Johnny’s was tucked between two other bars on a narrow street called Rue de la Loi. Raymond had been loitering on the pavement outside for half an hour. It was raining lightly. Johnny’s had no windows, so he could not see if Delph was inside. There was only a door, above which was a wooden sign in the style of an American saloon. A few people had entered or left the premises, but from the pavement opposite Raymond could see only into a dimly lit passage. Whenever the door opened, a burst of rhythmic music issued from within.
Raymond had gone over and over Delph’s words. I’ll be at Johnny’s on Saturday. At least, that was what he thought she had said. There had been no mention of whether she would be there in the afternoon or evening, certainly not of an actual time. Still, there was no question of not entering. If she was not there, he could drink a beer and leave. What was the worst that could happen?
He walked to the end of the street, doubled back and then, when he reached the door of the bar, went straight in as if he had just happened on the place. The first thing that hit him was the music: all percussion and double bass, a deep semi-spoken baritone. The passage opened into a dark barroom. Raymond scanned the room for Delph. To the right of the room was a raised area separated by a balustrade and reached by two wooden steps. A group of students was gathered round a table there, deep in conversation. Delph was nowhere to be seen. Directly ahead was the bar. Raymond spotted an unoccupied table in the corner. He hung his satchel over the back of the rickety wooden chair and sat down. He removed his scarf and hung it next to his satchel, this done with the intention of giving the impression that he was entirely at ease. It was only then that he was able to properly take in his surroundings.
Above the bar was a Confederate flag and a number of signs: Please use the spittoons provided—No cussin’—Kindly refrain from brawling, none of which Raymond understood. Every inch of wall space was covered with Johnny Cash record sleeves, playbills and photographs. Some of the posters were plastered directly onto the walls, others had been hung in mismatched frames. To the right of the bar was a pair of swing doors marked Restrooms. Next to that was a 1950s jukebox, its display of lights illuminating a patch of wooden floor in front of it. Leaning on the end of the bar was a short, stocky man of around fifty, dressed in a black suit, wing-collared white shirt and Cuban-heeled boots. His jet-black hair was swept back into an impressive quiff. He had a thin cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. This, Raymond supposed, was Johnny. Aside from the table of students, the only other customers were two burly, shaven-headed men in leather motorcycle jackets standing at the bar drinking tankards of beer. On the back of one of the men’s jackets the motto Born to live, Live to die was picked out in metal studs. Once Raymond was settled at his table, the little man in the black suit walked over with a rolling gait.
‘Whaddaya drinkin’, buddy?’ he said in American-accented English. Even in the dimly lit bar, it was obvious that his hair was dyed.
Raymond asked for a beer. Johnny communicated his order to a woman behind the bar with a large, placid face and long, grey hair tied in plaits at the sides of her head. His wife, Raymond assumed. She unhurriedly pulled the beer and the proprietor brought it over.
‘Your first time in Johnny’s?’ he asked as he placed it on the table. It was smaller than the ones the men at the bar were drinking.
Raymond nodded cautiously.
‘Tell me, mon fils, who is the king?’
‘The king?’ Raymond repeated.
‘Yes, the king. Who’s the king?’
‘I don’t know, monsieur,’ said Raymond. ‘You?’
The little man took his cigar from the corner of his mouth. His fingers were adorned with a number of oversized signet rings. He shook his head and tutted his disappointment. He gestured round the walls of the bar.
‘Now,’ he said with weary patience, ‘let’s try again. Who is the king?’ He enunciated the question as if each word was an entire sentence.
Raymond cottoned on. ‘Johnny Cash?’ he said doubtfully.
‘Johnny Cash! Correct answer.’ He took a step back from the table, replaced his cigar in his mouth and gave a slow handclap. ‘Fuck Elvis. Fuck Hallyday. Fuck Gainsbourg. Johnny Cash is the king.’
The bikers at the bar looked over, no doubt having witnessed the routine many times before. The proprietor shouted to them: ‘The kid didn’t know who the king was.’ Then he turned back to Raymond. ‘First drink’s on the house, buddy.’
He strutted back to his post at the corner of the bar. Raymond did not know what to make of the exchange. Any hope he had of passing unnoticed in the corner had gone. And now, if Delph did not show up, he could hardly just leave as if he had casually dropped in with no ulterior motive. First drink’s on the house. The statement clearly implied that the first drink would be followed by a second and probably by a third and fourth drink. You could not accept a drink on the house and then leave. Perhaps he should have insisted on paying, but Johnny would no doubt have taken such a suggestion as a grievous insult.
