In the Arab living room, Céline is lying on the benches against the wall, like a recumbent effigy. Kadija speaks to her gently, offers her some tea. But she would have to sit up for that. “What did your mother say?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
“Nothing at all. She just wants to know who it is.”
“And your father?”
Céline looks down. She doesn’t want to talk about her father. Since he found out, she’s been frightened of him. “He won’t even talk to me any more. He acts like I don’t exist then suddenly looks at me like he’s never seen me before, like it’s not me. Jo’s the only one who isn’t judging me. Not that you can ever tell what she’s thinking…”
Saïd’s mother strokes Céline’s hair. She pushes her dark, dry fingers into the thick texture, rubbing the scalp. She shakes her head and makes little clicking sounds with her tongue. “Naturally. I want to know, too.”
“What time is Saïd coming back?”
Kadija’s silence makes Céline dodge the caresses and slowly sit up, her hands flat on the plastic cover of the bench. She looks at her intently and smiles broadly. “It’s not Saïd, I swear.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Céline grows sullen, like a little girl.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My son needs a good girl.”
“And you have no respect for me?”
Kadija fiddles with the teapot, takes the lid off and energetically crushes the leaves at the bottom with a spoon. “Look, Céline, I’ve seen you every day for sixteen years, I work for your grandfather and you’ve been playing with my son since kindergarten: you’re like my own daughter…”
She goes no further, but there is a but hovering between them: resolute and irrevocable. Céline thinks about Sonia, who changes her clothes on the bus on her way to school, swaps her Decathlon sweatshirts for strapless tops, and wishes she could tell on her. Her mouth is burning with the urge to come out and say that she’s fed up with the hypocrisy. That Kadija may not wear the veil on her head but she has one nice and thick over her eyes. She bites her lip. “In any case, Saïd doesn’t give a shit about me, and he’s not my type either, see.”
Kadija sighs and assesses the damage to Céline’s face. “It’ll be all right. It always turns out all right in the end.”
“You talking about my face or my life?”
The woman bursts into a velvety, warm, toothy laugh. “Both, my girl.”
Céline grimaces and touches the bridge of her nose with her fingertips. Every morning, she goes through the same process to look good: powder, blusher, black eyeliner along the edge of the eyelashes. “You think I’ll be attractive afterwards?”
“After what?”
“After my nose heals. I hope it won’t stay crooked.”
Kadija strokes Céline’s belly with her eyes. “Is everything else OK?”
Céline frowns. It takes her a few seconds to understand. She looks down at her belly then rolls her eyes – it’s all so over the top. A game of gestures, a constant comedy. “I have trouble zipping up my jeans, you know. I’m going to have to buy fatty sizes if this carries on.”
Kadija watches as Céline writhes about trying to see her own bottom, then crosses her legs and smiles again. “You should go home, Céline. I’ll tell Saïd to come and see you, if you like.”
“But —”
“The children will be back soon, and I have to take care of them.”
Céline sulks at being kicked out, however gently. For weeks now, she’s been dragging her cute behind and her bruises to the neighbours’ living room. Maybe partly to piss off her father, who doesn’t like Arabs. But one thing’s for sure: she’s always sorry to have to go home. It stinks of reproach and shame there. Not to mention the fact that her father’s slaps keep flying about. He crossed the line with his first thrashing. If he didn’t kill her with his fists, his open hand across her face can’t do her much harm. And when his mates come over for a drink, Céline disappears into her room. No showing off her slender thighs, her soft breasts or her slightly rounded belly. Her father doesn’t like it.
“Get on with it,” he always spits. “I’m sure you have something to do in your room, so don’t embarrass me.”
Her father’s never been easy, but this is something else. You’d think she’d done it just to piss him off. He’s suddenly looking ten years older, snarling like a pit bull, brow knitted over threatening eyes. So when she arrives home after Kadija’s booted her out, and finds him chatting to Patrick, she hides behind her hair, pulls in her stomach and goes straight upstairs. The two men follow her with their eyes, saying nothing. Halfway up she stops, briefly looks at Patrick, then slices through the silence with a nervous voice: “Saïd’s dropping by later.”
