Leper Tango (16 page)

“Have you ever wrung the neck of a Cambodian chicken, Robinson?”

The question was purely rhetorical. Whenever Tranh was feeling joyous, he'd refer to Spengler or Darwin and the imminent downfall of the West. He saw the whole world as a perennial plant, reproducing itself endlessly, occasionally lying fallow, undergoing droughts, followed by temporary periods of plenty.

“Take the Vandals for example, Robinson. A Germanic tribe who ravaged Gaul, Spain, North Africa and Rome in the fourth and fifth centuries, destroying books and works of Art. We live in such times. But they pass. Paris has rules of its own, and the Parisian is lazy, stubborn, dissolute, and yet conservative. Napoleon wanted to raze the city to the ground. Give me twenty years and old Paris will disappear into a chasm, he bragged. Of course, he failed. Then it was he who was erased from the planet. Largely because he had no understanding of the Parisians. No one can ever understand Paris. It is beyond comprehension.

“Look at the Pompidou museum. A perfect example of the avant-garde movement. Deconstructivism, Robinson. In only two decades this monstrosity has taken on the appearance of a dilapidated Meccano set. The infrastructure is rusting and rotting. It will be torn down in its turn. But you should have seen the quarter before

... jugglers, flame swallowers, anarchists ... I once saw a whore pulling up her skirt and flash her
con
at a police officer. Two old biddies witnessing the spectacle reached down and hiked up their own skirts in a show of solidarity. Quite fascinating, Robinson. Every day produced something tiny, unrecorded, but memorable. There were moments,
inoubliable
, Robinson,
inoubliable.
And then, a presidential decree and it is destroyed. No matter. It is the city of the guillotine. The most pervasive legend of Paris is that of St Denis, who carried his own decapitated head through the city. A perfect symbol of modern man. His head removed, and yet somehow still alive.”

Tranh returned to the topic of his wife, and their agreed-upon plans for the inevitable phase when the muscular sclerosis paralyzed her to the point of irreversible decline.

“Euthanasia is performed routinely in the Netherlands. I have contacted an agency which specializes in death tourism. It is a routine matter. The authorities in the low countries turn a blind eye to this sort of thing. Passing strange, Robinson. When the Americans controlled the South, we dug thirty thousand miles of subterranean passageways to subvert their overwhelming power. And now, decades later, I am stalked by my own invisible enemy, digging thirty thousand miles of cellular trenches in my wife's brain.”

We left the café, walked South through the Marais until we arrived on
Ile Saint Louis
. A cold wind sweeping across
pont de la Tournelle
. We stopped and gazed into the flushing currents of the Seine. The high waters of spring floods washing a sluice of brown liquid against the underside of the bridge. A
peniche
and a
bâteau mouche
, both unmanned, knocking against the limestone banks of the river, stagnant. The
square de l 'Ile Saint Louis
vacant, but for a bald homosexual masturbating into the river, his trenchcoat flapping in the breeze as he balanced precariously from the peninsular tip of the island. Behind the man, the wrought iron railings protecting the gardens behind the grey silhouette of Notre Dame Cathedral. Tranh pointed out the per vert gratif ying himself, laughed briefly.

“Let me summarize once again. You step beyond the usual moral constraints, indeed, beyond the point of return, if you are to be believed. But, this is Paris, Robinson. Nothing in your experience convinces me that it lies outside the realm of human experience. Look, Robinson,
rue St Honoré
is just across from us. That is the street where the ox-cart would carry victims up to the Concorde for the guillotine. Imagine, six thousand heads cut off in a year. So, a man runs into a French woman with a death wish, well, there's really nothing exceptional about it, is there?”

He looked over the bridge into the Seine.

“For something to be outside the norms, it must only be comprehensible in relation to itself, and not in relation to anything else.”

“You see that bench over there, Tranh? One day, Sheba and I were having a little sit down. It was a beautiful day, and for me, I thought there was only Paris, me and her. Nobody else existed. There was an old man sitting at the neighbouring bench, minding his own business, feeding the doves. Sheba was wearing a long skirt, with a slit up to the thighs. She allowed her leg to slip out and began tracing out circles into the ground. She caught his attention, and then just flashed him one of her looks. But, he turned out to be paresthetic. What followed, Tranh, was not a pretty sight.”

