If someone had asked Manuel when exactly they’d really become friends, he and Patrick, he’d have thought a long time, listed their countless joint memories, and, yes, perhaps he would have zoned in on that greasy, June ’92 afternoon when, having skipped classes to go and watch It in Patrick’s father’s bedroom, he had finally managed to go all the way with Nathalie in the next room – Patrick had been championing his friend to his cousin for weeks, using his own charm and showering his pal with an aura of mystery and charisma. Or perhaps he would have chosen one of the many times when Patrick had covered for him with Séverine, when he’d lost his day’s wages on lottery tickets at the bookie’s. Or that time, much earlier on, when, hammered, they had both ended up in the principal’s office, avoiding expulsion by a whisker, accomplices in drunkenness and defiance.
But if anyone had asked Patrick the same question, he would have said, without hesitation, that their friendship had become rock solid that day in November ’90 when he’d introduced him to his mother.
The student supervisor had walked in in the middle of the class and whispered a few words to the history teacher, who’d immediately looked at Patrick. “Bardin, you’re expected in the office.”
Her tone had lost its usual severity, ritualized by the daily confrontation with the savage horde that made up this class of adolescents whose testosterone was in constant competition with their foolishness. At that moment, she’d softened the way you lower your guard, the school stage fading, overtaken by life. After a slight hesitation, she’d said, “Gomez, go with him.”
Manuel had bounced up and grabbed his bag in the hope of not returning to class. It had been a good insight: neither of them had set foot in school again that day. Patrick’s mother had tried to commit suicide again, using the TV cables to hang herself, and this time had nearly succeeded. It was a cousin who’d been able to intervene in time, when she had brought back home Patrick’s little sister after an hour in the park. She’d come back early because of the rain. She’d shown remarkable nerve for a girl so young, by dialling the emergency number and that of the aunt, her fingers trembling and the little kid on her hip. She’d remember it for a long time, even after she settled into a new life, far from Cavaillon. Perhaps this event had played some part in her desire to escape. The body was lying at a funny angle, nothing to do with a rope tied to a beam and the chair kicked from under your feet like in films; Patrick’s mother had twisted the cables around her neck without even unplugging them and thrown herself forward, on her knees, the weight of her upper body squeezing her trachea hard enough with the plastic casings to asphyxiate her. She’d taken a fair amount of sleeping tablets beforehand, to make it easier. She’d vomited a little. Then the firefighters had broken into the living room and fussed over her. They were still there when the two kids showed up. The aunt had called the school immediately, because at times like that, bringing the tribe, however unstable, together, was a reflex. Besides, as far as the aunt was concerned, the father was a waste of space. And Patrick agreed: his father was a waste of space, especially since he’d walked out on them.
There were no silver helmets or even a siren on the roof of their engine: the firefighters were used to it; it wasn’t the first time, and – with any luck – it wouldn’t be the last. They’d taken Patrick’s mother away before the two teenagers’ eyes. To the emergency room first, then definitely a period in psychiatric care. Patrick was used to it by now, and could manage without her as long as his aunt or his cousin took care of his sister. He could cope with the stale smell of dirt and the absence that verged on emptiness. That day, Manuel had stood staring at the recently dried vomit on the face of the woman others called mad. And at the rather disgusting apartment where he’d never yet been invited.
For a long time, Patrick wondered why he’d dragged his mate along that day, except for the opportunity of a day off school. Maybe it was time, maybe he needed someone to witness all that.
As far as he was concerned, it was at that moment that they had become as bound together as bricks glued with concrete. Because Manuel had kept his trap shut. Closed his eyes to the greasy, ugly apartment, and to his drowsy, crazy mother. Because after the firefighters had left, accompanied by the aunt, Manuel had picked up a video case from between two cushions on the sofa and suggested, like on any regular Wednesday, “Shall we watch Terminator?”