV told them, were enthusiastic when appropriate and indignant on demand. They paid their taxes, wore slippers indoors, liked the chateaus of the Loire and the Tour de France, and bought French cars. Hacine’s mother-in-law even read Point de vue. It made you want to shoot yourself.
What Hacine should have had was an ally, someone he could talk to about all this. He was now working on an open-ended contract at the Darty warehouse in Lameck. Whenever he dared tell his workmates that he couldn’t stand it anymore, someone always chimed in to say that having a kid was the most beautiful thing in the world. Conventional wisdom ruled at work as it did elsewhere, serving only to envelop and intoxicate you with happiness so the evidence of the facts wouldn’t kill you.
Where Coralie was concerned, even mentioning any of this was out of the question. It was strange because deep down, she had never really been who Hacine thought she was. Since Océane came into the world, he was discovering Coralie anew, and couldn’t believe it. He had always loved her cheerfulness, her strength of character, her ability to talk to anybody. Unlike Hacine, Coralie never said, “No thanks, that’s not for me.” Unlike him, she didn’t feel that people prejudged her. Everything was worth doing, worth trying. You just had to want to. She was a woman who loved to have fun, to eat, to spend time with her friends. At Christmas she was completely out of control. This was her big moment, obligatory joy, running errands for weeks, thinking of thousands of details, little touches, getting tiny presents for everybody, and wanting even more. And Hacine loved that, loved to see her blush, or dance, or have a third helping of roast beef. Her clumsiness, her somewhat leaden jokes, her unicorn-and-teddy-bear side, her multicolored nail polish. Coralie made the connection. Without her, he found life more than he could handle. He didn’t dare. He would have stayed in his corner.
But since they’d had the baby, Hacine realized something else: that Coralie had always suffered from an emptiness. A place, deep inside, that had always been vacant. When Océane arrived, she was the first to take that place, and fill it completely. From then on, everything operated from that starting point. The baby was the measure of all things and justified everything.
Hacine wasn’t jealous of Océane. He didn’t feel neglected, especially. He didn’t resent her. He didn’t say that he had better things to do than devote himself to a baby. But he himself had never had that emptiness, that available space. Océane came along as a bonus, on top of everything else: his neuroses, his unhappiness, the rage that never left him. Life wasn’t enough for him, and the baby didn’t change anything. To the contrary. Well, it was more complicated than that. He couldn’t have said how.
So when one of the salesmen at the store where he worked placed an ad to sell his Suzuki DR, Hacine immediately went to see him. Without thinking, he wrote him a check. Coralie really yelled at him that evening. When it came to money, they were already in deep shit. They wouldn’t be going on vacation this year. Besides, where would they put it? They didn’t have a garage anymore. And, finally, motorcycles killed their riders and everybody knew it, goddammit.
“When are you going to grow up?” she wanted to know.
Baby Océane was crouched in her crib, busily tearing the men’s ready-to-wear pages in the La Redoute catalog. Arms folded, Coralie seemed on the verge of tears. The circles under her eyes were scary. She had just dyed her hair for the third time this month. With the upheaval in her hormones, her nails, hair, skin, libido, and everything had changed. She was trying to get a grip, but it wasn’t easy.
“You don’t even have a license for it.”
“You don’t need one. It’s small.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“It wasn’t expensive.”
“How much?”
“A thousand francs.”
“What about insurance?”
“I’ll manage.”
She closed her eyes, took a breath. Don’t get angry in front of the kid, stay calm.
“My parents just asked me when we were going to repay the money we owe them. What do I tell them?”
The baby was now attacking the underwear pages. Hacine didn’t have much to say. Coralie withdrew to their bedroom. He decided to go out for a spin on the bike. The sky was extremely pale. He trembled, shifting through the gears. He scared himself a few times, had wanted to flee. Unfortunately, the tank was almost empty and he hadn’t brought his credit card. So he went home a little before ten.
“Are you happy?” Coralie asked.
The baby was asleep. Yes, he was happy.
From then on, Hacine made an effort. Coralie didn’t understand, but she compromised. Their life as a couple gradually started to look like a war of attrition. She criticized him for doing whatever he felt like, for acting like a kid. Hacine kept his reproaches to himself, in his gut. In the evenings, he would go out for a ride, without a helmet. It was reassuring. Overall, things seemed to have stabilized. But that wasn’t reckoning with the World Cup.
His father-in-law had already started to tease him because Morocco had qualified, and if by some mischance that pathetic nation wound up playing France, it would take a hammering like you never saw in your life. The asshole laughed then, his belly and his double chins shaking like jelly. When Brazil scored three goals against Morocco, the sarcastic remarks redoubled. Fortunately, the Lions of the Atlas redeemed themselves by beating Scotland 3–0 a few days later. But the fact remained that Morocco had never made it to the finals.
Things really took a turn for the worse when, instead of coming straight home from work as usual, Hacine went to a bistro with his workmates to watch the France-Denmark game. He was dying to see it, and he couldn’t face going home to the same surroundings, the apartment, the in-laws, the crying. So he played hooky, had a beer like anyone else, and watched the game with a mix of satisfaction and bad conscience. But it wasn’t easy to enjoy the play when he was already dreading the scene he would confront when he got home. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t even see the first goal. It was only when he saw the others yelling that he realized what had happened. In the end, he wound up leaving at halftime, feeling both guilty and frustrated, the worst situation.
