Eyes Full of Empty (5 page)

He tosses off the rest of his wine, gets up, and heads for the stairs, going after his wife. I find myself alone at the table with Eric.

“I told him not to marry a woman that beautiful. You're just asking for trouble.”

I smirk at Eric's bullshit. “You think he should've picked someone ugly, just for some peace of mind?”

But he doesn't feel like having a laugh. “I've never understood why you stayed friends with him. It's his fault you—”

I cut him off. Don't want to talk about it. “It was my fault. If I hadn't been as dumb, I wouldn't have done it.”

“I grew up in a working-class neighborhood too—”

I don't like the way this conversation is going. A guy like him never opens up to anyone unless he's after something. “Let me stop you right there. I may be brown, Monsieur Vernay, but my father's a doctor.”

“You misunderstand. I know what it's like to want to be part of a world you don't belong to—what you're willing to do to get there. If my son hadn't been a coward, he would've settled his affairs himself; he wouldn't have paid his best friend, with
my
money, to do it instead.”

“What difference does it make?” I ask him curtly. I take a gulp of wine to ease the knot in my throat.

He sets down his cutlery and wipes his mouth slowly with his napkin. “I have a little problem you could maybe help me with.”

“I'm listening.”

“My chauffeur got assaulted last week. At a red light. A guy in a ski mask stuck a gun under his nose and dragged him out of the car.”

“And what exactly do you want?”

“I want the car back.”

For the first time in my life, I wonder if Eric is stupid. “Did you file a police report?”

“No,” he says, “my wife wanted to, but I told her it was pointless.”

“The only problem is if the little shit who stole the car crashes it into the roll-up door at a jewelry store, you'll have to explain to the cops why you never reported it stolen.”

“That's my problem.”

I get that he doesn't want to discuss his choices. Which means he's got something up his sleeve. “What makes you think I can find your car on my own?”

“I have faith in you.”

“Is it an old car? I mean, vintage?”

“No.”

“Aren't you insured against theft?”

“Nope.”

Impossible, but I let it slide. “In that case,” I suggest, “buy another car and report that one stolen. I sincerely believe that to be your best option.”

He takes my smile the wrong way. “What's so funny?”

“Look, with your permission, I'm going to be frank. Your car gets jacked, you have to play the game and report it stolen. And you haven't. That's number one.”

He frowns.

“Which brings me to number two. What was in the car?”

He is silent.

“If I'm going to work for you, you have to be straight with me. You won't report it stolen, but you want it back. Fine. I just want to ask you one question. Was there something in the car I don't know about right now? Something you don't want to fall into the hands of the police? If so, I have to know. Otherwise, I'll have to turn down your offer.”

It's his turn to grin. “You've been watching too many movies, my boy. There's nothing in the car. I just want to be sure I get it back. Let's say it has…sentimental value.”

“What leads you to believe your car wasn't stolen by professionals?”

“Nothing about these guys was even remotely
professional
.” He stresses the word to show he's doing the explaining. No matter the field, I'm an amateur. “I may be an old man, true—but you don't get rich turning the other cheek. No one steals from me and gets away with it. Not many are even crazy enough to try.”

In that case, why ask me to find it, if he's got his own security force? I keep the thought to myself. “How do I go about finding your car? Thefts like that happen every week in Paris by the dozen, and the cars get sold off right after.”

“It's an R8,” he says in reply, like that's all I need. When I don't react, he adds, “V10.”

I decide to clear things up, even if it means my ignorance about cars might be taken as an obvious lack of manliness. “Sorry, this will probably seem weird to you, but I don't know a thing about cars.”

“You know what an Audi is?”

“Rings a bell.”

“It's their most expensive model.”

“Got a big trunk?”

“No, it's a two-seater.”

Perfect. Can't load it up, so no way it'll get sold off to run drugs in from the Costa del Sol. No dealers, only private buyers. If it's pricey and eye-catching, the thief will need time to fence it.

“Where did it happen?”

“Near Porte de Pantin.”

“Exactly how long ago?”

“Six days.”

“Can I talk to your driver?”

He gives me a look with his reptilian eyes. “I'm afraid that won't be possible.”

