Bye Bye Blondie (7 page)

There was a smell everywhere of old people and piss. One little old lady came trotting along whenever she saw Gloria, right up to her, and slapped her face. She had wicked eyes. She only reached up to Gloria's chest, which made her easy to deal with. Sordid, like everything else.

When Eric arrived there, he was sufficiently different for her to spot him at once. A funny guy, because there he was, blond and bourgeois, squeaky clean, and convinced his name was Karim. Well, it could have been, perhaps, but the address he gave seemed to rule it out. And he had this very odd way of talking in the slang of the housing estates. The
beurs
, second-generation young Arabs living in France, weren't fashionable yet, but they already existed. Still,
they
didn't talk in the really weird way Eric did. When he began to explain to the doctors, in a tone of confidentiality, that people on the radio spoke to him directly to warn him about an earthquake, he lost all credibility. The victim of some chemical imbalance, evidently, he was living in a parallel universe, and wearing expensive clothes. When Gloria had glimpsed him between two corridors, he had on a striking black-and-white sweater. Of course, to make him feel better and return to his senses, they quickly confiscated his clothes for the old hospital-gown look.

He spent his first day there chatting, affable and relaxed, with the young anorexics and the ancient crackpots, he could have talked to the walls and it wouldn't have surprised anyone.
The only cool thing, in fact, about this kind of place was that no one would think of passing a disobliging remark. For instance, if someone took it into their head to scold a chair, get down on all fours, or sit on the floor, huddled up and singing old nursery rhymes, no one would turn a hair. They were left in more peace here than in the Paris metro. Eric obviously took himself for some kind of prophet, you could tell from his eyes and the way he put his hand on people's shoulders. If that was his speciality . . .

It took a week for his parents to catch up with him. In fact, he had entirely recovered his memory, spontaneously, by the second morning in Jeanne d'Arc. The short circuit was over. But he didn't tell anyone. Because he wanted to get to know Gloria, who at first wasn't too keen.

She'd realized that she appealed to him in a lot of ways, which was not exactly flattering, since she had no wish to get involved with some weirdo who believed in aliens.

The day after Eric arrived, a woman in a white coat had come into Gloria's room. Whether she was a psychiatrist or someone who cleaned the toilets or just a troublemaker, she didn't say, all she wanted was for Gloria to stop playing her music so loudly—on her Walkman! In that place, one of the basic principles, no doubt for everyone's good, was that anyone could just walk into your room at any time to tell you anything. At night for instance, they'd open the door wide, several times, letting the light in, to look at you. Perhaps to check if you were lying on your back when, this week, you were meant to lie on your side. Another thing they checked was that no one was having it off with anyone else. Not at all advisable, mad people getting together. Apparently they'd only harm each other. It's a well-known fact, cuddles are very bad for them and don't help anyone recover. (You had to wonder who were the ones with the most damaged heads, the staff or the patients.) So in this woman had stormed, in a great rage. Gloria removed her headphones, politely, without showing how much she would have liked to go on listening to her Motörhead album uninterrupted by some killjoy. And the woman had screamed, “We can hear it in the corridor!” grabbed the headphones, put them to her ear, and pulled a face. Not a rock fan, obviously. Intimidated, Gloria experimented with a goofy smile, meant to express, “It takes all sorts, eh?” But the old witch didn't see it that way, and grabbed the Walkman with a toss of her shoulders. “You think you'll get better, listening to stuff like that?”