Coming home, he found the apartment empty. Coralie had left a note on the kitchen table: “I’m at my parents’ with the baby.” Hacine hated to admit it, but he felt relieved. He fixed himself a big plate of noodles and ate in peace while he watched the end of the game. Since he was by himself for a change, he jerked off to a porno DVD before going to bed. He took his time and came super hard.
In the shower, he wondered what was really going on in his life. The water ran down his chest and his cock. He looked at the foam at his feet. What was he going to do? He felt trapped. There was the baby. She didn’t demand anything. He loved her like crazy. He couldn’t stay. He took a Temesta and went to sleep.
Coralie came back the next morning, and they didn’t exchange three words the whole week. Then the French team began to drive the commentators crazy. After getting through the first round, it eliminated Paraguay in the first knockout round, then beat Italy in the quarterfinals. Everyone could see the team was on a roll. Once Italy, a perennial powerhouse, was out of the game, everything became possible. Only Coralie refused to join in the universal rapture. Hacine watched it all: the games, the wrap-ups, the TV news, the commentaries, the rebroadcasts, everything. He even bought the newspapers. It was exciting and, at the same time, convenient. He was losing himself in the national epic, the better to forget his daily drama. And during this whole immersion in the blue wave, he could feel Coralie’s dull disapproval. She didn’t criticize him. But from the sound of her footsteps, the drawers she slammed, the way she closed the fridge, the way she ate yogurt, it was obvious that she was upset with him. And she wasn’t even angry. She was sad, which was the worst.
Hacine bravely acted as if nothing was happening. The pressure increased. He expected an explosion. With the baby, he fulfilled the bare minimum requirements: every other diaper change, a bottle from time to time, beddy-bye in the evening, maybe a song, but quickly, with no encore. He slept on the sofa. A deserter.
The morning of the semifinals, Coralie came into the living room and woke him with a cup of coffee.
“Here.”
He took the cup as she parted the curtains and opened the window wide. It was nice out. Bright July sunshine reflected almost blindingly on the white tile floor. The usual automotive hum from the nearby aqueduct. The good smell of coffee.
“Is she asleep?”
Coralie went to check, then came back and sat on the coffee table.
“What are you planning to do?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
He was sitting up and rubbing his face. This looked very much like a setup. He took a sip of his coffee.
“This evening. Your game. Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re not staying here.”
“What do you mean?”
He felt a little upset. This was his home, after all.
“I don’t want to see you around here,” said Coralie.
“What is this bullshit? Why are you talking to me like this?”
“Hey…” She waved her open hand in front of his eyes, as if to make sure he was conscious. “Have you had a stroke or something? What is it that you don’t understand?”
“What I understand is that you’re busting my balls.”
She grabbed him by the ear and yanked it, nearly hard enough to tear it off. He yelped, a ridiculous shriek that echoed through the whole apartment. Even someone outside could have heard it. The two of them froze, worried about how the baby would react. It sometimes took more than half an hour to get her back to sleep. Hacine was about to say something, but Coralie stopped him with a look. The seconds ticked by one by one. The baby went on sleeping.
Then Coralie looked him right in the eyes and very quietly said:
“Now listen to me, you little turd. Either you straighten up and fly right or I’m packing my bags, taking my daughter, and you’ll never see us again in your life.”
She went out then, leaving Hacine with the kid just when he had to be at work in an hour. Fortunately his mother-in-law had arrived. She didn’t make a fuss, just took the baby from him.
“I’ll take care of her, it’ll be fine.”
As he hurried to get ready to go to work, he listened as the woman went kitchy-kitchy-koo and the baby burst out laughing. Océane was so little, so insignificant, but she had such a capacity for happiness. It took practically nothing to feed this tiny life. It also would take almost nothing to end it. A bad fall, a passing car, drowning in the bathtub; there was no end of ways the little wretches could find to die. A second’s inattention, a moment’s carelessness and you bought yourself a four-foot coffin. Shit. When Hacine was about to leave, he kissed her on the head and on her fist. Then he climbed onto his motorcycle. Coralie had taken off with the car.
After that, he had the whole day to ruminate. The mood at work was so unusual, like the day before vacation, with everybody excited, and that phrase that kept going around: France is in the semifinals. Customers and salesmen talked soccer. Warehousemen and drivers, ditto. Even stockholders were delighted; flat-screen TVs were selling like hotcakes, as were beer dispensers, refrigerators, and barbecues.
At quitting time, Hacine’s workmates all went to watch the game on the big screen set up at the Renardière stadium. He didn’t want to go with them. Instead, he rode his motorcycle around town. The mood was completely insane. The bars were so crowded, people spilled out onto the sidewalk. Only one television channel existed, La Une, and Thierry Roland and Jean-Michel Larqué were part of the family. By dint of riding around looking for a friendly place, one thing led to another, one bar led to another, and Hacine wound up at L’Usine. He hadn’t been there since his “accident.” That was ages ago.