Zenith Hotel (6 page)

They have a bite to eat and then go out for their morning walk. All the people they meet in the streets are on their way to work. They sell their labour power to the highest bidder. Their hair is combed, their shoes polished. Victor hasn’t made that kind of effort for a long time. He washes, he gets dressed, that’s already plenty. Freed from the office paper chains. No more Post-it notes stuck on his head, staples in his brain or ink on his hands. No more travel card. Now he buys a ticket when he has to go somewhere. They rarely leave
the neighbourhood. What’s the point? asks Victor. It’s true, what’s the point of rushing around all the time, looking for whatever it is that’s missing? The same misery as here except it’s somewhere else. Women ignoring you, kids shoving you, cars beeping you. A little bit of urban misery,
whichever
neighbourhood you’re in, whichever side of the river. So that’s enough, we’ll go out as little as possible since the world’s not interested in us, because it bruises us and scalds us. Only to give Baton some fresh air, let him crap on the
pavements
, which, frankly, don’t deserve any better. If only he could cover them in shit! That would be a laugh, slimy green shit oozing all over the
pavements
. It would dirty their shoes, it would stick to their soles, they’d slither around in it, they’d wallow in it, they’d all be covered in shit from head to foot. They’d cut a fine figure with Baton’s shit behind their ears! They’d eat it, they’d fill their lungs with it.

That’s all they deserve, to choke on Baton’s shit, nice and runny, totally disgusting. Flies would be glued to their skin; they’d do their job before the maggots set to work. Paris like a vast squat toilet with the Seine in the middle. All those litres and litres of Baton’s runny shit flowing into the sea. It would get into the buildings, the infernal tide
would seep under the doors until it reached the hallways. A vile stench clinging to the walls like the most persistent grubs. Puke too, Victor’s puke, which doesn’t help matters. It’s tough, that vomit, the bile of a pro, thickened by years and years of suffering. Yes, that would be a glorious,
magnificent
revenge, the world coming to an end awash with human puke and dog shit. The tidal wave people were waiting for! Liberated by the
unspeakable
, the stinking poison secreted by those two, Victor and Baton, cesspools of shit, chasms of puke. Here we come, take cover! Put your boots on, pull down your visors! We’re all psyched up. Just this one little pleasure and we’ll leave you in peace, promise, it won’t last long. Let it all out in one go and we’re done. There, it’s not much, we just need to expel the litres of bile from our bodies. Trust me, we’ve been holding them in from birth.

There is no tsunami. Only those two shadows whose walk is haunted by apocalyptic fantasies. They walk, as is their habit. It will be a walk like thousands of previous walks. Nothing sensational, nothing astonishing, just two shadows, the first on two feet, the second on a leash. No one notices
them. They progress one step at a time, two lives in which nothing changes. They stumble more and more frequently, they roll like two little polished glass marbles on an imaginary slope. The two shadows fly over people, Victor and Baton,
invisible
to the world.

Another day dawns. They move forward in time the way they walk through the streets. Baton isn’t dead, but he’s sixteen and it won’t be long.

When I get home, I’m going to burn all this. I don’t want anyone to read it. So why write? I don’t know, it’s stupid.

Like pretty much everything around me. I’ve given up trying to figure it out. I’d rather think about my coffee, Jeannot, or the owner of the Zenith Hotel. These everyday human stories are comforting, the little snippets of gossip that are our salvation. You feel alive, you think about something other than the blood running through your veins. You think about what they said or what they did – it’s a bit like watching an
animated
postcard. Life as a TV soap that offers an escape.

I will have managed to talk about myself, though, a few pages of self-indulgence. I didn’t think I was capable of it.

Forgive my style and my mistakes. Don’t feel sorry for me either, that’s not why I’m doing this. Like I already said, I write to kill time, so don’t go thinking it’s for sentimental reasons or anything like that.

I love the colour of the tarmac when it rains. The
pavements
sparkle as if they’d been mopped clean. If it
weren’t for the muddy puddles and the dirty cracks, you really might think that the ground you’re walking on, the pavement where I wait and work, was
radiating
something new. As if we were the first people ever to walk on it. Urban adventurers, we could scratch our initials on it with a penknife. It won’t graze you if you stumble. It’s as smooth and slippery as an
imitation-leather
banquette.

I drop my cigarette butts on the pavement. I dirty it. When the lighted end lands on the ground it makes a pretty sound,
psschit
. The tobacco goes soggy, the lighted end gives up the ghost. It’s no longer red, it’s already black, a mixture of ash and water, like at the bottom of a plastic cup.

I’m getting tired, my legs are heavy, this job consumes your body. Your soul no longer has a monopoly on suffering.

I’ve seen everything. It would take too long to write about. And disgusting it is too.

There’s a guy over the street selling roses. He trails his sadness and a huge bunch of red flowers from one café terrace to another. He’s looking for love, it’s his bread and butter. Without those lovestruck couples, he wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t be able to pay for the shabby furnished room where he stretches out his withered body. He makes his living from those who are in love. It can’t be that easy when you’re alone with your big red bunch of flowers. He has no one to give it to, he wants to get rid of it.

I loved someone once, but I don’t want to talk about it.

I like the pages in my notebook. They’re soft. I often run my palm over them before writing on them, as if I wanted them to feel my quivering heart. I can’t be rough with it. I pick it up gently, so as not to hurt it.

It is an object that speaks to me.

I have a notebook and an ashtray. Nothing else matters. My electric hotplate, my cafetière, my red scarf, my aluminium toaster, all these things make my life easier, but I don’t love them. My ashtray I always take with me, it’s gilded and it has a little swinging lid. It’s pretty.