Raymond took his book from his satchel, but there was barely enough light to read by. He took out his cigarettes and lit one. The act of smoking put him a little more at ease. The music battered on at a relentless pace. With each new song Raymond grew more accustomed to Johnny Cash’s voice and the clanking train-track rhythm. He tried to relax.
From where he was sitting he could not see the door, but he did not want to give the impression that he was waiting for someone. He drank some beer. His father always insisted that beer was a drink for ruffians. He took a second swallow and then drained the contents. He stared at the empty glass on the table in front of him with satisfaction. Perhaps he was a ruffian. Johnny appeared at his table and placed a second beer in front of him.
‘You’re thirsty,’ he said. It was a statement rather than a question.
Raymond folded open the pages of his book. He rested his elbow on the table and placed his left hand on his forehead, as if he was reading. But through his fingers he watched the group of students around the table on the platform. There were two girls and three boys. The music was too loud to hear what they were saying, but their conversation was animated. The focal point of the group was a guy in a black leather jacket who kept a cigarette pinched between the thumb and middle finger of his left hand. His chair was pushed a little back from the table and his right arm was draped around the back of his neighbour’s seat. He did not take much part in the discussion, but he seemed to exert a pull on the others. When he took a draw on his cigarette, he tipped his head back and exhaled a stream of smoke directly above him. Raymond found him loathsome.
At one point, he looked directly across the room at Raymond. Raymond immediately lowered his eyes, but he felt that he was being scrutinised. He turned a page of his book and forced himself to read a few lines. When he glanced through his fingers a few moments later, the guy had turned to the girl on his left and was whispering something in her ear.
Two or three of the other tables were now occupied. Johnny greeted each new arrival with something from his repertoire of American greetings. It was half past eight. As the bar filled up, Raymond began to feel less conspicuous. So what if Delph did not appear? He could drink a few beers and get the train home. I’ll be at Johnny’s on Saturday. It was a statement of fact rather than an invitation. Still, why would she have told him she would be there if she did not want to see him? Johnny had brought him a third beer. Raymond decided he would drink it slowly, then perhaps a final one, and leave. The last train to Saint-Louis was at 23:25. He had plenty of time.
He was halfway through this third beer when Delph walked in. She was wearing the same men’s jacket, pork-pie hat and sunglasses as before, but now with a short skirt and green and black striped tights. Her boots reached to just below the knee. Despite the darkness, she kept her sunglasses on. She walked straight to the group of students and greeted each of them in turn; a process that, due to the cramped space, took some time and was not achieved without logistical difficulty. A drink was upset, but this caused no particular consternation. Delph pulled up a chair, turned it so that the back was to the table, and straddled it. The centre of gravity of the group immediately shifted towards her. Johnny strolled over to the table, cloth in hand to mop up the spilled drink. Delph rose and greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks. He stood back to admire her outfit. Beneath her jacket, she was wearing an oversized men’s shirt, the cuffs of which hung loosely around her wrists. He took their orders and returned to the bar.
Raymond moved his chair around the table so that he was no longer facing Delph’s group. He hunched over his book. Clearly, Delph had entirely forgotten about him. She had not so much as glanced around the bar to see if he was there. If she did spot him, he would pretend he had been so immersed in his reading he had not seen her come in. He resolved to finish his beer, pay up and make his exit when the opportunity arose. After a few minutes he gestured to Johnny that he would like to settle his bill. To his dismay, however, the proprietor instructed his wife to pour another beer and brought it over. At this moment, Delph looked up from her conversation and followed Johnny’s progress across the room. Raymond stared fixedly at his book. Moments after Johnny had placed the fresh beer on the table, Delph made her way across the bar. Raymond feigned surprise at seeing her. She stood at his table with one hand on her hip, a puzzled expression on her face. She was wearing black lipstick.
‘So you came?’ she said. She did not seem displeased.
‘Yes,’ said Raymond.
‘What are you doing sitting over here? Why didn’t you join us?’
‘I didn’t see you.’ He brandished his book as though it was an exhibit in a trial.
Delph rolled her eyes. ‘Are you going to grace us with your presence or not?’
