He replied impatiently: ‘Oh, it would take too long to explain, little bugger,’ leaving me none the wiser.
His chief hatred was reserved for monogamy.
‘This aberration that has to be got rid of, because it’s bound to become extinct.’
He had decided in quite an arbitrary fashion that no loving relationship should last for more than a month or two, maximum three, except in ‘special cases’. I was brave enough to ask him to explain this to me.
‘It depends on the girl. One day, you’ll understand. Never let it go on for more than three months. After that, you’ll be the one who gets fucked up.’
He dumped his girlfriends for the sake of their future happiness.
‘It’s unhealthy, don’t you see? We’re making a prison for ourselves.’
Pierre was always surrounded by two or three girls who followed him and listened to him as though he were the messiah. It took me a while to realize that they were his exes. Perhaps they hoped that he would change his mind? They did not seem to be jealous of the newest girl who had no idea that her time was limited and that she would soon be joining them on the wrong side of the bench. To listen to him, love was bullshit, marriage an ignominy and children just a dirty trick. In China, a spectacular revolution was taking place that would shatter the way mankind behaved by abolishing the dictatorial laws of the market and destructive male-female relationships. The elimination of feeling, the sweeping away of love had begun. We were going to be free of the secular tyranny of the couple. But even though he proclaimed the contrary, I believe he preferred women to revolution – and by a long way.
He maintained that, given what a mess the species had made of things, virtually all of mankind should be forbidden to reproduce. He hoped that scientific and biological progress would put an end to the reproductive anarchy of the foolish masses. On this point, his theory was in the process of elaboration. He had found a name for it. It would be called ‘Saint-Justisme’ in homage to the revolutionary and to his celebrated ‘No freedom for the enemies of freedom’. According to his fevered explanations, our ills stemmed from democracy, from the idiotic multitude being given the right to vote. He wanted to replace the republic of the masses by that of the wise. Individual liberty must be suppressed and replaced with a collective order in which only the most competent and the best educated could decide society’s future. He was counting on the free time he would have in Algeria to write an important and seminal book on the subject. He would use the opportunity given him by national service to try to find an alternative solution to the physical elimination of opponents, though he felt it might be difficult to achieve his aims without becoming another Stalin.
‘There may be other solutions to how to deal with the majority. But we won’t be able to avoid killing a whole load of them. To set an example.’
Pierre’s collection of rock’n’roll albums was unique. He owned records of all the American singers, without a single exception. Priceless imports. He was generous and would lend them without any hesitation. He had an advantage over us. He understood the words of the songs. In our case, we loved the music and the beat. We picked up one or two words here and there, but the meanings were lost on us and we couldn’t care less. While we listened to the songs he translated the words for us. At times, we found it hard to believe him: ‘Are you sure he’s talking about blue suede shoes?’
We were disappointed by the lyrics, and preferred for him not to translate them any longer. One day he talked to me about a new disc by Jerry Lee Lewis, his favourite singer. I went to his home to collect it and record it. I was expecting an attic room on the seventh floor without a lift, but he lived in a huge apartment on quai des Grands-Augustins, with a view over Notre-Dame. His drawing room alone was the size of our flat, and there were labyrinthine corridors which he strode along with perfect ease. When I went into raptures about the furniture, he told me: ‘It’s not mine, little bugger, it’s my parents’.’
He had a Schimmel grand piano, which he played wonderfully well. He put on the record, hurried over to the piano and had fun reproducing Jerry Lee’s trills at the same speed and with the same flair, but he didn’t sing as well as Lewis did.
Pierre had all the attributes bar one. He didn’t know how to play baby-foot and he was determined to learn. On the evening he bought me a shandy after my altercation with Franck, he insisted we should play a game. I teamed up with my brother. It was the first time we had played together. Pierre copied what his opponent did, which is a mistake. If you want to block your opponent, you move as little as possible. Franck played to the rules whereas Pierre played any old how and also used the rods to perform windmills, which is forbidden. He burst out laughing. The more I asked him to stop, the more he went on, and the more irritated I got, the more excited he became. He was beyond redemption as a player.
On the evening prior to his call-up, Pierre organized a surprise party with his pals. When he invited me, Franck responded for me: ‘The parents wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘Michel, you’re twelve years old!’
I tried the classic arguments: I would go and come back with Franck, I would return home early, before midnight, before eleven o’clock, before ten, I’d just go and come back. But there was nothing doing. My father, who usually supported me, made things worse. He had not been allowed out until he was eighteen. And what’s more in Baptiste’s day they were working. Seeing my disappointment, he comforted me: ‘Soon you’ll be able to, when you’re older.’