“What did he say the guy looked like?”

“He was young. The usual, but white. According to my chauffeur, that is.”

“Young and white—he got all that through a ski mask?”

He shrugs, unimpressed. “That's what he said. Certain things don't get hidden by a mask I guess.”

Which means everything and nothing, but just like last time, I let it slide.

“OK, I'll see what I can do. About my fee—”

He cuts me off with a broad wave of his hand. “I'll give you a third of what the car's worth.”

I gulp despite myself. That must be a lot. He extends a hand across the table. I shake it for the second time that night. I don't like this hypocrite way of sealing a deal. As if it really meant anything. But after all, the client is king. I decide to get my vengeance in my own way.

“That's what this was all about? Getting me to do a job for you?” I still haven't let go of his hand. He smiles.

“Why, no, my boy. It was just such a great pleasure to see you again.”

“Of course,” I reply, staring him right in the eyes.

He digs into his jacket pocket and comes up with a business card and a pen. He scribbles something on the back and hands it over. “If you find the car or the guys that stole it, call this number. It's a guy that works for me. He'll take care of everything.”

I slip the card into the pocket of my jeans. “Guess I'll be going then. Say bye to Thomas for me, and thank him for dinner.”

“Wait, I'll go fetch him.”

“No, no, don't bother. They're probably having it out.”

No point insisting. Eric's already on his feet and heading upstairs. I get up too and grab my coat from the foyer. I wait a few minutes, eyeing a hideous painting in the hallway. Like the guy who did it squeezed a bunch of colors down his throat and threw them all back up on the canvas. To think I'd have to bust ass for twenty years to afford a piece of shit like that.

Thomas finally comes down and apologizes for the “peculiar” dinner.

“Don't sweat it, man. I'm used to it.”

I've got one hand on the door when he holds me back, whispers: “Idir, I'm going to New York for a few weeks. While I'm away, you think you could—”

“No.” I cut him off coldly. “If you were going to ask me to follow her, let's just forget we ever had this conversation, and you let me go home in peace with fond memories of a pleasant evening.”

“I'll pay. A lot.”

“What part of ‘no' did you not understand? You're the only one who hasn't changed; you're the same shithead you always were.”

Offended, he retorts, “You think you're better than me?”

This time, I open the door. “Take some time off, buddy. Thanks for dinner.”

CHAPTER 2

T
EN A.M
. T
HE ACID TASTE IN MY MOUTH MAKES ME WANT TO
keep sleeping. I get up around noon with a slight headache that just won't go away, even after two aspirins. I didn't think I'd boozed it up that much last night. I thought wrong.

I take the metro to Belleville for my weekly lunch with Cherif. I've known him ever since we were kids. A buddy from the neighborhood I met at school. He liked me a lot; I did his homework for him. Suited me just fine. In return, he defended me from bullies and kept me from getting beaten up. I think that's how our friendship got started. While I was taking my
baccalauréat
to get into college, he was already one of the most notorious thieves in the capital. It began with mopeds. He'd borrow one for a joyride around the neighborhood, then put it back a little farther down the boulevard. Plus he had a way with anything on wheels. A goddamned gift. Even as a teen, Cherif could jump a three-hundred-pound CBR and steer it like a razor scooter. The local crews spotted him fast. The first thing he drove for them were lead cars on drug runs to Mokum and back, then carry cars—the overland equivalent of a cigarette boat. All with no license, since he wasn't even old enough. Legend has it that once at a Belgian highway roadblock on the way back, he flipped a bitch and returned to Paris by way of Germany, Austria, and Italy. I've never asked him if it was true.
Even if it was, he'd tell me it wasn't with the slightest of crooked smiles, the kind you let slip to make doubt linger. He'd stopped driving and begun focusing on carjacking. “No violence,” he likes to specify even now, always joking, “I'm the Kabyle Arsène Lupin, gentleman thief.”

But behind this juvenile trash talk lay the truth. Cherif was the only one who didn't jack cars by threatening drivers with guns or Tasers, or beating them with a helmet. Modern security systems on vehicles, especially high-end ones, had driven thieves to target drivers rather than ignition switches. But Cherif was old school. If he laid hands on anything, it was going to be the car. As far as I knew, he was the only one who still worked like that.

