Night Sky (2 page)

The spasms faded at last and, his bowels empty, Vasson got to his feet and stepped quickly on to the landing, gasping for fresh air. He stood for a moment, listening. The house was quiet. Faint street sounds drifted up the stairwell and the murmur of snores floated across the landing. Most of the women were asleep or out, though some might have customers. No-one had seen him.

He went back into his room and was sure of one thing – he would go ahead with what had to be done. There was no going back, no giving up, not if he was to get out of this terrible place.

And he had to get out.

It wasn’t just the filth and the disgusting women, it was the humiliation. The
Patron
had put him in charge of this house on purpose, just to humiliate him, he was certain of that. Any cheap
mac
in the
quartier
could have done the job. The women were old, worn-out and pathetic, their only customers drunks or perverts. He loathed the sight of them. The job was an insult.

At first Vasson had thought that the job was a testing ground, that after a short time the
Patron
would ask him into the Business itself. But after six months he realised the move would never come. The
Patron
was purposely excluding him from the real action, purposely keeping him here in this hole. Treating him like rubbish. A very stupid man.

He dressed carefully, choosing old but freshly ironed cotton trousers and a cool white shirt. He hesitated over the choice of shoes: his old ones were badly worn now, while the new ones hidden in their box were tantalisingly smart. They were two-tone black and white in softest Moroccan leather and very expensive. But too risky, he finally decided. The most junior of house-minders did not have money for things like that.

He leant down and unlocked the bottom drawer of the old
commode
. He went through the contents carefully: new suit in pale blue linen, white silk shirt, tie, cotton socks, and a wallet, including identity card, driving licence and seven thousand francs in large notes. He was particularly pleased with the suit: it had been a real bargain. At first Goldrich, the tailor, had pressed him for the full price but Vasson had soon worn him down. Belonging to an organisation did have one advantage: people didn’t argue with you. Anyway, Goldrich was a Jew and Jews could always afford to reduce their prices.

The identity papers had taken a lot of finding. But, as Vasson kept reminding himself, they were almost untrace-able and therefore worth every bit of the effort. He had gone to Lyons, though it had meant a tedious two-hour train journey. But the further from Marseilles the better. Even if the worst came to the worst and they thought of checking up, Lyons was an unlikely place to go for documents. Anyway, they wouldn’t find anything: Vasson had avoided going to the local dealer – even if one existed, which he doubted. Instead he had watched outside the College dè Sciences Physiques in the Rue de la Trinité until, after two long days, he had finally seen a student who bore a resemblance to himself. The youth’s height and colouring were right and Vasson judged his age to be about twenty-one or twenty-two. Vasson himself was twenty-three, but he never thought of himself as young. He had never felt young, even when he was a child.

He had followed the youth back to a tall ugly house on the edge of the town and seen a light come on in a top left-hand window. Vasson had been sick at the thought of what he might have to do next: he loathed the idea of physical violence. But there was little possibility of the student leaving his wallet and identity card lying around in the daytime. Vasson would have to take them while the boy slept, although the risk of discovery – and of having to defend himself – was appalling.

As it was, the whole thing had been ridiculously easy. The side door of the house had been open and then, astonishingly, the student’s door too. Vasson’s heart had hammered so loudly that the
tête de con
must surely hear, but no, he slept on and it had taken only minutes for Vasson to find the wallet lying casually on a side table. He had crept out, sick with excitement, and vomited in the alleyway beside the house.

The wallet contained an identity card in the name of Jean-Marie Biolet, aged twenty-two, resident of 17, Rue Madeleine in the town of St Etienne. Vasson had been rather disappointed in the photograph: the likeness was not as good as he’d hoped. But a change of hairstyle and some glasses would hide the differences. The driving licence was a real bonus though, and more than made up for the photograph.