I did not press the point. After dinner, we sat down in front of the television. I pretended to be enjoying a ghastly variety programme. Franck left us at nine o’clock. My mother told him not to come home too late. I went to bed as though nothing were the matter. My mother came in to see me. Néron was asleep, rolled up in a ball against my leg. She glanced at my book, Zola’s La Faute de l’abbé Mouret. I began to talk to her about it enthusiastically. She was tired. She did not remember having read it. She advised me to go to sleep. I obeyed and switched off the light. She kissed me affectionately and left the room. I waited in the darkness. I got dressed again. I got back into bed. I waited, alert to the slightest noise. Silence reigned. Néron looked at me with his enigmatic expression. I got up, my ears pricked. The parents were asleep. From their bedroom, at the end of the corridor, I could hear my father snoring. I tiptoed past the kitchen. With the utmost care, I unlocked the door to the service stairs. I locked it again with the key. I put on my shoes on the landing. I walked down the staircase in the dark, crossed the deserted courtyard, then, like a cat, I slipped through the entrance hall, without the caretakers noticing me. I opened the entrance door. I waited for a few seconds. I left without looking back.
Paris at night. La belle vie! I felt ten years older, and light as a swallow. I was surprised by the mass of people in the street and in the bars. The boulevard Saint-Michel was packed. People seemed happy to be alive. I was frightened of being spotted. But nobody had noticed me. I looked older than my age. I could pass for a student like anyone else. I shoved my hands in my pockets and drew up the collar of my jacket. On quai des Grands-Augustins, the music could be heard from the pavement. Carl Perkins was waking up the early-to-beds. I rang the bell. A young woman I did not know opened the door. She was slim, with regular features, very short black hair, brown eyes opened wide in surprise, and a mocking smile. She stood aside to invite me in. I had scarcely set foot inside than Pierre walked over and made the introductions: ‘D’you know my sister, little bugger?’
I stammered.
‘Cécile, this is Michel, the best baby-foot player on the Left Bank. He’s like you. He never stops reading. Cécile is doing a literature degree. She adores Aragon, can you imagine? Aragon!’
Her smile grew wider. She turned and vanished into the crowd who were rocking away to ‘Hound Dog’.
‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’
Pierre put his hand on my shoulder and dragged me in, followed by two of his previous girlfriends as well as the current one, and introduced me as if I were his best friend. He reeked of alcohol and was smoking a Cuban cigar he had bought in Geneva. He spluttered smoke into my face. He offered me a fat cigar and a glass of whisky. I declined. One of his exes held the bottle in order to serve him as soon as he requested. He gazed at me solemnly.
‘I’m glad you came, Michel. May I ask you a favour?’
I swore that he could ask me anything. He was leaving for Algeria for a long time and did not know when he was coming back. Not for a year at least, perhaps longer. You could no longer go on leave in the city. He wanted to entrust a small treasure to me. According to him, I was the only person worthy of guarding it until his return. I protested: it was a heavy responsibility. He cut short my prevarications by laying his hand on two boxes of rock albums. Fifty-nine exactly. His American imports, acquired for a fortune. I stood there speechless and open-mouthed.
‘It would be a pity for no one to make use of them. I’ve no intention of playing the hero for the French army. It’ll give me time to write my book. I’ll get myself discharged at the first opportunity. In six months’ time, I’ll be home again. That’s my little plan.’
I wanted us to make a list of the albums he was lending me. It was pointless. He knew them by heart.
‘May I lend them to Franck?’
Pierre drew on his cigar, shrugged his shoulders and turned away. I pressed him.
‘Couldn’t care less!’
I caught up with him. I swore to him that he could trust me completely.
‘By the way, do you like science-fiction, little bugger?’
I was rather taken off guard. I wondered what he was driving at. I shook my head.
‘Do you know Bradbury?’
I had to confess my ignorance. He picked up a book, which he shoved in my pocket.
‘It’s the finest novel I’ve read. Straightforward, unfussy stuff.’
I froze, rooted to the spot by what I saw. In the midst of the intertwined couples, Cécile was dancing to a soppy Platters tune, pressed against Franck. They were kissing one another passionately. My gaze turned from the couple to Pierre, convinced that he was about to pounce on them and smash Franck’s face in. On the contrary, he appeared to be amused. I panicked: ‘Pierre, you mustn’t be angry with him.’
He had not heard and was yelling at the deejay: ‘We’re fed up with the slow stuff!’
He shook his finger vindictively at me: ‘In the new world, those who don’t dance to rock’n’roll will be executed!’
A lively rock’n’roll number broke the cocoon-like spell. Suddenly, Franck noticed me. He rushed over towards us, grabbed me by the arm and began shaking me roughly.
‘What the fucking hell are you doing here?’
Pierre stepped brusquely between us: ‘Leave him alone! Tonight, it’s party-time.’
Franck let go of me in a fury. Looking slightly anxious, Cécile joined us. Pierre completed the introductions. She turned towards Franck: ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’
He took her hand and dragged her off to dance. Pierre knocked back his glass and, with a far-away look in his eyes, murmured: ‘Nowadays, people speak to one another and they don’t say anything.’
I attended my first party rather as an entomologist might examine a colony of unknown ants. I sat on a stool, drinking a glass of vodka and orange that made me dizzy. In order to feel more confident, I accepted a yellow Boyard cigarette from the person beside me. The first drag exploded in my lungs. Franck took no notice of me. Cécile shot me occasional half-smiles. At around midnight, I decided to go home. Pierre was slumped on a sofa, dead drunk. Ought I to take his albums? He had made me this offer while he was semi-intoxicated. When he came down to earth, he might have changed his mind. I slipped away without anyone noticing.
