Chourmo (2 page)

This is what Mediterranean Noir means: to tell stories with a wide swath; to recount great transformations; to denounce but at the same time to propose the culture of solidarity as an alternative.

 

 

 

1
The party was founded in 1972 by Jean-Marie Le Pen and is currently led by Marine Le Pen. It is generally considered to be of the far right, although its leaders deny this qualification.

2
Neo-polar: the 1970s-80s version of the French mystery novel, after the rebirth of the genre following May '68. Often a politically-oriented novel with a social message

3
Babette Bellini: a character in the Marseilles Trilogy. Journalist and activist, friend of Fabio Montale.

For Isabelle and Gennaro,
quite simply, my mother and father

 

Nothing of what you are about to read actually happened. Apart, of course, from what's true. And what you may have read in the newspapers, or seen on TV. Not so much, when you come down to it. And I sincerely hope that the story told here will stay where it should: in the pages of a book. Having said that, Marseilles itself is real. So real that I really wouldn't like you to look for any resemblances to people who actually lived. Even with the main character. What I have to say about Marseilles, my city, is once again nothing but a series of echoes and reminiscences. In other words, whatever you can read between the lines.

These are bad times, that's all.
R
UDOLPH
W
URLITZER

To the memory of Ibrahim Ali,
killed in North Marseilles,
February 24, 1995,
by billposters from the National Front.

F
rom the top of the steps in front of the Saint-Charles station, Guitou—as his mother still called him—looked down at Marseilles. “The big city.” His mother's birthplace. She'd often promised to bring him here, but she never had. Now, here he was. Alone. As an adult.

And in two hours, he'd be seeing Naïma again.

She was the reason he was here.

His hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, a Camel between his lips, he slowly descended the steps. With the city in front of him.

“At the bottom of the steps,” Naïma had said, “is Boulevard d'Athènes. Go along it until you get to the Canebière. Then turn right. Toward the Vieux-Port. Two hundred yards along, on your right, you'll see a big bar on the corner, called the Samaritaine. Let's meet there. At six o'clock. You can't miss it.”

He was glad he had two hours to spare. He'd find the bar. He'd be on time. He didn't want to keep Naïma waiting. He was eager to see her again. To take her hand, to clasp her in his arms, to kiss her. Tonight, they'd sleep together. For the first time. His first time, and hers. Mathias, a classmate of Naïma's, was leaving them his studio apartment. It'd be just the two of them. At last.

The thought of it made him smile. A shy smile, like when he'd first met Naïma.

Then he thought of his mother, and grimaced. He was sure she'd give him a hard time when he got back. Not only had he taken off without permission, three days before the start of school, but before he left he'd taken a thousand francs from the cash register in her store. A very upmarket ready-to-wear boutique in the Gap shopping mall.

He shrugged. A thousand francs certainly wasn't going to jeopardize the family's lifestyle. He'd smooth things over with his mother. He always did. It wasn't his mother who worried him. It was the fat bastard who called himself his father. He'd already beaten him once because of Naïma.

Crossing the Allées de Meilhan, he spotted a phone booth. He ought at least to phone his mother, he told himself. To stop her worrying.

He put down his little rucksack and put his hand in the back pocket of his jeans. Shit! His wallet was gone! In a panic, he felt the other pocket, then, even though he wasn't in the habit of putting it there, the pocket of his denim jacket. Nothing. How could he have lost it? He'd had it when he left the station. He'd put his train ticket away in it.

He remembered now. As he'd come down the station steps, an Arab had asked him for a light. He'd taken out his Zippo lighter, and at that moment, he'd been jostled, almost pushed, from behind, by another Arab who was running down the steps. Like a thief, he'd thought. He'd almost lost his balance on the steps and the first Arab had caught him. They'd really screwed him, and they'd done it in style.

He felt quite dizzy with anger and worry. Everything was gone: his papers, his phone card, his train ticket, above all almost all his money. All he had left was the change from the train ticket and the pack of Camels. Three hundred and ten francs. “Shit!” he said out loud.