‘Sure,’ he said, as if the idea had not previously occurred to him. He gathered up his scarf and satchel. She took him by the wrist and led him across the bar. He was a little unsteady on his feet. He had never drunk three beers before. When they reached the table, Delph instructed her friends to shove up.
‘Everyone,’ she said, ‘this is—’ She then realised that she did not yet know his name. Raymond told her.
She then gestured vaguely towards the group. ‘This is . . . everyone.’ No one was the least bit interested in him. A girl reluctantly shuffled along. The sides of her head were shaved and she had a stud through her lower lip. Raymond thanked her and perched one buttock on the end of the bench. She smelled of patchouli.
‘I’m Raymond,’ he said.
The girl looked at him with a bored expression and returned to her conversation with her neighbour. She had a series of rings from the lobe to the top of her ear. Delph resumed her seat at the end of the table. She gave Raymond a look, intended to convey that he should not be perturbed by her friends’ rudeness.
Raymond found himself opposite the guy in the leather jacket. He had studiously dishevelled black hair and dark, hooded eyes.
‘So this is the guy that’s been following you?’ he said to Delph.
‘The very one,’ she replied.
Raymond did not know whether to be offended or pleased that he had at least merited mention.
‘This is Luc,’ said Delph.
Luc leaned back on his chair, so that the front legs tipped off the floor, and appraised Raymond. ‘He looks like a girl.’
‘I know.’ Delph seemed pleased by Luc’s observation. ‘A pretty girl.’ She reached out and stroked Raymond’s hair, before letting her hand rest on his shoulder. Raymond felt a frisson of excitement. Luc stared at him with an antagonistic expression. Raymond forced himself to hold his gaze. He took out a cigarette and lit it. Luc reached across and shook out a cigarette without asking. There were only four left.
Johnny appeared at the end of the table. He slapped Raymond on the shoulder. ‘Why didn’t you say you were a friend of Delph’s?’ He seemed offended by Raymond’s omission. He cleared the table. ‘Same again?’ he said.
‘Of course,’ said Delph.
Johnny nodded and returned to the bar.
‘Can you see anything through those glasses?’ Raymond asked.
‘Not much,’ said Delph. ‘They’re an affectation.’
She took them off and handed them to him. He put them on. The room darkened.
‘They suit you,’ said Delph.
He felt queasy, but the glasses allowed him to study Delph more closely. Her features were sharp and angular. Her eyes were thickly rimmed with mascara. He could see her clavicles where her shirt was open at the neck. She was almost completely flat-chested.
Delph glanced down. ‘It belonged to my father,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes?’ said Raymond, but Delph responded only with a series of unhurriedly blown smoke rings.
Johnny returned and placed a tray of drinks on the table. ‘Six tomates,’ he said as he passed them out.
Raymond lifted the spectacles to examine the contents of his glass. It was a lurid red. The group raised their drinks to the centre of the table. Someone made a toast to Johnny. The rhythm of the music seemed to be gathering pace. Raymond recognised the aniseed flavour of pastis.
‘Ricard and grenadine,’ said Delph, seeing him screw up his face.
‘It’s good,’ said Raymond. He took another sip to prove the point. His eyes lost focus for a few moments. He handed Delph’s glasses back to her. She folded them up and hung them on the cleft of her shirt. After the toast, there was a lull in the conversation. Delph announced to the company: ‘Raymond here is a disciple of Monsieur Sartre.’
Raymond protested that he was not a disciple of anyone, but no one seemed to hear him.
‘Ah, the squat toad of existentialism!’ declared Luc. He made himself go cross-eyed and puffed on an imaginary pipe. ‘Would you mind terribly, my dear Beaver, if I fucked your girlfriend?’ he said in a comic voice.
The girl next to Raymond laughed.
Luc leaned across the table. ‘But really,’ he said, ‘all that quest for freedom stuff’s a bit old hat, isn’t it?’
Raymond looked at him. The simplest thing would be to agree, to make some dismissive remark. But Delph was looking at him, expecting him to mount a defence. It was a test. ‘So you don’t want to be free?’ he said.
Luc shook his head. ‘That’s not the question,’ he said. ‘You’re either free or you’re not. Whether I want to be free has no bearing on the matter.’ He leaned back in his chair, as if this was the definitive statement on the matter and no argument could be entertained.
Delph cupped her chin in her hands. Because of her squint, it was difficult to tell whether she was looking at Raymond or Luc.
