Billie (16 page)

And since everyone looked at me as though I'd done him in, I started in again in order to resuscitate the bastard who had dared to hit a sweet little boy:

“So?” I said in my unrecognizable voice that I used for fomenting rebellion. “Do you feel that? Do you see what happens when someone is hit by surprise? Do you see how unpleasant it is? Never do that again, got it? Because next time I'll kill you.”

And as he wasn't able to answer me since he was sucking on his cracked teeth, I continued:

“Don't worry, I'm going to get out of here pronto because I can't stand your dirty fascist mouth anymore, but I'm going to tell you one last thing before I leave, asshole . . . Hey, look at me . . . You hear me? Well then listen good: you see, pal, there . . . (and at the same time I was saying that, I didn't dare look in the direction of Francky, of course), (I can't be brave about everything on the same day), well, he's queer . . . and I'm a lesbo . . . oh yeah . . . and that fact, just think, every night, in our little tent, well, it doesn't stop us from doing really filthy things with our bodies, the two of us . . . things you can't even imagine . . . He rarely ejaculates on me, I assure you, but what if a drinking spree goes haywire one evening . . . what if . . . well, if there was a kid born from all that filth between a queer and a lesbian, you know what? Not only would we keep him just to piss you off, but also, we would never hit him. Never, you understand? We wouldn't ever hurt him the least little bit. Never, never, never . . . And if he really bugged us too much and it prevented us from getting back to our orgy, you know what? We'd bump him off, but we'd do it nicely . . . I swear on the head of your children that he wouldn't suffer. Cross my heart and hope to die. All right now . . . goodbye . . . and fuck off!”

 

And then I spit at his feet and headed in the direction of my shepherd.

Because I was on the path of Faith, Life, Light, and Truth.

I
walked straight ahead for hours and hours.

Straight toward Jesus's mountain.

I didn't even turn around once to see if Francky was following me.

I knew he was following me.

I knew he hated me but was following me anyway.

I knew he hated me but was thanking me at the same time.

And I knew it was really messing up his head.

 

Because between that fascist ball breaker and his father, there must not have been that much difference . . . The fact is, they belonged to the same cell of the Defenders of Western Christianity . . .

At one point, I froze before some sort of a rift in the mountains.

First, because it was the end of the trail; second, because I hadn't heard any noise behind me for a really long time.

None.

 

I froze in place and waited.

Blind faith, okay, but I wasn't blind.

Plus, as that poet would say, there is no love.

There are only proofs of love.

 

I froze in place and looked at my watch.

If he's not here in twenty minutes, I said to myself, I'm giving up the lease on the apartment in the rue de la Fidelité.

No matter how smug I was from time to time, I was still a fragile little thing.

Shit. It was as much for him as for myself that I had blown a fuse.

 

Liar.

 

Okay, I admit it. It was only for myself.

Not even for myself . . . But for a little girl I knew when I was little . . .

A little girl whom I never had the chance to tell that even if she smelled during the winter months, she was still my friend and could always join my group of friends and sit next to me in class.

Always.

And forever.

 

So, okay, there you have it. That's the story.

She got it, her proof of love . . .

 

If in nineteen minutes, he's not there, I repeated to myself, gritting my teeth, I'll give up the lease on the apartment in the rue de la Fidelité.

 

And exactly seventeen minutes later, a voice behind my back spit out its venom:

“Hey? You know what? You're a pain in the ass, Morel . . . You're a real pain in the ass!”

I must have cried with happiness.

It was the most beautiful and most romantic declaration of love that anyone had ever made to me in my life.

 

I turned around, flew into his arms, and—I don't know how I did it— somehow managed to pull both of us into the rift.

We barreled down a rocky slope and ended up all the way at the bottom, smack in the middle of some incredibly thorny bushes and in more or less a thousand pieces.

We crawled as best we could toward an area that was a bit flatter and then gave each other the silent treatment.

 

Okay, little star, there you have it . . . It's over . . . And if you want to see us again and with bonus features, go back to season 1, episode 1, because I no longer have anything to add.

H
ee hee hee.

I was dreaming that Franck was tickling me.

Hee hee hee. But . . . uh . . .
stop
that . . .

