14

Gabriela had nervously slipped the cassette into the player.

Was it the surf? The roll of the ocean? In the background, in the distance, there were cries of children, hints of disco music, and, throbbing and dull, the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

Where was he? In Toulon, Rochefort, Hourtin, Tangiers, Goree Island? Mauritania perhaps? Wasn’t that African dance music whining on the dilapidated tape player?

“This is not right, what we’re doing,” she said. “I feel like I’m betraying Arturo.”

Gabriela’s body brushed Virgile’s as they sat on the loose floorboards of the dark and disorderly apartment on the Place des Abbesses.

This was the first time since what she called “the accident” that Gabriela de la Luz had come back to the shabby setting. There was the unmade bed, its sheets in a ball and its pillows ripped, where Arthur had satisfied her with as much ardor as tenderness and sometimes with clumsiness when the nights were too boozy.

On the wooden crate that served as a night table were the latest issue of the Revue du vin français and an old Wine Spectator. Arthur didn’t read English, but he often asked Gabriela to translate the tasting notes of American critics. Beside a brass lamp, its shade mottled with fly specks, the Cooker Guide sat like a Bible. Its cover was battered. Its pages were dog-eared, and the binding was worn from having been consulted repeatedly.

On the floor were a rolled-up pair of jeans, a greasy Michelin map, a spiral notebook, a pair of beat-up sneakers, and an old pair of khaki socks. A poster of Penelope Cruz, a small picture of Jennifer Lopez, and a panoramic photo of the Château de Grignan with a carpet of lavender in the foreground were on the wall. And tacked above the night table were photo-booth pictures of Gabriela, laughing.

The tape was playing, but no one was talking. All Virgile could hear was the lapping of waves and a syncopated melody, vaguely disco, that reminded him of nothing in particular. Gabriela, who looked weary, had put her head on Virgile’s shoulder. He had convinced her to finally learn about the dark side of her longstanding companion—the dark side that he had never managed to overcome. Virgile hadn’t considered the possibility that the cassette might be nothing other than a mediocre soundtrack.

Always the sea, the lapping of waves, the blast of a boat horn, children laughing in the distance… Then a woosh and a sharp noise. Someone seized the microphone.

“¡Por Dios!” Gabriela said, biting her lip.

I am Arthur… Arthur Solacroup. Solacroup? I think that’s my last name. At least my father’s last name… Unless it’s my mother’s. I don’t know. In fact, I never knew. According to the people in the village near Avignon where I grew up, I’m an orphan. I know that doesn’t excuse anything. That doesn’t explain anything…

Why am I saying this tonight? Because I don’t know who I’m talking to. It’s kind of like a bottle tossed into the ocean, a message sent into the vastness of the universe.

In Djibouti, the nights are freezing, but I’ve never seen such a beautiful sky. Not even on Mont Ventoux in Provence. My captain taught me the names of the stars: Vega, Altair, Betelgeuse, Antares, Sirius… The constellations, too: Pleiades, Sagittarius, Lyre, Cassiopia, Orion… I like to learn. I want to know everything. One day, I will know everything…

The children’s distant cries were gone, as was the lapping of the waves. The sound coming from the tape player was now properly modulated, with no background noises. Arthur’s voice was distinct and somber. Virgile guessed he had moved the recorder away from the beach.

I was always hopeless at school, but one day, I’ll know everything! I’ll know about things I’m not even aware of today. You can’t understand, whoever you are… Will anyone listen to this someday? Fucking shit!

Arthur stopped speaking. A muddled crackling followed. It sounded like someone putting his hand over the microphone. Virgile and Gabriela stared at the tape player, waiting. The tape seemed to be damaged.

I have to calm down. I need some water. Yes… I wanted to say that I made an important decision this morning. I’m leaving the 13th Foreign Legion Demi-Brigade. I’m not renewing my contract. Ten years in the Foreign Legion, two five-year tours. That’s enough! In a month, I’ll take a boat to Marseille. I’ll return to civilian life. I hope I’m not making another stupid mistake.

I can’t stand the camp any longer. The sun, the salt, the orders, the lousy missions, the bullying, the brig, screwing the pox-ridden whores of Bouake and other God-forsaken dumps, jerking off in the shower. I’ve had it! I’m outta here! Even Kyriel, my captain, wasn’t surprised by my decision. He told me he had read it in the stars. I’ll miss that guy, my captain… He’s the one who saved my life, shooting the shark that was circling me one day when I was swimming too far from shore. It was two weeks after I landed in Djibouti. I had just taken a beating from Sergeant Major Boulard—I swear he wanted to kill me—and there I was, almost getting eaten alive by a shark.

I asked Kyriel if I could write to him. He said, “You know how to write, Toussaint?” And then he pulled me over and gave me a big hug. “Get out of here! Fast!” Before I left his office, I turned around, and he was blubbering. That was the first time I ever saw a man cry. Crying for me…

Gabriela’s eyes were clouded with tears. A cat meowed at the doorway and padded over to Virgile. It climbed on his lap and brushed against his chest. But when Virgile reached to pet it, the cat sprang from his lap and bounded out of the room.

I’m leaving the legion, but I have no idea what awaits me. Freedom. I’m not sure I deserve it, not sure if I can enjoy it either. In a little while I’ll go to the bordello. I’ll lay a beautiful black woman. Bareback—that’s what the American soldiers call it. If I get away without a disease I’ll take it as a good sign. It’s funny, but tonight I don’t see my star. Vega, it’s called. Kyriel told me it belongs to me and only me. It’s north. Shit, why don’t I see it tonight in this sky full of stars? I haven’t been drinking. That’s not a good sign!