We'd fallen out of touch over the years, and then gotten back in touch when I was in the pen. I don't know how he found out. We hadn't spoken for two or three years and then suddenly, there he was, having a conversation with me like nothing had happened. Six months for a guy like him was nothing. But he knew it was a lot for me, and he wanted to make sure I had everything I needed.

The heat on the boulevard is almost unbearable. Café terraces full of hipsters, attentive to the slightest ray of sunshine. No doubt about it, the neighborhood where I grew up has changed. I climb rue de Belleville, shirt sticking to my back with sweat, all the way to the restaurant where we're supposed to meet. We've been meeting up for lunch once a week for years now, ever since I got out. Cherif's waiting outside—short jacket, shaved skull, trimmed beard, and a smile on his face, as usual. We go inside the packed restaurant. The not-very-friendly waiter seats us at a tiny table by a young couple dressed like artists, who are forced to move their chairs so we can sit down.

“Why is it like this now?” Cherif complains, darting glances at the people around us.

“No idea. It's
Madame Rosa
syndrome. What these people don't get is that story's fun to watch but hard to live. And it was before the euro, racial tensions between communities, and all that shit.”

“
Madame Rosa
—that's the book with the Jew and the whore you lent me?” Cherif asks, who could give a shit about my theories and is just checking to see that his memory still works.

“He wasn't Jewish. He was a second-generation North African. The whore was the one who was Jewish.”

Cherif scowls. He doesn't give a shit; it's all the same to him. All he wants is to get the reference I'm making.

“Yeah, it was a fun book. So, how's business?”

“All right.”

He does a double take. “Damn, this is a first.”

“What?”

“Where's all the pissing and moaning about no work, shit work, et cetera?”

“I've got two cases. It's actually kind of busy.”

“Are you kidding? Wait, call the waiter, we're having champagne!” He lifts his hand and calls over the guy who seated us.
“Garçon! Garçon!”

The waiter turns and starts heading over. I pull Cherif's hand down. “Cut the bullshit!”

I wave the waiter away. He shrugs and heads off again.

Cherif is laughing. “C'mon, dude, don't be like that! But seriously, that's amazing. Spill.”

“I have to find a kid who ran away and recover a stolen ride.” I pause a moment. “Say, you know anything about cars?”

He bursts out laughing again. “Shithead.”

“I have to find one for this guy. It got carjacked by Porte de Pantin.”

“So what? Happens all the time. What was he thinking?”

“Apparently it's a pretty sweet ride, an R8.”

He almost chokes. “An R8?”

“Yeah. V10,” I add, hoping I'm getting the digits right.

“An R8—damn, who you working for?”

“A guy who wants to find his car.”

“You know a piece of shit like that's worth at least 150,000 euros, right?”

My mouth drops with this unexpected news. I wasn't expecting that much. A third of that is…I really have to start asking more questions.

“You think you could help me get it back?” I ask Cherif. “Find out who lifted it? A car like that doesn't just go by unnoticed.”

“That's for sure. Whoever took it'll have a hard time fencing it. I can put the word out you're interested, for ten grand.”

“Five?” I haggle, watching my cut go down.

He shakes his head. “With ten, you're sure to have a name in some suburb of the City of Lights before the car disappears.”

“OK, fine.”

“Plus, I'm sure that given your client, ten big ones won't feel like a thing.”

I suppress a grin. He's full of surprises.

“I knew it! Damn, you're lucky I make a good living. You would've spread the wealth at least?”

“Oh, sure.”

We both burst out laughing.

“Asshole! You wouldn't have given me a red cent!”

I pay for lunch.

“Where are you headed? Home?”

“No, I'm headed over to Bes-bar.”

Barbès. A thousand strains of Arabic fill your ears, from Egyptian—the pure stuff—to the backwoods Maghreb lingo most kids speak. A store, one of many on the boulevard, anarchy inside and no AC, just an old fan spinning slo-mo; a bazaar where anyone can find anything used and in decent shape, more or less. Fifteen minutes of elbowing to rummage through the bins of piled-up discards until I finally find what I'm looking for: an old-school Sony Walkman, battery operated. I walk out of the shop dripping sweat, feeling like I've won a battle against dust and time.