Vasson was immensely pleased with the result of his three-day excursion. He could easily have bought an identity card on the Marseilles market, but that would have been stupid: once the pressure was on, someone, somewhere, would have talked. As it was the card in the name of Jean-Marie Biolet could never be linked to Vasson. The knowledge gave him deep satisfaction. The identity would mean a complete break with the past. After today Paul Vasson, born in the Old Quarter of Marseilles, would cease to exist. The thought gave him a curious thrill.

Vasson examined the last item in the drawer: a leather money belt. The remaining two hundred thousand francs should fit into the neat pouches, but he couldn’t be sure until he actually got hold of the money and tried it in place. He’d asked for large notes, as large as possible, but they would still take up a lot of space. He would have to worry about that when the time came.

Vasson locked the drawer again and looked round the room. He picked up his washing things and put them into a hold-all with his raincoat and felt hat. He would leave the rest of his possessions; they would be no loss, no loss at all.

His eye caught a magazine cutting pinned to the wall above the bed and he took it down. It was an advertisement showing a stylised drawing of a car. Vasson examined it closely as he had a hundred times before. It was a D8SS Delage. The most beautiful,
perfect
, thing in the world.

He had often imagined what it must be like to drive such a thing, to feel it round your body: the leather seats, the throb of the 4-litre engine accelerating to over 160 kilometres an hour, and the shiny newness of the long, smooth body, as sleek as a cat’s.

He folded the cutting and put it in his wallet. Soon – by tonight – he would have enough money to buy a D8SS. The thought made him sick with excitement and he almost giggled.

The air was very still, the cooling wind that sometimes wafted up from the harbour had died away and the atmosphere in the room was stifling. It was still a bit early to meet Jojo, but suddenly Vasson had to leave, to get going before he started thinking too much. Thinking was all right when he was making plans: he liked planning. But it was no good now – he kept thinking about what might go wrong.

Anyway it was too late now.

And then he remembered with a jolt that it really
was
too late.

He ran quickly down the stairs and out into the cobbled street, blinking at the harsh afternoon light. The Old Quarter was crowded and he had to push his way through knots of people meandering along the hot narrow alleys. A couple of Arabs walked towards him, their arms around each other, and Vasson cursed as he was forced to step round them. One of the Arabs laughed and brushed his lips across the other’s bearded cheek. Bare-footed children were playing in the doorways while their mothers hung washing between the tall crumbling houses and leaned over the latticed balconies, shouting at one another.

Vasson regarded the scene with distaste: it had not changed since he had been a child here twenty years before. The people lived like pigs, squashed together. They had no will to change, no drive to escape. They were happy to exist like this all their wretched lives.

A child came pelting out of a doorway, shouting with laughter, and ran straight under Vasson’s feet so that he almost tripped. He swore loudly. The child swerved quickly away and scampered down an alleyway, its feet flying. Vasson watched it angrily, half determined to chase after it. Suddenly the small figure lurched and fell forward onto the cobblestones, its limbs sprawled.

Vasson felt glad: it served the little devil right. The child did not move. Vasson wandered up the alley and looked down at it. He prodded its ribs with his foot. The child slowly lifted its head and turned towards him, its bleeding face crumpled with misery. Vasson stood and watched. The child lowered its head again and began to cry noisily.

There was something despairing about the sobbing shoulders. Tentatively Vasson reached down and touched the child. The child seemed not to notice. He grasped the small body and lifted it to its feet, holding it at arm’s length. It was a strange sensation, to be holding a child. He patted the child’s cheek rather brusquely. ‘All right?’

The child did not answer but continued to cry. Vasson went on one knee and, very slowly, pulled the child towards him, putting an arm round the narrow shoulders. He felt the child stiffen. ‘Don’t touch me, you bastard!’ The small face, so close to his, was ugly with contempt. Vasson got hastily to his feet and choked back his anger. The child ran off, screaming obscenities.

Vasson strode furiously back into the street. The bloody child had tricked him, made a fool of him. Children were no different from anyone else, he thought bitterly; they were out to get you, like the rest.