“Are you all right?” an old lady asked him.

“My wallet's been stolen.”

“Oh, you poor boy. Nothing you can do about it! It happens all the time.” She looked at him sympathetically. “Just don't go to the police. Whatever you do! It'll only cause more trouble!”

And she went on her way, holding her little purse tight to her chest. Guitou watched her as she walked away. She melted into the motley crowd of passers-by, most of them blacks and Arabs.

Things hadn't gotten off to a good start in Marseilles!

To chase away his rotten luck, he kissed the gold medallion of the Virgin hanging on his chest, which was still tanned from his summer in the mountains. His mother had given it to him on the morning of his first communion, taking it from around her neck and putting it around his. “It's come a long way,” she'd said. “It'll protect you.”

He didn't believe in God, but like all children of Italians he was superstitious. And besides, kissing the Virgin Mary was like kissing his mother. When he was still just a kid and she put him to bed, she'd plant a kiss on his forehead, and as she did so the medallion would come closer to his lips, borne along on his mother's opulent breasts.

He dismissed this image, which always excited him. And thought about Naïma. Her breasts weren't as large as his mother's, but they were just as beautiful. Just as dark. One evening, kissing Naïma behind the Rebouls' barn, he'd slipped his hand inside her sweater. She'd let him stroke them. Slowly, he'd lifted the sweater to see them, his hands shaking. “Do you like them?” she'd asked in a low voice. He hadn't answered, only opened his lips to take first one, then the other, in his mouth. He started to get a hard-on. He was going to see Naïma again, and that was all that mattered.

He'd get by.

 

Naïma woke with a start. A noise upstairs. A strange, muffled noise. Her heart was pounding. She listened hard, holding her breath. Nothing. Silence. A weak light filtered through the blinds. What time was it? She wasn't wearing a watch. Guitou was sleeping peacefully, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her. His breathing was almost inaudible but regular. It reassured her. She lay down again and snuggled up close to him, with her eyes open. She'd have liked to smoke, to calm down. To get back to sleep.

Gently, she moved her hand over Guitou's shoulders, then down his back in one long caress. He had silky skin. Soft. Like his eyes, his smiles, his voice, the words he spoke. Like his hands on her body. It was that softness that had attracted her to him. An almost feminine softness. The boys she had known, even Mathias, with whom she'd flirted, were rougher in their ways. From the first time she'd seen Guitou smile, she'd wanted to be in his arms and rest her head against his chest.

She wanted to wake him, she wanted to have him caress her as he had before. She'd liked that: his fingers on her body, his eyes filled with wonder, making her feel beautiful. And in love. Making love with him had seemed the most natural thing in the world. She'd liked that too. Would it be just as good the second time around? Was it always like that? Her whole body quivered at the memory of it. She smiled, planted a kiss on Guitou's shoulder, and snuggled even closer to him. He was warm.

He moved. She slid her leg between his legs. He opened his eyes.

“Are you awake?” he murmured, stroking her hair.

“A noise. I heard a noise.”

“Are you afraid?”

There was no reason to be afraid.

Hocine was sleeping upstairs. They'd talked to him a little, earlier in the evening. When they'd come to get the keys, before they went out for a pizza. He was an Algerian historian, specializing in the ancient world. He was interested in the archeological excavations being carried out in Marseilles. “Incredibly rich finds,” he'd started to explain. It had sounded fascinating. But they hadn't paid too much attention. They'd been in a hurry to be alone together. To declare their love for each other. And then to make love.

Hocine had been staying in Mathias' parents' house for more than a month. They'd left to spend the weekend in their villa at Sanary in the Var. And Mathias had left Naïma and Guitou his studio apartment on the first floor.

It was one of those beautiful renovated houses in the Panier, on the corner of Rue des Belles-écuelles and Rue du Puits Saint-Antoine, near Place Lorette. Mathias' father, an architect, had redesigned the interior. A three-storied house, with an Italian-style terrace on the roof, giving a magnificent view of the whole harbor, from L'Estaque to La Madrague-de-Montredon.

