And Their Children After Them Read online

  “This is so lame.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I dunno.”

  They stayed like that for a while, taking turns toking, not doing anything except thinking, while the fan dispersed the smoke. They looked at each other, sweaty and on edge.

  “For once we have a thing to do.”

  “Yeah, but my dad’ll tear me a new one if I touch his ride.”

  “That chick is something else, though.”

  “I just can’t do it, I’m telling you.”

  Anthony was feeling upset. His cousin knew how to get to him.

  “What’s the worst that could happen to you? Nine chances out of ten, he’ll never even notice. He doesn’t give a shit about that bike anymore.”

  That was partly true. Anthony’s father didn’t want to hear about the motorcycle. It brought back too many memories, things he’d given up, things that felt like his freedom. Not that this changed the prohibition; quite the contrary. Absentmindedly, Anthony touched his right eyelid. He’d gotten some smoke in his eye.

  “What do you really want?” asked his cousin.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve never gone out with a chick.”

  “Sure I have!”

  “Oh, your story about the back of the bus, give me a break. And the Glassman girl, you bored us with her for two years, and in the end: diddly squat.”

  Anthony felt his throat tighten. He’d thought about that girl constantly from fourth grade till the end of seventh. In class he always tried to sit closest to her. During gym, he gazed at her with the eyes of a beaten dog. From the radio, he made mixtapes dedicated to her: Scorpions, Daniel Balavoine, Johnny Hallyday. He’d gone so far as to ride his bicycle around her neighborhood. But in the end, he hadn’t even dared ask if she wanted to go out with him. Cyril Medranet, the math teacher’s son, eventually scored with her. Anthony wanted to smash his face in but had to settle for swiping his backpack and tossing it into the Henne. He’d gotten over her. She was a bitch, anyway.

  “Well, I guess that’s that.”

  His cousin took a last drag and stubbed out the joint, then turned on the Mega Drive. It was all over. Anthony could’ve wept.

  “Oh, fuck it all!”

  He jumped off the bed, ran out of the room, and sprinted down the stairs. He’d rather risk a beating than face yet another evening getting wasted and playing Sonic while girls were drinking, being picked up, and letting other tongues play with theirs. Having made up his mind, he raced toward home on his BMX. But at the end of the street he saw Carine and Vanessa coming back from Derch with shopping bags full of longneck beers. They were in his way, so Anthony slowed, then put a foot down.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “What’s your hurry?”

  “Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  Vanessa lifted his chin. She and Carine both wore their hair long, with one strand held back with a barrette. They were wearing tank tops, short shorts, and flip-flops, and they smelled of coconut oil. A gold chain glittered at Vanessa’s ankle. Anthony noticed that his cousin Carine wasn’t wearing a bra. She was a good size 36C, which he knew from snooping in her bedroom when she wasn’t there.

  “So where are you going?” repeated Vanessa, trapping the BMX’s front wheel between her legs to keep him from leaving.

  “Home.”

  “So soon?”

  “What’re you gonna do?”

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing…”

  Anthony felt himself blushing. He lowered his eyes again.

  “You little perv! You want to see if I have a tan line?”

  Vanessa showed him the lighter skin on her hip. Anthony backed away to free his wheel.

  “I have to be going.”

  “Come on, don’t do your little faggot number.”

  Carine, who had already started drinking one of the beers, stood behind him, giggling. But she came to his rescue anyway.

  “It’s okay. Leave him alone.”

  She took another swig of beer, and some of the liquid glistened on her chin. Anthony tried to free himself again but Vanessa wouldn’t let him go.

  “Oh, Anthony,” she simpered, touching his cheek with her palm. Her hand felt surprisingly cool, especially the fingertips. It made him feel all strange. She smiled at him, then burst out laughing.

  “All right, get out of here.”

  He turned tail and fled.

  Anthony could feel their eyes on his back for a moment, and ran the stop sign before turning onto rue Clément-Hader. It was completely empty at this time of night and ran steeply to downtown. On the horizon, the sky had taken on exaggerated colors. Feeling exalted, he let go of the handlebars and spread his arms. The speed whipped the sides of his tank top. He closed his eyes for a moment, the wind whistling in his ears. Anthony flew straight downhill through this half-dead town, weirdly built on a hillside and under a bridge. He felt all shivery and was very, very young.

  3

  Anthony immediately recognized old man Grandemange’s laugh. The neighbors were probably having a drink with his parents on the patio. He walked around the house to join them. The Casati house was one story high with nothing around it except a dying lawn, where the boy’s footsteps made a sound like crunching paper. Fed up with weeding and maintaining it, Patrick Casati had doused everything with Roundup. Ever since, he’d been free to watch Grand Prix racing on Sundays in peace. Along with Clint Eastwood movies and The Guns of Navarone, that was pretty much all that could soothe his heart. Anthony didn’t have much in common with his dad, but at least they had that: television, motorsports, and war movies. Sitting in the darkened living room, each in his own corner, was the most intimacy they allowed themselves.

