23

ALICE

AT THE VERY BEGINNING of the seventies, Abdouwahid Egueh, aka Vic Lebleu, aka Victor or more commonly the Guy from Lille because he almost became the first soccer player of the Territory sent to France, had only played two seasons for the club of the big northern city, which was then in the Second Division. Perseverance was not his strong point, so he came back home in secret. Needless to say, Wahid, the Unique, was not up to the hopes that had been placed on him. However, between Lille and him there was a wild love story, at least at the start. But that wasn't all: his trip to the other world gave him a laid-back attitude that became legendary. Vic Lebleu is a new man now, blathering away on Triton Beach night and day, spending most of his time on Plateau du Héron, neglecting the family house in District 4. A gang leader with no other authority than his good humor, he hangs around with Chiné (the Chinese, a little thug) and his friends, killing time in front of the Clochard (Tramp) Stand, a stone's throw from the Olympia cinema. He brags about his ability to move effortlessly through all social milieus—not just the expatriates he's after all year long—and speaks, in addition to his French peppered with swearwords and Lille slang, the three languages currently used in this part of the world. Late at night, Vic and Chiné's whole gang meet at the Mic-Mac, a shady spot but very popular in the capital, something between a dance hall, a nightclub, and a hangout for whores. On the dance floor Vic wiggles his hips, with honeyed eyes and catlike steps. With his laughs, ramblings, and easy gab, he's the king of the dance floor, a pasha reigning over his little sultanate, Sinbad sailing between the scent of tobacco and hops. And yet a perceptive eye will probably sense his vulnerability. Very grave things are said about him. He's said to be an agent provocateur in the pay of the secret services. When he got back from Lille he was taken over by very sure hands. If you wanted to take the trouble to look for his umbilical cord, you'd find it around District 4 or Einguela. His almost perfect knowledge of the field is not something to be overlooked in these uncertain times. His encyclopedic cackling about the underworld, marked by what he has skimmed from rumors, can be useful. Ferdinand Valombreuse, Aref's shadowy right-hand man and an expert in dirty work, ran into him a few times in the officers’ mess hall on Boulevard de Gaulle and can attest to it. They looked each other up and down for a long time. In the soft languor of a muggy afternoon, they clinked their glasses of Heineken together. Vic's face took on an auriferous glow, and Valombreuse, with a 180-degree smile, left the premises to go about the business he had set for himself that day.

The first mission they gave Vic was child's play. He had to find two or three house painters and whitewash the blood-covered walls of the Teacher Training College after the student revolt mentioned above. Once the work was over, he would leave his usual signature or more exactly his initials (VL for Vic Lebleu) in the corner of one of the walls, the way a Renaissance painter might sign his stained glass windows. More prosaically, this signature is a cabbalistic sign for men in the secret services.

Vic joined their stable at an early age. He admired their crafty style and above all flipped at their risky games and their taste for bling-bling. You can easily follow their route at regular times in the upper city. Omar Bashé and Gourmad Robleh, the excellent sleuths on the vice squad fresh from police school at the École Nationale in Villeurbanne do exactly that, but discreetly. Towards four PM they leave Triton Beach. At five, they have sodas and cans of beer in a dark bar run by an Ethiopian exprostitute. The hand moves around the clock once more and they're taking the air near the industrial port, opposite the Coca-Cola bottling plant. At eight, they're strolling along the coast road, built at the exact spot of the present Route de Venise (a gift from Italian Cooperation) always two by two, three hundred yards apart from each other, stopping to smoke a cigarette, quicken their step or on the contrary slow down. They pass by soldiers in tracksuits trotting along on their way back to the naval base on Heron Island. The draftees, noisier than a kindergarten hive, don't hesitate to provoke them from a distance. All winks, chuckles, and sighs. Vehicles with the insignia of Air Detachment 188 slow down as they reach the swampy zone. Stares coming from all sides, coupled with little nervous laughs. The mares waddle along, let themselves be desired. A new moon shiny as a twenty-franc piece is beginning to glimmer in the coal-black sky. From time to time, the headlights of a civilian car shoot out of the bottleneck of the port; the mares slow down and make themselves very visible on the sidewalk under the halo of the lampposts. Playing at innocent games, they suck a Miko ice cream bar they'd bought previously or lick a cone, their faces turned towards the peaceful sound of the sea.