He turned on to the quay and hurried along the harbour, but went past the street where Jojo lived. Only when he felt calmer did he go back and walk up to Jojo’s. He was still half an hour early. He paused, wondering whether to wait in the street or go straight up to the apartment.

It was the thought of Jojo’s woman that made him hesitate.

She was a bitch, first class. She made Vasson feel uneasy. She was crafty, clever, like a cat, and, when she wanted to she could make people feel small – especially men who didn’t go for her. Not that there were many of those. She was beautiful in a flashy, grotesquely physical sort of way and men made fools of themselves over her. Vasson always went out of his way to avoid her.

Also, she was a whore.

For several minutes Vasson leant against the wall, full of indecision, angry he should be nervous of the wretched woman.

But suddenly he made up his mind and strode into the building, thinking: Christ, what the hell am I worrying about?

Today Jojo’s woman was going to be the very least of his problems.

Solange lay on the bed and drew heavily on her cigarette. She noticed that her hands were shaking. She wasn’t surprised: she’d never been so angry in her life. Her temper was, she knew, appalling. But it wasn’t her fault, it was just the way she was made. It was the mixed blood or something. She liked to think she had some of the gentle qualities of her Cambodian mother, but her father seemed to come out in her every time. He had been half-French, half-Martinican, and his favourite sport was fighting. He’d died in a bar brawl.

Jojo had finally gone too far. She loved him most of the time but at other times she could kill him. This afternoon was one of the times when she could positively strangle him. Why, oh why couldn’t he get going and actually
do
something? All he did was talk – and even then he backtracked.

There were sounds from the tiny kitchen and she guessed that Jojo was making some of his beloved black treacly coffee. She considered whether to go in and have it out with him again but she knew it would end the same way as before, with her throwing something. Just half an hour ago it had been an ashtray – the shards were still lying on the floor – but as usual Jojo had ignored her.

The row had been about the same old subject: their future.

They had discussed their plans more times than she could count. At first Solange had loved going over the details, it really used to cheer her up. The idea was simple: as soon as they had saved enough money they were going to take an apartment off La Canebière – something really smart with large rooms and a beautiful bathroom – and live there together, just the two of them. During the day Solange would see her high-class punters, but strictly by appointment; she would have a maid-cum-secretary, dressed in elegant black, to answer the door and the telephone. Then Jojo and she would have the evenings all to themselves, they would walk down La Canebière and look at all the smart shops and visit the top restaurants, like that La Babayette place where the waiters wore stiff collars and the
crêpes
were
flambéed
at the table.

It was all going to be wonderful. She just
knew
their new life would be a success.

Solange had saved nearly all the money, even though it had meant taking on punters she could normally have turned over to someone else.

Then Jojo had got cold feet. He had started to mutter about the problems, always the problems. Solange had the unpleasant feeling he was just frightened, nervous of the
Patron
and how the old man would feel about it. To hell with it – girls had left the
Patron’s
establishments before and nothing had happened. Jojo was just a goddam coward.

It was more than she could bear to think of staying on at the Red House. It was a dead-end job: the decent punters didn’t dare be seen round the place too often because of its reputation, though they all said they would love to visit her more often. And those who
did
come regularly were rubbish: no finesse, no style at all. Solange admired style.

She deserved better, everyone said so. But she couldn’t get out on her own, she had no illusions about that. She needed Jojo to protect her, and she needed him
now,
damn it.

Jojo appeared in the kitchen doorway and she could see that he was still sore with her. He was avoiding her eyes and shuffling his feet like a spoilt child. Suddenly she didn’t have the energy to yell at him any more. Her frustration and rage began to evaporate. She went towards him and hugged his back. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jojo pulled a face. He enjoyed being a martyr and Solange knew she would have to cajole him into forgiving her, a process which could take two days or more. She thought: The bastard, how he’s putting it on. But at the same time she knew she would play the role of repentant sinner to the full, as she always did.