I returned home by another route. With the same careful attention to detail as when I left, I opened the service door and stood on the landing, peering around. The flat was silent. The parents were asleep. Carrying my shoes, I walked into the kitchen, which was lit by the moon shining through the fanlight, I locked the door and, without making a sound, was on the point of returning to my bedroom when the light was switched on. My mother stood in front of me. Before I could make a move, a monumental smack caused me to whirl full circle, then my mother grabbed hold of me and laid into me. I was given the biggest hiding of my life. She hit me all the harder because she had been so frightened. She yelled and beat me and kicked me. I curled myself into a ball. It went on and on. She thumped me on the head so many times that I thought I was going to die. She also hit my father, who was trying to separate us. He had to use all his strength to prevent her from crippling me. He managed to control her and drag her away. She was hysterical.
‘Think of the neighbours!’ he yelled.
She calmed down. He hurled me into my bedroom. The door slammed shut. My mother was wailing about the ingratitude of men in general and of her sons in particular. My father kept on telling her that it didn’t matter. Eventually silence was restored. My heart was pounding away, my cheeks were on fire and my bottom ached. I lay there in the dark recovering my breath. I waited for sleep that never came. In spite of the thrashing and the punishments that would follow, I did not regret a single moment of the escapade. I felt in my pocket for the novel that Pierre had given me. I turned on my bedside light: Fahrenheit 451. It was not a long book. It had not been damaged by my mother’s fury. Various passages had been underlined by Pierre. I started to read at random:
… I plunk the children in school nine days out of ten. I put up with them when they come home three days a month; it’s not bad at all. You heave them into the ‘parlour’ and turn the switch. It’s like washing clothes; stuff laundry in and slam the lid… Better to keep it in the old heads, where no one can see it or suspect it… Why, there’s one town in Maryland, only twenty-seven people, no bomb’ll ever touch that town, is the complete essays of a man named Bertrand Russell…
Certain paragraphs had been annotated, but Pierre’s spidery scrawl was illegible.
6
The weeks that followed were tedious. I became a sort of pariah. The family and the neighbours gave me sideways looks, as though I were a delinquent. Maria, normally so friendly, glared at me as if I had spat on the Cross. Old Mother Bardon, the caretaker of the building, regarded me with a pained expression. Her husband, an usher at the Paris City Council, took the liberty of making comments in my mother’s presence such as: ‘You’ll have to take care to wipe your feet on the doormat, young man, you’ve got to respect other people’s work.’
My mother backed him up: ‘Monsieur Bardon’s right, Michel, you don’t respect anything.’
I was more irritated by the jibes from this Poujadist than I was by the many restrictions I had to endure. (I took my revenge. Every time I noticed any dog shit, I deliberately stepped on it and then wiped my feet on his doormat.) On Thursdays, I was not allowed to watch television and had to spend the whole evening doing homework in my bedroom. If I displayed the slightest urge to disobey orders, Maria had been told to phone my mother immediately, which resulted in my being bawled at and given official warnings. I made my situation worse by refusing to admit I was to blame or to look downcast. The small amount of freedom I had obtained had disappeared. Once again I became a child whose mother took him to school and came to collect him. In a panic, I asked my father to intercede. He hesitated and changed his mind several times before remarking in a half-convinced way: ‘That’s the way it is and that’s the way it’s going to be.’
My mother would not allow anyone else the job of tightening the screw on me. She had decided to take charge of my education. But if you are going to educate someone, it takes two of you, and I was determined not to play my part. My father had suggested he pick me up in the evenings as he often came home before her. He was given a categorical refusal and did not pre
ss the matter any further. Franck pleaded my cause. Because of the bad company he kept, she considered him as being partly responsible, and she put him in his place. Behind her artificial smile, she ran the household as she did the Delaunay business: as an energetic woman who was used to being obeyed. For a while, I had hopes that her schedule would prevent her coming along when classes were over, but she arranged with the principal that I should stay behind studying until seven o’clock. The baby-foot and the pals were over. I did not work any harder. I took the opportunity to read. Because I had no other choice, I made use of the school library, which was pathetic, consisting solely of books given as end-of-year prizes.
Pierre’s book enthralled me. Reading Bradbury prompted me to embark on a trial of strength. You’ve got to know how to resist, not to compromise or give in or accept the dominance of force as inevitable. The decision was obvious and simple: I would stop speaking. To anybody. This would be my way of punishing them. I took refuge in a protective silence and I answered in mumbles. When I left school at the end of the day, my mother would be waiting for me in the car, and I would get in without replying to her questions about what I had done during the day. The short journey took place in a wonderfully weighty silence. I went to the table and sat down there with my eyes glued to my plate, experiencing pleasure at the awkwardness I was creating. I left the table without any warning and rushed off to my bedroom without appearing again.