Eyes Full of Empty (4 page)

Back home, I take off my clothes, put on track pants and a sweatshirt. I sit down on my sofa, the cassettes in my hands. No clue
what's on them—not a label, nothing on the cases. I remember the losers we all used to be, back when people bought rap mixes to play on their busted-up old boom boxes with shitty sound—all light-years ago. These things are dead. What are they even fucking doing in a student apartment? More to the point, what would a kid be doing with them? I lie down to clear my head, to chase away the distant worry that this whole affair is more complicated than usual, and the bad feeling that the solution's at the bottom of a pool of shit I really don't want to dive into.

The buzzer for the front door startles me off my ass. I check the wall clock. Eight
P.M
. I fell asleep on my sofa. I get up in a hurry, press the intercom.

“Yes?”

“Idir?” Some punk's voice I don't recognize.

“Who's this?”

“Tarik sent me.”

“OK. Third door on your right.”

I buzz him in and hear a guy coming up the stairs fast. He reaches the landing. He's still got his helmet on, the visor pulled down. I wave him in and slam the door behind him. He takes off his helmet, revealing his face: the face of a really young guy who hasn't made the right choices in life but doesn't know it yet.

He sticks a hand in his pants pocket and takes out a brown paper envelope cut lengthwise and sealed with packaging tape. He hands it over.

“You're fast. Thanks.”

“Careful with the coke; it's pretty uncut. Tarik told me to warn you.”

I smile. “Tell him if some chick ODs, I'll rat on him. And you too.”

He looks at me, tense.

“Kidding.”

He lets out a sigh of relief. I was right to spell it out.

“Right, I get it. Have a nice day.”

Once the delivery boy's gone, I empty the envelope's contents on the coffee table. There are two little plastic vials, one full of coke, the other full of pink crystal powder, plus a dozen pills in a bag whose edges have been heat-sealed with a lighter. I check the clock again. I have to hurry; I'm short on time.

I enter the luxurious apartment in the Sixteenth that Nathalie and Thomas have been living in ever since their marriage.

“Hey, Idir, how's it going? You're the first to arrive. My father's late, as usual.”

“Your father? Cool, didn't know he was coming.” Thomas looks less than thrilled. I move on. “Your lady here?”

“Yeah, she's in the kitchen. Here, give me your coat.”

I leave it with him and walk over to the kitchen. Nathalie's busy chopping vegetables. She's wearing a black dress, perfectly fitted to her slender waist. Her grip on the knife makes the muscles along her arm stand out. She looks up when she hears me come in. She's got too much makeup on, trying to hide the rings under her eyes. I never thought she'd be more beautiful than she'd been as a student. Seeing her now, just past thirty, I know I was wrong.

“Hey, Nat.”

She smiles.

“Oh, hey, Idir.”

I walk over to kiss her on the cheek. She doesn't drop the knife. A heady aroma of sandalwood from her skin sets off the
fantasy of a night too rich for sleep.

“How's it going?” she asks, going back to chopping.

“Good, and you?”

She stops for a moment, stares at the slices she's already cut, and sighs. “Could be better.”

I can sense a light-headedness in her eyes, the feeling of not knowing what the hell she's doing here, dicing fucking bell peppers to calm herself down. I try to dispel the bad vibes.

“Smells nice, what you're making,” I say just as Thomas rushes into the kitchen.

“C'mon, Idir, let me pour you a whisky.”

I follow him out and let his wife, hands down the most beautiful woman in Paris, finish making us dinner, thinking she's the one who should be having a whisky while I'm at the stove.

In the living room, I sit down on a great big beige leather sofa. On the redwood coffee table, two glasses, a bowlful of ice cubes, and an imposing bottle, barely touched. Thomas sees me eyeing it and feels compelled to state, as he fills the glasses, “Balvenie.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Aged for thirty years, Idir.”

“Cool. Why would you bother telling me that? You know I don't give a shit,” I joke. “You could pour me Label 5 and I wouldn't mind.”

He lets out a nervous little laugh, anything but natural.

“You seem nervous. You OK?” I ask.

“Sure, sure, everything's fine,” he replies, rubbing his temples.

“You get into it with your wife again?”

He gives me a serious look. “She has a lover.”

“Please. You're not starting with this again—”

“I swear—”

“Fuck, man. You've been saying that for ten years. You're like a goddamn broken record.”

He takes a few tiny sips of whisky in silence, then starts right back in. “I can't trust her.”

“Got any proof?”

“She's acting…funny.”

“Got any proof?”

He scratches his head. “I don't have any proof. I just know.”

“Quit it. Quit it right now. I don't want to hear your bullshit anymore.”

The doorbell rings.

