Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [19]
Big Brother fell silent.
Big Brother was born and grew up in Algeria, in Cirta.
When he was ten years old, his father, an immigrant he had never known, sent for them, his mother and him, to come live on the outskirts of Paris thanks to the new policy of family entry. Ever since then, he’d always felt exiled: Hence his excessive love for Dante and Joyce, his pantheon of the banished.
Above all, he was drawn to lives that had been ripped away from their childhood, broken by political events, wars, famine. Or simply alienated through an absence of attachment to the environment where they were born and grew up, a bit like Joyce fleeing Dublin, which had become too narrow for his genius. He himself felt that France had become a suit that restricted his movements; this explained his enlistment in the army at eighteen and then his flight to Italy, a copy of The Divine Comedyin the pocket of his khakis.
“To return to our conversation, you should know, Rachid, that Dante put men with no religion in Purgatory, that antechamber of Paradise. And do you know where Mohammed is, in The Divine Comedy?”
“No.”
“In hell! Even Averroës—Ibn Rushd to us—the second Master after Aristotle, is in Purgatory, ahead of our Prophet. You see, Rachid, you have to relativize things. Always relativize.”
Big Brother liked to talk. He would hold forth whether or not Rachid was following what he was saying. In fact, he kept himself somewhat aloof in the projects. He didn’t hang out with anybody and was utterly discreet about his little trips back and forth to Paris. Naturally he needed Rachid as a foot soldier, but the boy was kind of simpleminded: Only the neighborhood imam had any concern for him. The other kids his age made fun of him and kept him away from their business—making little deals, stealing motor scooters, taking night joyrides that let them extract a little pleasure from their sordid lives between the huge buildings of the project where the only flowers that sprouted from the asphalt were the ones they smoked at night when they hung out and bullshitted for hours.
Now they were walking down rue Dante. They reached boulevard Saint-Germain and took it toward boulevard Saint-Michel. They went into the McDonald’s at the intersection, waited a few minutes in front of the registers, and ordered two combo meals from the sexy student in a red apron. They walked upstairs with their sandwiches, fries, and drinks.
“The girl behind the counter, you think about what her pussy must smell like?”
“Rachid, I’ve already told you not to be vulgar.”
“She must smell of french fries and grilled meat. I wouldn’t want to stick my nose in it.”
“No one’s asking you to, you know.”
Rachid got out his cell and began tapping on the keys, which lit up and gave out musical notes as he typed.
“What the hell you doing?”
“Sending a text.”
“Who the hell to, for chrissake?”
“My lady.”
“You out of your head? We’re on a job here!”
“I ain’t gonna tell her where we are. She’s working too.”
“Where’s she work?”
“At the Quick on the Champs.”
“What about her? She smell of fries too, your Dulcinea?”
“Dulcinea? You raggin’ on me?”
“No. Or, if you prefer, yes. Show me the message you’re sending her.”
Miquette huny I digon u big i swair. Will call tonite. Mebbeur oldman take da dog out. We fuk inna seller. I eat urapricot. Take shower first. Kisses monamour.
“Rachid, that’s poetry! You should write more often. Mi-quette must be happy.”
“My Big Mac’s gonna get cold.” He pounced greedily on the two-story structure of bread and meat. He gulped it down with gusto, not forgetting to add the mushy, smelly fries. He drowned the whole thing in a quart of icy Coke. He punctuated the end of his meal with a resounding belch that made Big Brother flinch in disgust.
As for Big Brother, he hadn’t touched his tray. Ate like a bird, Big Brother. Skin and bones.