  Anthony’s parents had just one ambition their whole lives: to ultimately have their own house. And for better or worse, they had succeeded. Only twenty years of mortgage payments remained before they really owned it. The walls were Sheetrock, and the roof was sloped, as in any place where it rains half the time. In the winter, electric heating produced a little warmth and phenomenal bills. Aside from that, they had two bedrooms, an eat-in kitchen, a leather sofa, and a sideboard with embroidered linens. Anthony felt at home there, most of the time.

  “Hey, it’s the handsomest of them all!”

  Évelyne Grandemange spotted him first. She’d known Anthony since he was little. He had even taken his first steps in their driveway.

  “To think that he took his first steps in our driveway,” she said now.

  Her husband confirmed this with a nod. The Grappe housing development was more than fifteen years old now. It was sort of like living in a village. Anthony’s father looked at his watch.

  “Where were you?”

  He said he’d spent the afternoon with his cousin.

  “I stopped by the Schmidts’ this morning,” said his father.

  “I finished everything before I left.”

  “Yes, but you forgot your gloves. Come and sit down.”

  The grown-ups were sitting on folding chairs around a plastic garden table. They were working on Picon-bières, except for Évelyne, who was drinking port.

  “You smell like mud,” remarked Anthony’s mother.

  “We went swimming.”

  “I thought you said it was disgusting there, with all that sewer water. You’re gonna get pimples.”

  “It won’t kill him,” said Patrick.

  “Go on, get yourself a chair,” said Hélène.

  As a joke, Luc Grandemange waved Anthony over to sit on his lap, slapping his thigh.

  “Give it a try, it can take it.”

  The man was a good six feet tall, with hands hard as wood that were missing three fingertips. To hunt, he used a specia
l rifle with a trigger he could pull with his ring finger. He was a compulsive joker who wasn’t especially funny. Anthony knew a lot of guys like that, who told jokes more to be social than anything else.

  “Thanks, but I’m not staying.”

  “Where are you off to?”

  Anthony turned to his father, whose face had stiffened. When that happened, the skin tightened and looked like rather handsome suede.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” answered Anthony.

  Luc intervened:

  “Leave him alone, he’s on vacation.”

  Anthony’s father sighed. Back in the day, Patrick Casati and Luc Grandemange had worked at the Rexel warehouse, shortly after the blast furnaces shut down. They were part of a group of men who retired voluntarily and took the training program to become forklift operators. At the time, it seemed like a good opportunity; driving forklifts all day long almost felt like playing a game. But since then, Patrick had had problems. He lost his job and his driver’s license the same day, and for the same reason. He was able to get his license back after six months of administrative hassles and a spell in rehab with the Croix Bleue. But work was scarce in the valley, and he finally decided to start his own business. He bought an Iveco dump truck, a mower, tools, and some coveralls with his name embroidered on the front. Nowadays he did small jobs here and there, mainly paid under the table. In good months he could bring in four or five thousand francs. With Hélène’s salary, they mostly made ends meet. Summer was the busy season, and he’d pressed Anthony into service mowing lawns and cleaning swimming pools. The help was especially useful when he had a hangover. Anthony had had to trim the shrubs at Dr. Schmidt’s place that morning.

  His father finally took a beer from the cooler at his feet, opened it, and held it out to him.

  “All he thinks about is going out.”

  “It’s his age,” said Luc philosophically.

  Grandemange’s T-shirt revealed some of his belly, a pale, fairly revolting mass. He was already getting up to give Anthony his chair.

  “Here, sit for a second. Talk to us.”

  “He’s gotten even taller, hasn’t he?” said Évelyne.

  Hélène insisted in turn that Anthony stay for a while. The house wasn’t a hotel, she reminded him. With every second that passed, he was missing a little of the Drimblois party.

  “Whatever did you do to your hand?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Did you disinfect it?”

  “I told you, it’s nothing.”

  “Go get yourself a chair,” said his father.

  Anthony looked at him. Thinking about the motorcycle, he obeyed. His mother followed him into the kitchen. He would have to endure a swab with rubbing alcohol and a bandage.

  “Don’t bother, it’s nothing.”

  “I have a cousin who lost a finger that way.”

  His mother was always coming out with edifying anecdotes like that: carelessness turned tragic, bright futures cut short by leukemia. Over time, it had practically become a philosophy of life.

  “Here, let me see.”

  He displayed his bandaged hand; it was perfect. They could go back onto the patio.

  There, they drank a toast, and Évelyne started asking him questions. She wanted to know how things were at school, and how he was spending his vacation. Anthony answered evasively, and she listened with a benevolent, nicotine-stained smile. She’d brought two packs of Gauloises for the evening. Whenever there was a pause in the conversation you could hear her breathing, a hoarse, familiar whistle. Then she would light a fresh cigarette. At one point Anthony’s father wanted to drive a big wasp away that was buzzing around the Apéricube wrappers. When it wouldn’t leave, he fetched an electric fly zapper. This produced a bzzt! sound, a burnt smell, and a wasp on its back.

  “That’s really disgusting,” said Hélène.