“If I understand correctly, you struck some sort of faustian bargain with her?”

“That's right.”

“There is something you haven't told me. Fine, you are not ready. But, you seem driven by some need to penetrate to the inner enclaves of the world of vice, as if it will provide you with some answers. You are not just transgressing a code of ethics, or the ten commandments. You see the cunt as some form of oracle.”

“That's right! I've always thought that Cunt, per se, is something that has nothing to do with the woman.

It's an independent parasite that lives off the the host body. And, Paris, Tranh, it's like a big Cunt. It's why I never feel like I'm walking down St-Denis. I'm slithering down the fallopian tubes of Paris. From one Venus fly trap to another. A honey-dripping lure, drawing me towards her again, to the lair, to her nest, the Queen Bee. She used it like a supra-spiritual vacuum cleaner to suck out any rational thought I had ever had. As if her labia talked to me, whispered to me the same secret over and over again. You know what, Tranh? This may sound insane, but I'm convinced that cunts communicate with each other. They may even come from another planet!” “But, Robinson, you have understood absolutely nothing! This woman, can't you see, she doesn't even exist! She is a reflection of your own mind. That is what is driving you crazy. There is nothing wrong with what you did. You fell in love with this woman. That is all.” “You know what, Tranh? You're the one who doesn't get it. Sheba is part of the background. My relationship is with her cunt. If I could sever her cunt from the rest of her body, it'd be a perfect relationship.”

He drank down the remainder of his wine. Poured out two more glasses.

“
Alors, ça, c'est fort
.”

“I haven't finished yet.”

“What is different about this Sheba?”

I sucked on my cigarette.

“I've played out marks, and I've been played as a mark. But, this was like a progression. Planned in advance. First, I fucked her. Then, for a while, we were fucking each other. Then, it moved onto her turf. She fucked my mind. Like she moved right inside my brain.”

“She wouldn't have moved in without an invitation.”

“Probably not,” I conceded, “ but, that's beside the point. I have a feeling I'm going to run into her again.

This story isn't over.”

“It's her Frenchness.” “True. French girls still give head.”

“If you are to engage with the French, you must understand the French. The key to them is to realize that their esthetic of beauty and their revolutionary nature is directly linked to their taste for cruelty.”

Tranh was drunk, but had honed the talent of remaining articulate long after the Médoc had dismantelled his cerebellum into its constituent parts, which gave his speech a tangential flavour of automatism.

“Tell me, Robinson. When you last visited Père Lachaise cemetery, did you notice the engraved message at the entrance? It says:
La mort est un sommeil éternel
. The man who ordered the engraving was named Fouché. The most dangerous man who ever lived. A vicious, coldblooded atheist. The man who orchestrated Robespierre's downfall. I have examined paintings of this man in the Louvre. His most pronounced features are his hooded eyelids. This man moved with consummate ease from the secretive cells of the extremist left to the far right, where he eventually became the chief of police in postrevolutionary France. The new millenium, Robinson, will be the era when the Fouchés of the world regain their place in the corridors of power.”

“What's your point?”

“My point? My point is we are lucky men to idly speak of these things in the early morning.”

Dawn was breaking. The rear façade of Notre Dame etched a silhouette against a charcoal sky. We stood mute, watching a streak of blue on the horizon disappear into a mass of cloud. Then, back to the rain. The night shift girls would be checking into the
Byzantin
for coffee before returning home to sleep through the daylight hours. Tranh pointed back towards the
Brasserie de l ' île
. A woman stepping onto the bridge, her head down, enveloped in a scarf, and a transparent plastic cape over a blouse, mini-skirt, four-inch pumps.

“Look, it is Alena,” he said, as if he'd conjured her up himself.