Gloria sat still for a couple of seconds, telling herself she didn't want to get in trouble, it was probably just a test. Even here, even these people, couldn't be so stupid, could they? As if there were any limits to the nastiness of the powerful. A voice in Gloria's head was telling her to stay calm and wait for her father to visit, so that he could ask for her Walkman to be returned. The same voice advised her to keep quiet and never mind that she'd spend a few days without her music. Rightly or wrongly, this cowardly voice lost the battle super fast, and Gloria hurled herself at the woman. Literally propelled herself at her, as if she were rediscovering reflexes from playing rugby (in some previous life perhaps?). She'd flung her into the corridor, where the woman fell over backward, the confiscated Walkman in her pocket. Gloria, on her knees astride her, had grabbed her by the hair. And before the other slimeballs could muster the gumption to come running and pull her off, she had time to draw a little blood from the back of her head. She was screaming in the woman's ear: “You whore, you bitch, you can't stop me listening to Motörhead, hear me, you can't do this to me!” Yelling at the top of her voice, hoping the woman would be deaf for the rest of her life.
That would make it worth creating havoc. Ruin her life, filthy cow, so she'd never hear properly again. At the time this had seemed important.

As a result, Gloria was deprived of music, exactly and precisely the only thing that kept her company until the end of her stay. Yet another thing that would help her get better, “rebuild herself,” as
they
called it. Fuckers, with their crap methods.

That was the other thing you absolutely had to understand before they'd let you out of there: they could do
anything
they liked, and all you could do was keep your mouth shut. As time went on, Gloria learned that this was a very basic lesson. Which a lot of people know about, in fact.

Eric had been in the corridor that day, the woman had literally landed at his feet and he had stood quite still while Gloria was shaking her, yelling mad insults at her. He had observed the scene with the utmost attention. And a slight, knowing smile had crossed his lips.

Next day, breakfast time (if you could bear to eat it), 6:00 a.m. The future belongs to those who get up early, all right, but could someone please tell her the point of getting mental patients up so soon, given that everyone was totally fed up with being here? Oh well. Refectory tables, you were supposed to find a place for yourself. Gloria could never find a seat. Balancing her tray in one hand, it was tricky. What with the residents she wanted to avoid, the ones she made nervous, and the tables that were already full, she often had to go around the room several times before sitting down. Every morning, the anorexics, who had been forced to eat a bit of defrosted bread, were already vomiting. One mouthful and they puked up three whole meals. The nurses were instructed not to let them go to the toilets on their own, but they escaped. One old woman was chewing on her hand, which, like her arms, was covered with scabs and scars. She must have become unhinged long ago, before they invented modern ways of self-harming, so she ate her own flesh. This was pretty upsetting to see, especially on an empty stomach. One man, graying temples, metal-rimmed glasses, tracksuit top—typical gym teacher—used to sob hard, with tears running down his cheeks, then calm down before starting to howl in distress. It just took him like that, and he added to the local color. In this cacophony of wrecked souls, what depressed Gloria most every morning was that the coffee was lukewarm and bitter and served with powdered milk, whereas she liked her coffee boiling hot and laced with cold milk—real milk. She was propped up over her bowl, almost dozing off. Eric had appeared out of nowhere and sat down beside her. She'd noticed that he was looking at her with a dazed air, as if rooted to the spot. But she hadn't grasped straight away that this was serious affection.

As polite and poised as if they were meeting in a normal café—easy to see he hadn't been there long—he asked her, “Do you listen to a lot of music?”

She didn't know what to reply.

“Same as everyone.”

He laughed. “No, I don't think so, I saw you fighting for the right to listen to Motörhead. That's not like everyone, no way.”

At the time, this had gone to her head, thinking that it attracted him to have seen her freak out the day before, and then to remember it next morning, as if it were funny. Every tantrum of this kind made them all the more determined to keep her there, and the longer she stayed, the more frequent and extravagant the scenes became. You had to admit that if she were looking for a trigger for tantrums, she'd come to exactly the right place.

She clenched her fists without answering, she found this boy a bit of a jerk anyway. He
was tearing his bread into little pieces, which he then ate like a sparrow, in tiny bites, chewing them very slowly. He was almost as tall as she was, but very fragile looking, with curly hair, sharp features. His gray eyes darted around the canteen, with real cruelty perceptible in them. He stooped slightly, giving an impression of intelligence and vivacity, but it made you feel uneasy. He stayed looking thoughtful for a while, visibly not distressed to be in this place, then he remarked, “I never get in a rage like that. I'd really like it to happen to me.”