  Patrick’s only response was to down his Picon and take another beer from the cooler. He and the neighbor started to talk about the accident that had just happened in Furiani. Grandemange said he didn’t find the carnage especially surprising. He’d seen what Corsicans were like on jobsites, he said with a laugh. As they often did, they talked about soccer, Corsicans, and ragheads. Évelyne moved away; she didn’t like it when her husband got started with that kind of talk. It must be said that the cops’ recent misadventures had rattled the development. The ZUP housing project wasn’t that far away. People could already imagine Arabs in hoodies setting cars on fire, like in Vaulx-en-Vélin. Luc and Patrick couldn’t help pointing out the growing danger, with themselves as the last line of defense.

  “You’re the one who ought to go over there,” said the big man, gesturing to Anthony with his chin.

  “We have problems with those people all the time,” said his father.

  “When I was a volunteer with the fire department, we had calls to the ZUP. Little ragheads no taller than this would try to swipe the keys to our truck.”

  “So what then?”

  “Then nothing; we put out the fire. What could you do?”

  “That was your mistake.”

  They laughed, but not Anthony, who had stood up so he could slip away.

  “Where are you going?”

  This time it was Hélène, his mother, who stopped him.

  “I’ve gotta go.”

  “Who with?”

  “My cousin.”

  “Did you see Irène?”

  The sisters hardly saw each other anymore. Some business over a mortgage on the house Irène occupied that the sisters had inherited. Money problems, as usual.

  “Yeah.”

  “So how is she?”

  “I don’t know, fine.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I told you, fine.”

  “Oh, all right. Go on then, if you’re going to be unpleasant.”

  His father didn’t stir. He and Luc were already pouring themselves fresh glasses of Picon. At nightfall, their anger was fraternal, and they fed it by staying close, complicit, and fierce.

  Anthony took advantage of this to go to his bedroom, which was much less cool than his cousin’s. His father had found him a bunk bed plastered with Panini stickers, pictures of French and Argentinean soccer players, and one of Chris Waddle wearing an OM Marseilles jersey. For a desk, Anthony used a board on sawhorses. He didn’t even have his own chair, which made doing homework hard. Plus, there were always people in the house: an uncle, friends, or a neighbor over for a drink. He started searching his closet for something to wear. He couldn’t find anything better than black jeans and a white polo shirt. It was size L, with “Agrigel” on the pocket. If he hadn’t spent all his money at the county fair and at the Metro, he might be able to afford some decent clothes. Truth be told, he’d never much worried about his wardrobe up to now. But he’d recently noticed conversations at school taking an unusual turn. Guys now lusted after Torsion running shoes or a Waikiki T-shirt. As Anthony contemplated his pathetic reflection in the mirror, he vowed to start saving money.

  * * *

  —

  The motorcycle was in its usual place in the back of the garage, wedged behind an old ping-pong table. After carefully folding the tarp covering it, Anthony inhaled the pleasant smell of gasoline and ran his hand over the studded tires. It was a red and white 1982 Yamaha YZ, bearing the number 16. His father had done some racing, once. When he was in a good mood, he let Anthony drive it around the neighborhood. Hélène didn’t like it. Motorcycle riders all wound up crumpled on ambulance gurneys; you didn’t need to be a statistician to know that. But Anthony had motorcycling in his blood; even his father said so. When he went through the gears or leaned into turns, he was in his element. He was sure to have his own bike someday. In his head, this obsession was mixed up with images of the seaside, sunsets, girls in bathing suits, and Aerosmith songs.

/>   Anthony rolled the Yamaha through the darkness, taking care not to bump into his mother’s Opel. As he cautiously opened the garage door, a voice brushed the back of his neck.

  “I was pretty sure I heard some noise in here.”

  His mother was outside, smoking a cigarette. He could see her framed in the door against the dark blue of the evening sky. She had a sweater draped across her shoulders, her arms crossed. She was staring into space.

  His hands on the handlebars, Anthony didn’t say anything. He thought of Stéphanie and felt a little like weeping.

  His mother dropped her cigarette and crushed the butt under her leather clog.

  “Did you think what kind of a scene your father would make for us over this?”

  Hélène had stepped closer and Anthony could smell her: a mix of cold tobacco, lime shampoo, sweat, and the liquor she had drunk. He promised to be careful. He was begging her.

  “You know, honey…”

  She was standing very close now, swaying. The light from the overhead fixture fell on her thighs, tracing a single bright line in the darkness along her leg and shin. She moistened her thumb and rubbed something off Anthony’s cheek. He pulled away.

  “What?”

  She seemed to be elsewhere.

  “I was your age when we lost Mom,” she continued.

  She put her forearms on her son’s shoulders and clasped her hands behind his neck.

  “Life isn’ always fun, you know.”

  Anthony kept quiet. He hated this kind of conversation, when his mother looked for excuses, for allies.

  “Mom, please…”

  “What?”

  After a moment of indecision, she kissed him on the cheek, while almost falling down. She seemed wobbly, and just barely caught herself on the wall. This made her laugh. A kid’s laugh, high and brief.

  “I think I overdid it a lil’ bit. Hurt myself, too.”

  She brought the finger she’d scraped on the cement to her mouth. She sucked the blood, inspected the finger, then put it back in her mouth, smiling.