“Tomorrow morning,” Naïma had said to Guitou, “I'll go out and buy bread. We'll have breakfast up there. It'll be beautiful, you'll see.” She wanted him to love Marseilles. Her city. She'd told him so much about it. Guitou had been a bit jealous of Mathias. “Have you been out with him?” She'd laughed, but she hadn't answered. Later, when she'd confessed, “It's true, you know, this is my first time,” he'd forgotten all about Mathias. The promised breakfast. The terrace. And Marseilles.

“Afraid of what?”

She slid her leg over him, moving it up toward his stomach. Her knee brushed against his cock, and she felt it get hard. She placed her cheek on his pubescent chest. Guitou held her tight. He stroked her back. Naïma quivered.

He wanted her again, really wanted her, but he didn't know if it was the right thing to do. If it was what she wanted. He didn't know anything about girls, or about love. But he was getting a massive hard-on. She looked up at him. Their lips met. He drew her to him and she moved until she was on top of him. Then they heard a cry: Hocine.

They froze.

“My God,” she said, almost voicelessly.

Guitou pushed Naïma away and leaped out of the bed. He pulled on his shorts.

“Where are you going?” she asked, not daring to move.

He didn't know. He was afraid. But he couldn't stay that way. He couldn't show he was afraid. He was a man now. And Naïma was watching him.

She'd sat up in bed.

“Get dressed,” he said.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“What's happening?”

“I don't know.”

They heard footsteps on the stairs.

Naïma picked up her scattered clothes and ran to the bathroom. Guitou put his ear against the door and listened. More steps on the stairs. Whispering. He opened the door, not really aware of what he was doing. As if his fear was stopping him from thinking rationally. The first thing he saw was the gun. The second was the man's eyes. They looked so cruel. His whole body started shaking. He didn't hear the shot. But he felt a burning pain in his stomach, and he thought of his mother. He fell. His head hit the stone stairs so violently that the arch of his eyebrows was torn off. He felt the taste of blood in his mouth. It was disgusting.

“Let's get out of here.” That was the last thing he heard. He was aware of them stepping over him. Like a corpse.

T
here's nothing more pleasant, when you have nothing to do, than to have a snack in the morning and sit looking at the sea.

As a snack, Fonfon had made an anchovy purée, which he'd just taken out of the oven. I'd come back from fishing, and was feeling happy. I'd caught a fine bass, four bream and a dozen mullet. The anchovy purée added to my happiness. I've always been happy with simple things.

I opened a bottle of Saint-Cannat rosé. The quality of Provençal rosés was getting better every year. We drank, to whet our appetite. The wine, from the Commanderie de la Bargemone, was delicious. Beneath your tongue you could feel the warm sun on the low slopes of the Trevarese. Fonfon winked at me, and we started dipping slices of bread in the anchovy purée, seasoned with pepper and chopped garlic. My stomach was aroused at the first mouthful.

“God, that's good!”

“You said it.”

It was all you could say. One more word would have been one word too many. We ate without talking. Gazing out over the surface of the sea. A beautiful autumn sea, dark blue, almost velvety. I never tired of it. I was constantly surprised by the attraction it had over me, the way it called to me. I'd never been a sailor or a traveler. I'd had dreams, adolescent dreams, of sailing out there, beyond the horizon. But I'd never gone very far. Except once. To the Red Sea. A long time ago.

I was nearly forty-five, and like many people in Marseilles I liked stories of travel more than travel itself. I couldn't see myself taking a plane to Mexico City, Saigon or Buenos Aires. I belonged to a generation to which travel meant something very particular. Liners, freighters. Navigation. The rhythm of the sea. Ports. A gangway thrown onto the quay, the intoxication of new smells, unknown faces.

I was content to take my boat, the
Tremolino
, with its pointed stern, out beyond Ile Maire and the Riou archipelago, and fish for a few hours, wrapped in the silence of the sea. I didn't have anything else to do. Go fishing, when the mood took me. Or play
belote
between three and four. Or a game of
pétanque
with aperitifs as the stake.