His voice was high-pitched, but pleasant.

“Oh come on, man, you don't even know your own name. But you know that you never get in a rage?”

“Yes, yes! I know, weird isn't it, the brain, I haven't stopped thinking about that since yesterday. It surprises me too, it really surprises me, I've forgotten my name, my address, my work, my friends, but
what
I am, myself, that seems to have stayed clear. Well, at least I can ask myself the question, that's something.”

He was very calm, making out like some character in a dream, expressing himself slowly, as if it were painful to be waking up completely. She thought it must be the meds they were giving him, making him high, getting special treatment. But as she discovered later, he was always like that: in his own world, with occasional blazing outbursts. He looked at her over the coffee bowl he was holding in both hands.

“Apart from Motörhead, what do you listen to?”

“Motörhead.”

“Oh, she has a sense of humor, I see.”

“Don't you like Motörhead?”

“Frankly, if I didn't like them, I
certainly
wouldn't tell you. I don't want to get beaten up . . .”

This started him off laughing, she was already getting used to him. He had a slight coughing fit afterward and put his hand in front of his mouth, his hands were precise and delicate. White with long, thin fingers. He was refined without being feminine. Extraordinary to discover among all these crazy people in gowns, a rich kid who had remained a rich kid. She was about to get up and ask him to leave her alone, once and for all. Then he added, “I prefer the Stooges, New York Dolls, Generation X, that kind of music. Not as powerful as Lemmy but more twisted, I think, I prefer it.”

She stayed sitting down. She would have been unable to identify any of the bands he mentioned if she had heard them. But she recognized all the names, the list operated as a good password, nothing but quality stuff, old guys.

“So you remember the
music
you used to listen to as well?”

“Are you working for them, or what?”

His smile showed his front teeth, his canines slightly too long and pointed, gave him something of a vampire look, which Gloria found suited him.

She was watching out for one of the servers who was in charge of refilling coffee cups. When she turned her head back, he was devouring her with his eyes. Remaining a little reticent, she was nevertheless becoming intrigued. You could sense at once that he wasn't really calm and peaceful, contrary to his apparent attitude. First of all, he wasn't at all upset or angry at finding himself among the insane. He was taking it too well for it to be genuine.

Gloria started talking again. “But you don't just listen to punk music, do you?”

“I listen to everything really. It's my thing. I like it all, jazz, rock, hard rock . . .”

This was the 1980s, people who listened to a bit of everything didn't really listen to anything much. She insisted: “Okay, okay, it's fine to be open-minded and educated, but what bands?”

“Polnareff.”

“Oh, so you're a poof?”

He was content simply to give her a doubtful look, almost pityingly. She appreciated the effectiveness and economy of expression: in two seconds, he'd made her feel really stupid.

“Sorry, I must be mixing him up with someone?”

“With Frankie Goes to Hollywood?”

“No, with that guy who sings ‘Où sont les femmes.'”

He immediately began a brief but very accurate imitation of the singer she meant, singing and wriggling on his chair, shaking his arms and his torso. A thin, high-pitched voice.

“Go on, you
are
a bit gay, aren't you?”

“No, not really.”

“Peculiar to like Polnareff though.”

“It's not my fault if you only go for one kind of music.”

“At our age though, it's weird, isn't it?”

“It's nothing to do with age, stop it. You're being thick, thick, give up!”

“And you remember
that
all right, do you, that you like Polnareff, isn't that weird too?”

“Yeah, a bit more. But stop frowning. It really, really doesn't suit you.”

When something made him laugh, he looked like a child, his eyes changed and betrayed their animal power. A funny guy altogether, with the rodent-like teeth he showed when he smiled. She felt herself beginning to be won over—to feel less alone.

As he relaxed and declared that he could be nasty as well, and since Gloria, whatever her doctors said, was all woman, she started wanting to sleep with him. She certainly liked his hands.

He hesitated, and looked at her, trying to make something out. Feeling she was being assessed, she immediately wanted to be attractive to him. He leaned a little toward her, their shoulders touched.