‘Tell me,’ she said to Raymond, ‘which character in your beloved book is the most free?’
‘Mathieu, I suppose,’ he said. He was about to explain his answer, but Delph was already shaking her head. Raymond felt like he had flunked a test at school.
‘Mathieu is the least free,’ she said. ‘He’s so busy analysing what it means to be free, he’s entirely enslaved.’ She held up a long index finger. ‘No, the freest character is Lola.’
‘Lola?’ Raymond repeated. Lola, the heroin-addicted nightclub singer.
‘Of course,’ said Delph. ‘She’s free because she makes no effort to be free.’
Raymond nodded earnestly. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ he said.
‘Looks like you’re going to have to read it all over again. In the meantime,’ she said, reaching for her glass, ‘I myself am free to drink as many tomates as I like.’
‘And you,’ Luc said to Raymond, ‘are free to clear off.’
‘Why don’t you clear off,’ Delph said to Luc.
Raymond, emboldened by the alcohol he had consumed and by the fact that Delph appeared to have taken his side, pointed across the table at Luc and said: ‘You, sir, are a second-rater!’
The six faces around the table stared at him blankly. The girl next to Raymond started to laugh, followed by Luc. Raymond felt the colour rise to his cheeks. It was a routine he had with Stéphane, who would retort: And you, sir, are a man of no account! But Raymond would only make himself seem more ridiculous if he explained that it was a snatch of dialogue from the very book they had ridiculed. Nevertheless, his silly comment served to lighten the atmosphere around the table.
Johnny arrived with another round of tomates. Delph leaned in close to Raymond. ‘Don’t worry about Luc,’ she whispered. ‘He’s always like that when he’s jealous.’
‘Jealous?’ said Raymond. The idea that he might be worthy of provoking jealousy in Luc thrilled him.
‘Well, he’s not as pretty as you, is he?’ she said. ‘And he’s never actually read a book in his life.’
Luc was watching them from across the table. Delph flashed him a smile, before turning back to Raymond. She was leaning in so close he could smell a faintly musky odour from her skin.
‘So what do you think of Johnny’s?’ she said.
‘It’s cool,’ he said.
She asked why she hadn’t seen him there before.
He was pleased that he might seem like the kind of person who would frequent such a place. ‘I’m not from here. I’m from Saint-Louis,’ he said by way of explanation.
Delph looked shocked. ‘Saint-Louis?’ she said. ‘I didn’t know anyone actually came from Saint-Louis. I thought it was some sort of transit camp.’
‘I am one of those unfortunates,’ said Raymond.
‘We’re all unfortunates here,’ she said.
Then she leant forward and kissed him on the mouth. Raymond did not resist, but he fully expected Luc to reach across the table and thump him at any moment. Delph clasped her hand around the back of his neck and angled her head so that their mouths were perpendicular. Raymond could taste the grenadine on her tongue. She smelt familiar, like his own sweat. The embrace lasted thirty seconds or a minute. When Delph released him, her lipstick was smudged around her mouth. Raymond wiped his own mouth with the back of his hand. It was smeared with black. He felt like he had emerged from underwater.
‘Later, we’ll go out the back,’ Delph whispered. Raymond swallowed hard. He tried not to think about what ‘going out the back’ might entail.
‘I should probably be going,’ he said. ‘I have to catch my train.’ He looked down at his watch but was unable to focus on the face.
‘Forget your train,’ said Delph. She stood up, tugging the hem of her skirt around her thighs as she did so. ‘I need to pee,’ she said.
Raymond nodded dumbly. He watched Delph make her way across the bar with her loping gait. She greeted a few of the other regulars as she passed. All the tables were now occupied, and a dozen or more men dressed in leather jackets were now standing around the bar. The hubbub of conversation competed with the music. Raymond swivelled on the bench to face the table. The motion of turning his head made him dizzy. He did not know if he could drink any more. The rest of the group were engaged in an argument about a musician he had never heard of. Luc was of the opinion that the person in question was a phoney.
‘You’re the phoney,’ said the girl with the heavily pierced ears.
‘I am a phoney,’ said Luc indifferently. ‘And so are you. We’re all phonies.’
Raymond held his watch in front of his face and screwed up one eye to read it. It was almost ten o’clock. He still had an hour or so. Forget your train, Delph had told him. It was easy to say, but he had no other way to get home. The idea of telephoning his mother and telling her he was drunk and stranded in Mulhouse was unthinkable, particularly as he had told her that he was spending the evening at Yvette’s. He clumsily grasped the glass on the table in front of him and took another sip of his tomate. It wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he should forget his train. He should abandon himself to whatever was to occur. That was what Lola would do.