She resumes climbing the stairs and shuts herself in her room. Headphones on, the music on max, she hugs her duvet the way you embrace a body or a security blanket. Céline rocks a little, with the light in her eyes. The heat’s still stifling. She should have closed the shutters during the day, so the room would be cooler, but this morning she forgot. The paulownia branches reach out as far as her windows. She looks at the deep purple panicles, rotting already, stuck to the wood. It makes her feel a little queasy. She imagines they must be talking about her downstairs. Maybe calling her a tart. She turns up the sound even more, gets up and dances in front of the mirror. She sways her hips slowly: she’s still OK face-on, but in profile she’s already screwed; the inhabited bulge has transformed her figure. She’s not going to cry.
Downstairs, Patrick shakes his head. He doesn’t look at his friend, no doubt to avoid making him feel uncomfortable, and that’s even worse. He stares at his beer, at his calloused fingers, the lemon-yellow sofa, the table legs, the porcelain ashtray, the picture on the sideboard: the one in which he’s posing with his mate on the way back from a building site with Céline in his arms – she’s four and a half, his large hard hat on her little head. He squints, sighs to make a sound in this oppressive silence, clenches his fists for good measure and presses them into his thighs as though they’re about to start a fight there and then.
“Who’s Saïd?”
“The neighbour. A childhood friend. Don’t worry, it can’t be him.”
“Oh, really? And how can you be sure?”
“She’s my daughter.” The father has a little fit of pride. Don’t push it.
“You can’t trust a fucking Arab,” Patrick adds.
“It’s not him, I tell you.”
“You gonna sit there and wait for the little bundle of joy to arrive so you can see who it looks like?”
The father sits up; his eyes are bloodshot. Lack of sleep and anger. “Actually, you’re right. I don’t know.”
The poison acts, reaching deep into his brain. It soils everything and everybody, sticky like the giant paulownia leaves. Manuel pictures faces smashed by his fists, even hears the sound of cartilage breaking against his fingers. But the faces are blurred, many and nameless. He longs to fight – constantly and with everybody.
They’ve been working on a new building site for the past two days. It’s a villa between Gordes and Bonnieux: an extension of the house, enlarging the pool, putting in a summer kitchen, a garden pond and an outbuilding for guests. The banal luxury of an area stuffed with idyllic enclaves, where there are as many private swimming pools as cicadas. All with stone cladding, naturally. Because, of course, they have taste. The owner says she didn’t want it to take too long, you see, her daughter’s getting married in August, so she’ll have guests. With a little tinkling laugh, she went back into the house, with eight eloquent pairs of eyes glued to her buttocks. Not sure about the daughter, but they wouldn’t have sneezed at the mother. Rich bitch, Manuel said through his teeth.
It just wouldn’t go away. No. Fighting. All the time, with everybody.
Saïd picks this very moment to knock on the open door: “It’s me. I’ve come to see Céline and Jo.”
He comes through the plastic curtain and smiles at the two men sitting at the table. A red strip sticks to his hair. He pauses before the two men’s look and their brutish body language.
“Clear off,” the father grunts. “Céline’s not here.”
“What is it you want with her?” Patrick adds.
Saïd freezes and his smile turns into a grimace. He’s eighteen and proud as a rooster, but his gut tells him the terrain is against him. He doesn’t insist. “I’ll come back later.”
“No point. I don’t want to see you hanging around my daughter, is that clear?”
The young man steps back even though the other two haven’t moved from their chairs. He leaves without a word, while Céline’s father yells once again so he can hear him from the street: “Did you hear that, you little shitface? Did you get that? I see you here again, you’re dead!”
Fighting. All the time, with everybody.