The cat came back into the room and started meowing.

“That’s Ficelle,” Gabriela said.

“What?” said Virgile, still absorbed in the legionnaire’s story.

“The cat. His name is Ficelle. That’s what Arturo called him.”

“I think he wants to go out. Open the door for him.”

“You do it.”

Virgile stood up, stretched, and started walking toward the entryway, the cat scampering ahead of him. Virgile opened the door, and Ficelle disappeared down the stairs.

“I don’t feel well, Virgile. Let’s get out of here, please. I’m suffocating…”

“Let’s hear the rest. We’re almost at the end.”

“No! Let’s go!”

Before they could settle their argument, the tape player began to squeak. Virgile hastened to push the stop button before the device could jam. He removed the cassette and saw that the ribbon was spilling out of the casing. He carefully rewound the tape, reinserted the cassette, and pushed the play button. Arthur’s voice once again filled the apartment.

Gabriela said nothing and leaned against Arthur’s faded old couch. Virgile, aware that she was upset with him, tried to touch her hand. She pulled it away.

I’ll never be able to say what I’ve held inside all this time. I really did believe that tonight I could do it. Shit! Even in this piece of crap recorder I can’t spit it out…

The tape began to whine again. Virgile pushed the reverse button for a fraction of a second before resetting the playback.

Damn! There it is: Vega! I can talk to my star. I’ll tell Vega my story…

A burning-match smell filled the air. Virgile looked at Gabriela. She was holding a cigarette. After taking two drags, she passed it to Virgile.

It’s amazing how bright it is. It shines like the eyes of the woman who told me to call her Mom. You know, the Bernays, the family that took me in when I was four. I always knew she wasn’t my mother. But I liked her. Yvette. She was nice to me.

Things got bad when Jean, her husband, was killed. She didn’t stay single very long. She hooked up with an ex-soldier who brought her his pension check on the twenty-seventh of every month and made her put out for him. Of course, it was thanks to Gilbert that she was able to raise Jean’s son, born two months after he died in the car accident. Martin was his name. After he was born, he got all the attention. He was the love child, she used to say. No kidding. It took her fifteen years to have him.

Virgile could hear the ocean again. The sound of the waves was almost soothing.

When Martin was born, I became nothing to her. I wasn’t good for anything. That was when I began to burn the grasshoppers’ wings and mutilate spiders, and cut the tails off lizards and rats running around in the basement. The school was always calling home. That’s when they began hitting me, first Mom and then Gilbert. Every time I did something wrong, I got the belt. Do you believe me, Vega?

The ashes fell on Gabriela’s sweater, but she didn’t bother to flick them away. Her eyes were riveted on the tape player. Virgile remained impassive, staring at the cheap ring on her left hand.

The day it happened, Gilbert wasn’t home. He was always hanging out at the café. Only Mom and Martin, in his playpen filled with toys, were there. I needed a fix. I hadn’t had any dope in two days because I didn’t have any money. So I asked Mom for some dough. She said she wouldn’t give me a dime. She told me to find a job: pick fruit in the orchards or work at the co-op. I was a lazy swine, a moocher, a parasite. She said she’d tell Gilbert, and he would give me a beating.

She told me… Well, no, she didn’t say anything else, because I pushed her. No, I didn’t want to kill her. I just pushed her a little too hard. I wanted to knock some sense into her. But it wasn’t me who killed her. She lost her balance and fell. And her head hit the corner of the buffet. As soon as she went down, Martin started to bawl. He was screaming, like someone was slitting his throat…

Gabriela reached out and grabbed Virgile’s hand. She wound her fingers around his and held tight. A ray of sun caressed her cheek and made her blink. Virgile looked at her face and saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. She had always known that her lover had a dark secret. Now she was learning the truth. Her fingernails dug into his palm. Virgile didn’t grimace.

So I freaked out. I went up to my room, pulled out my gym bag, filled it with clothes, and took off. I left the kid all by himself. When I walked out the door, he was still crying.

I hitchhiked all night. I wanted to get to Spain—Barcelona or even farther, maybe all the way to Galicia. In Nîmes, a Catalan truck driver picked me up. But he asked me to get out in Le Perthus, before we reached the border. I think he guessed that I had problems with the law. So I stayed in Perpignan. I bummed around for two or three days, and then I showed up at the Joffre barracks and asked to join the legion.

The next day, I left for the training center in Aubagne. I killed Arthur Solacroup that day and became Toussaint Exupéry. It’s a funny name, Toussaint, isn’t it? Then, for four months, I went to classes in Castelnaudary. Four months. I worked hard, and then I signed up for five years and got stuck in the sand in fucking Djibouti. There you go, Vega, now you know everything…

Now you have to shine twice as bright for me! You hear, Vega?

The sound of the waves ebbed, and African dance music swelled. Virgile looked around the room as he listened to the tambourines and chants. His eyes stopped on Arthur’s unlaced combat boots.

So it was Martin whose orphan star had gone out the week before, under the train at the Pigalle station.

Virgile closed his eyes and felt Gabriela’s cheek next to his. The tears of the beautiful Peruvian left the taste of salt on his dry lips.