Swing by Franprix for some batteries and now here I am on my sofa, my battered earbuds stuck in my ears. And we're off.

Tape goes by. Nothing. Crackling. I hit the fast-forward button. Scratching sounds that bring me back to the park benches of my adolescence. Then a monotone voice, weak but unyielding:

       
I made love to her yesterday. Or at least I tried. We'd had a few drinks, she insisted…After all, we're supposed to be going out, right? Knowing her, she probably asked as more of a challenge. I must be the only man she knows who doesn't want to jump her. I forced myself to do it like everyone else, even though they're all worthless…She did everything she could to turn me on without managing to. Only I could do it. When I realized the sooner I finished, the sooner it would all be over, I concentrated on giving her what she wanted, unplugged from the act so I wouldn't feel a thing anymore, freeing myself, free and easy,
while my mind fled far, far away from the bed. When it was done, she smiled at me, happy, makeup mixed with sweat on her cheeks, pleased with herself. She smelled of sweat and sex, sex for no reason except feeling like a shit afterward. I left her there and took a long shower. When I went back into the room, she was gone. I changed the sheets and opened the window. I shivered, slipping under the sheets. I slept well, the well-earned sleep of the just…No dreams
.

No music, just confessions. Thibaut's confessions. Not what I expected. What's a kid like that making tapes for? I eject the cassette, grab another one at random, and slip it in, torn between the joy of finding something and the anguish of having to listen to this endless stream of private words until I feel like throwing up. But I get some answers.

       
This is what I've decided to do. Every day, on this old tape player. Record myself. That's not right. It's more like I'm telling myself about stuff and recording my voice. Writing it down would be cheating. There's a filter: time to think, to censor, to hide from ridicule or even dramatize it. There's nothing here. Nothing but me. I never go back, never listen to it again—few people like themselves so much they can stand hearing their own voice. I hate myself enough not to be one of those people. At least this makes me talk—otherwise, all this stuff would stay buried. The whole point is just to get it out, not to be heard. I don't want anyone's pity. I just want to be free—to empty myself out and stay empty
.

She's right across from me, on the sidewalk, with three other stupid but still pretty party girls holding their cigarettes like paintbrushes.

“Eve?”

Not very happy to see me, she mumbles, “Hey.”

Her friends shoot me dirty looks.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

She catches on quick that I'm not giving her a choice, that I'll just keep standing right by their table like a real prick, ready to stomach all their chitchat about guys and fashion. She gets up, tells her friends she won't be long. We walk a few yards away, and she takes a nervous drag of her cigarette without looking at me.

“How'd you find me?”

“I asked Charles.”

“Did you have to?”

“If you'd told me everything right from the start, and answered your phone, you could've been sipping your Chablis in peace.”

“Look, I told you everything—”

“You weren't going out. Don't bother lying, there's no point. I get that women weren't really his thing.” I don't need to tell her about the tapes and that time they fucked; she doesn't ask any questions. For the first time she seems sad, genuinely concerned by what I'm telling her.

“We were never really going out, we were just friends.” With a long drag, she finishes her cigarette and tosses it in the gutter. “We had a kind of arrangement. I was supposed to pretend to be his girlfriend at school, with his father—”

She stops, swallows.

“There it is,” she says with a sigh of relief.

“So if I'm getting you right, his college friends and his family didn't appreciate it, right?”

She nods.

“What a shitty crowd, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You know the men he saw?”

“No.”

“Never ran into one?”

“No, he's very secretive about who he sees. He's a brilliant guy, but self-conscious, discreet. I like him a lot.”

“How about at school?”

“Not that I know of. He didn't want to see guys from his own crowd.”

“By choice or from fear it would get around?”

She shrugs. “Both. I don't know.”

“All right. You really don't know anything else? Where he'd go when he wasn't pretending to be someone else? Think.”

“Once we went to eat by the Opéra. He was nervous. I asked him what was wrong. He had to go to a special party afterward, find a friend of his in the neighborhood. It seemed to make him nervous. That's the only time he ever mentioned anyone, but no names.”

“And afterward?”