“Ah, at last.” Thomas gets up and goes to the door. I recognize his father's voice in the foyer. I stay seated, alone, for a few minutes—just enough time to toss back the rest of my whisky.

It's been a long time since I've seen Eric. I liked him a lot, back in the day. He had a frankness to him most rich people don't have, especially compared with those born rich, solely concerned as they are with managing the fortune preceding generations had already built up. Eric Vernay had fought hard to get where he was. He had that upstart aspect to him that betrayed his common origins. The kind of guy who'd order steak and fries at a high-end restaurant. He probably played up that side of himself, to show how far he'd come, or to throw people off the scent when it came to business. I wondered how many times competitors had taken Eric for a fool, only to find out later on they'd gotten screwed. And yet to anyone from the street, it was obvious straightaway just how dangerous he was.
Sheitan
, my grandmother would've called him. And she'd have been right. The little guy who'd started out as a humble laborer was now extremely rich. And it hadn't happened by accident. Successes like that didn't happen often in this country, hooked
as it is on cultural reproduction and incest among the economic elite. All this made him a man as fearsome as he was friendly.

He came barreling into the living room, all smiles. “Ah, Idir. Pleasure to see you again!”

“Mr. Vernay. What a surprise!”

Still the same scrapper's mug, but slightly older now: square jaw, features softened by lines. An old gentleman who must've known lots of women in his life. He gives my hand an energetic shake. Grip steely as ever. He winks. “What, did you get bashful on me? Call me Eric, please.”

“Guess I never did get used to calling you that, Mr. Vernay.”

He takes off his coat and hands it to his son, revealing his customary stylish charcoal-gray suit. To go by how his jacket hangs from his chest—big pecs, even bigger shoulders—I'm guessing he's a gym rat, and he's probably jumped a chick or two in the locker room.

Thomas slips back into his role as a host.

“I'll get Nat so we can get started with dinner. Have a seat, Dad. Grab him a glass, won't you, Idir?” he says, pointing out where they're all lined up.

I walk over to the cabinet, grab a whisky glass, and set it down next to mine. I pour one for Eric.

“Ice?” I ask.

“Never.” He smiles.

I pour myself another and we sit down side by side on the sofa. He toasts me and we clink glasses, locking gazes like tradition demands.

“How long has it been, son? When was the last time?”

“The wedding. Two years.”

I can still remember all those douchebags in bow ties and custom-tailored suits. I had to borrow mine from my father;
it was too big. I anesthetized myself with booze so I wouldn't have to listen to conversations about where to invest in Paris real estate. I held all the guests responsible for my hangover and the liter and a half of Moët I spewed up in my apartment as soon as I stepped in the door.

“Two years already. Time starts flying when you get older. It's terrible. What are you up to?”

“Not much. I do what I can. The crisis and all that, am I right? How about you? How's business?”

“Oh, it's tricky for us too these days.”

When I think that his company must make several billion a year, I have a hard time believing things are tough for people like him. But figures don't mean a thing anymore, and nobody really knows what goes on in boardrooms. But then, I turned my back on that world a long time ago. It's not that I think poor people are better than rich people. They just have other things on their mind.

“Uneasy lies the head,” I say, smiling.

He bursts out laughing. “Exactly, uneasy lies the head—and the crown just gets heavier with age.”

We hear voices rising from the kitchen. They must be having a fight for a change. Guess I'm just not lucky with dinners these days. I should think about turning down a few invitations.

“It'll never change,” Eric says, and sighs.

A few minutes later, Thomas and Nathalie show up like nothing's wrong. We sit down at the table and start eating. Thomas is strung tight, doesn't talk much, drinks—drinks a lot. But everything goes well, tongues loosen, and I let them right their
little world, adding a personal touch now and then. Until it all goes off the rails.

“Nat, you'll never guess who Idir's working for right now.”

I hate being put on the spot, especially by my friends. I like being left alone, and public scandals make me uncomfortable. But I realize humiliating me isn't my friend's objective.

“She probably couldn't care less,” I say, hoping he'll drop it and move on to something else.

But he presses on tactlessly. “No, tell her—it'll bring back good memories.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“He's working for Oscar. Oscar fucking Crumley!” he says triumphantly.

“Really,” Eric says, rolling his eyes, “you bring this up over dinner?”

“Remember? The guy who used to fuck you when we were first seeing each other.”

With all the calm in the world, Nathalie sets her silverware down beside her plate and leaves the table.

“That's right, leave,” he shouts after her as she heads for the stairs.

Eric stares at his son in dismay, but I speak. I can't help myself. “Seriously, why do you do this? Making a spectacle of yourself doesn't help things—”

“Are you defending her?” he asks me fiercely.

“What did you expect her to do?” I say. “You practically called her a whore right in front of us!”

“You just don't get it.” Thomas sighs, looking away.