Tranh waved in her direction. Her head was tilted downwards unnaturally. She drifted momentarily towards a passing car, staggering uncertainly. She aboutfaced, her heels bent inwards as she regained her equilibrium. She continued in our direction, then stopped again, kicked her heels off, placed them side by side on the
trottoir
. She looked up, caught sight of us. She stared blankly, then lost her footing, propped herself against the balustrade.

“Something is wrong.”

Tranh moved towards her, quickening his stride, then breaking into a run.

“Alena!”

Alena had climbed onto the balustrade, and was now balancing precariously, her eyes riveted on the river.

Tranh advanced until within two metres of her, slowing to a walk. She took one step towards Tranh, her arms extended out wards. Like a child, performing a hopscotch. Tranh opened his arms.

“Just keep your eyes on me, Alena ... easy ...”

She was close, an arm's length away.

“
Non. C'est trop dur
.”

She about-faced, exposing a Christian Dior backpack.

“You're having a bad day. Come down, we can talk about it.”

We were interrupted by a shout, and the appearance of a man coming from the direction of the Left Bank, running onto the bridge.

“
Stop! Espèce de salope!”
It was Yannick, the doorman. He was choking from the effort of running. The rain pouring down in a steady torrent. I looked back at Alena. Mascara running in rivulets down her cheeks. She leaned forward. Shivering, her bare feet sliding along the chalky surface of the balustrade. Her gaze locked onto mine. She smiled. Recognizing me for the first time.

“
Quel con.
Goodbye, Franck.”

She looked down for a moment, then jumped. The current immediately caught her, flushing her towards the tip of the square St-Louis. For a moment she looked sky ward in surprise, floundered, disappeared, then reappeared, her arms slapping absurdly against the current. I gripped Tranh's right arm.

“Forget it, Tranh. It's too late.”

Alena caught by the undercurrent, was engulfed by a thick, swirling brown eddy. When she reappeared this time, she was face down, and the brown rush of flood waters smashed her roughly against the rock edges of square St-Louis. Yannick standing at the edge.

“
Putain, putain
, why did you go and do that? Oh,

putain de merde, je vais me flinguer
. Fucking hell, it's all
over.”

He fell to the ground, pounded his fist onto the roadside, weeping uncontrollably.

“Come, Robinson. Let's go. There's nothing we can do here. The police will be asking questions, and those questions will lead to more questions.”

We walked towards the
Place du Châtelet
. The first buses of the morning arrived. Tranh climbed onto the 27, heading towards St-Lazare station.

“Just go home, Robinson. Just one of those things.”

I bid him goodbye, then moved back towards the river again. Two white Renaults had arrived on the bridge. A plainclothes frisking Yannick. His accomplice looking in my direction. I turned left, paid no attention. Walked along the
quai des Célestins
, then stopped. I lit a cigarette, stared at the river for a while, not thinking much, other than the usual default reflection: what's the difference Franck, they're all phantoms, you're the only real one, they can't help what they do, and whatever mutant deity created them is far sicker than anybody walking the planet. So, forget about it. There didn't seem any way out of things, other than dying.

It was one of those pit and pendulum thoughts which made me nauseous. Wasn't really my style, but I vomited on the ground. Then, I started crying. It was early morning, and I was drunk, and alone. And, in a way, I was enjoying myself. It felt good to be maudlin, shedding tears over a woman who sucked cock for a living. Or at least did until then. I knew that, if I saw my ex-wife jump out of a thirty storey building, it wouldn't make page 17 in my brain. And somehow that struck me as more evidence that I was where I wanted to be. It made sense to cry over a whore smashing her head on the banks of the Seine. I spotted a cab coming down the quai, and flagged it down.

“Take me to Pigalle.
Boulevard Clichy
.”

After drifting up and down
boulevard Clichy
for a while, I noticed the cab driver examining me through his rear view mirror. His nose had been broken a few times. A thick, waxen sheet of black hair draped to a set of shoulders tailor-made for a yoke. His hands oversized, bloated paws which gripped the steering wheel with a contained ferocity.

“Where to now?” he asked.

“Turn North.”

“We just came from the North.” I pulled a few notes from my billfold. He lifted up two fingers of his right hand, retrieved the notes, then glanced back again.