Paris Noir - Aurelien Masson [38]
We find ourselves at the place of a friend of his. He’s having a party in a big, completely renovated loft near rue Crozatier. I sprawl out for an hour on a leather couch with a bottle of rum in my hand. I’m flying, until I go vomit somewhere. I can sense the friend’s been kicking up a fuss. Marco tells him to calm down and we walk out.
Car at the shore of the lake in the Bois de Vincennes, outside the city. Day’s dawning. Drunkenness going slowly away, giving way to beatitude. The sound of water. The sound of steps. The sound of urban silence. Marco in front of me. Suddenly he stops. “Look!” A field mouse, at the edge of the water. Marco grabs an old piece of wood lying there. He walks forward, stops, then starts to hit the poor beast. The surprised mouse bursts into pieces. Marco keeps going. “What are you doing?” No answer. He keeps hitting. Again and again. Then I understand we don’t belong to the same world anymore. Our minds have grown apart. Finally he stops. He’s breathing heavily. “Want to go home to bed?” “Yes!”
On the way back, the question. The question I didn’t dare ask. “You didn’t get into trouble?” “About what?” “Ten years ago.” “No! Nothing. I forgot all about that business.” “I didn’t forget it.” “You were wrong. And you shouldn’t’ve left. Nothing happened.” “We had no idea. And leaving was good for me. I don’t know what would have become of me if I had stayed here.”
6.
Marco calls me up. “What’re you doing tonight?” “Nothing, nothing much.” “I’m taking you along. I’ll come by and pick you up around 10.” “That late?” “Yeah.” He hangs up.
I spend the end of the day with Mom. She needs help wallpapering her bedroom. She was hesitant. I advised her to do it. “Your father liked this wallpaper.” “My father died over fifteen years ago.” “Yes, that’s true.”
Around 10 p.m. I hear a car honking. I lean out. Marco is sticking his head out of a dark BMW. He waves to me. I go downstairs. “You make enough to afford this thing?” “No. It’s a loan. Get in!” I get inside the machine. He puts a CD on at top volume and the bass makes everything vibrate. I yell: “Where’re we going?” “You’ll see.”
We leave the neighborhood, and Paris, for the suburbs. He lowers the sound. We get to Rungis, in the industrial zone. There isn’t much traffic at this time of night. We drive between big sheds, warehouses. Black-and-white, like in old films. We turn. Marco hangs a right. We roll up to an open shed. We enter. Inside, an English truck and two small vans. Guys bustling around. I’m getting worried. “What’s happening?” “Nothing. A business operation.”
“What the fuck is this?”
“Come on!” We get out of the car. We walk over to the guys. Marco gives out a few hi’s. There are four guys; they look at me strangely. “No problem, he’s a friend.” The guys are taking big boxes out of the English truck and putting them in the vans. “What’s in them?” “Stuff like cigarettes and hifis.” “You’re bullshitting me. Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want anything to do with crap like this?” “Don’t worry, it won’t take long.” “Are you the manager here?” “No, I’m watching it for a boss.” “Who?” “Remember the Café du Commerce?” “On rue de Wattignies?” “Yes. The boss had a son, Frederic Dumont.” “Could be.” “He’s the one I’m working for. I supply the manpower.” “You’re not sick of this shit?” “What else do you expect me to do? Work on trains like your father, or in a factory like mine, and croak like an asshole just for a pitiful salary?” “You don’t have to do that.” “I don’t know how to do anything else.”
A cell phone rings. One of the guys answers. All of a sudden he gives an order. Everybody starts moving.