Delph returned. She had repaired her smudged lipstick. Raymond also needed to use the WC, but he did not want to relinquish Delph to the general company. He started to say something but lost his thread after a few words. Delph did not seem in the least bit fazed by his inebriated state.
‘So, monsieur,’ she said, ‘you still haven’t told me what you were doing in Rue Saint-Fiacre.’
The question brought Raymond to his senses a little. He had quite forgotten the circumstances of their meeting. Perhaps he should simply tell her the truth. The story might make him seem interesting, intrepid even. Certainly a good deal more interesting than he actually was. But the truth would only invite questions about the circumstances of his father’s death, and Raymond had no more desire to discuss this than he did to telephone his mother.
All he could think of to say was: ‘I can’t tell you.’
‘So you’re just a guy who likes to follow strange girls in the street.’ She didn’t seem to particularly disapprove of such an activity.
Then he hit on what, at that moment, seemed a very reasonable explanation. He rummaged in his satchel and then, without raising it above the level of the table, brought out the knife. He pulled it slowly from its leather sheath. He glanced from the knife to Delph. Her eyes had widened. Raymond leaned in and whispered in her ear: ‘I stole it from the philatelist’s shop opposite your apartment.’
When he leaned back, Delph was wearing an expression of distaste. Luc was straining to see what they were looking at beneath the table. Raymond suddenly felt himself to be a wild and dangerous character. He grinned stupidly at her.
‘Why would you do something like that?’ she said.
Raymond was pleased that he had shocked her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. He shrugged, as if to suggest that it was the sort of thing he did all the time. ‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’
Luc stood up and craned his head across the table. With a rapid movement of his arm, Raymond brought the knife into view. Luc recoiled. He glanced around the room. People at other tables had looked up from their conversations. The music clattered on relentlessly. Raymond moved the blade to and fro so that it caught the light. He felt the need to do something dramatic. He remembered the scene in the Sumatra, Ivich’s hand laid open from the ball of the thumb to the root of the little finger. He stood up clumsily and pushed the blade against the heel of his left hand. A look of excitement passed across Delph’s face. Thankfully the blade was too blunt to pierce the skin. Raymond hesitated. Delph was staring at him, her mouth slightly open. He did not really want to cut himself, but he would look ridiculous if he did not go through with it. He felt a sudden grip on his wrist.
With a rapid movement Johnny twisted Raymond’s arm behind his back. Raymond thought for a moment he might break his arm. The knife dropped to the floor. Johnny drew his face close to Raymond’s. He was surprisingly strong.
‘We don’t like that sort of thing in here,’ he said. He released Raymond’s arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Raymond. Johnny gave a sharp nod, to indicate that this was an acceptable response. Then he returned to his post at the end of the bar. The other patrons had already returned to their conversations. The little incident did not seem to have aroused any great interest. Raymond sat down on the bench and massaged his wrist. He glanced up at Delph. She did not seem troubled by what had occurred.
Luc called him an asshole. Raymond looked at him evenly, then picked up the knife and put it in his satchel. He got up and walked unsteadily across the bar to the WC. He pushed through the swing doors and found himself in a passage that smelt of mould. A man in a sleeveless T-shirt with heavily tattooed arms was waiting for the toilet to be vacated.
‘You’ll get yourself in trouble waving knives around like that, kid,’ he said.
Raymond shrugged. A woman in her thirties came out of the WC. She gave Raymond a disapproving shake of her head as she squeezed past to return to the bar. The tattooed man went into the lavatory and urinated noisily without closing the door. At the end of the passage was a room stacked with crates of bottles and metal kegs. When the man had finished, Raymond went in and shut the door. It was secured by means of attaching a loop of string round a bent nail. He urinated, placing his hand on the wall to steady himself. Then he splashed cold water on his face and dried it with a filthy towel he found hanging on a hook by the toilet bowl. He pushed his hair behind his ears and looked at himself in the mirror above the basin. He felt strangely pleased with himself. Even Johnny had not seemed unduly put out by his behaviour. He would have been quite justified in throwing him out, but he had not even threatened to do so. When he unhooked the string on the door, Delph was standing in the passage smoking.