And when I opened my eyes, I realized I had finally fallen asleep and those little coochy coos weren't Franck in a dream, but Donkster robbing my pockets.

 

“Your new friend wants an apple, it seems . . . ”

I straightened up, grimacing, still because of my mangled arm, and I saw that Franck was there, all calm, sitting on a rock making coffee.

 

“Coffee's ready,” he said.

“Francky? Is it you? You're not dead?”

“No, not yet . . . Your little stunt didn't work, not so far at least.”

“You haven't broken anything?”

“Yeah, my ankle, I think . . . ”

“But uh . . . I'm having a tough time sorting this out . . . you weren't in a coma?”

“No.”

“So what were you doing, then?”

“Sleeping.”

Holy fuck, what nerve . . . and all that worry he caused me?

 

Holy fuck, what nerve . . .

Holy fuck, what nerve!

The man was sleeping . . .

The man was resting . . .

The man was snoozing out in the open . . .

He was simply asleep in the arms of that little slut Morpheus while I gorged on my misery . . .

He sucks.

He let me down.

 

All that anguish when he had just pretended to pass out . . . All that effort the whole night to make us look good . . . All that work to make our shit look pretty . . . And I had to do it all on the sly because I prefer to inspire respect instead of pity.

Yes, all that digging into my lovely childhood memories to get what would be helpful and to avoid what would serve no purpose other than to drag me even deeper into despair.

All that work to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear . . .

All that bravery . . .

All that tenderness . . .

All that love . . .

And since I was cold . . . And felt alone . . . And was sad . . . And since I had worked so hard to get a dead star to love us . . . and . . . with his handjob fantasy in addition to everything else . . .

Fuck, I was really pissed off then.

Really, really pissed.

 

“And the donkey? How'd he get here?” I asked.

“I don't know. He was here when I woke up . . . ”

“But what path did he take?”

“That path there . . . ”

“But . . . uh . . . how did he find us?”

“Don't ask me . . . Yet another jackass stupid enough to care a bit about you . . . ”

“ . . . ”

“Are you mad?”

“Well, yeah, I'm mad, you idiot! I was really worried! And I didn't get a wink of sleep.”

“I see that.”

 

Oh I was mad all right, and as for his coffee, he knew where he could shove it.

 

“You're really angry at me?” he asked with his treacherous little mouth.

“ . . . ”

“That much?”

“ . . . ”

“Really that much?”

“ . . . ”

“Really, really?”

“ . . . ”

“You were really worried about me?”

“ . . . ”

“You really thought I was in a coma?”

“ . . . ”

“You were sad?”

“ . . . ”

“Really, really sad?”

“ . . . ”

Yeah, that's it. Keep going, you big idiot. Keep making me feel even more fucking stupid.

Silence.

 

He hobbled over and placed a steaming cup of coffee next to me with a slice of gingerbread.

I didn't budge.

 

He sat down as much as he was able with his stiff leg and said to me in a very sweet voice:

“Look at me.”

Fuck you.

“Look at me, Billie Jean.”

Fine, click . . . click, I cranked my neck three millimeters upward.

“You know, I adore you,” he murmured, looking me straight in the eyes. “I adore you more than anyone . . . You know that after all this time, right?”

“ . . . ”

“Yes, you know. I know you can't help it . . . but for almost four nights in a row you've kept me from sleeping and . . . you're exhausting, you know? Really, really, exhausting . . . So exhausting that sometimes, to deal with you, well, I have to pretend to die . . . You understand that, don't you?”

“ . . . ”

“Go on, drink your coffee, girl.”

I was crying.

So he crawled over to me that morning and, sailor's warning, gave me a hug.

“I th-th-thought you were deaaaaad,” I coughed.

“No . . . ”

“I th-th-thought you were deaaaaad and that I was g-g-going to kill myself toooooo . . . ”

“Oh Billie, you're wearing me out . . . ” he sighed. “Go on, drink your coffee and eat a little bit. We still haven't gotten out of this mess.”

 

And I chewed my completely disgusting gingerbread with a marmalade of tears.

 

And I cried again because I d-d-etested g-g-ginger-b-b-bread.

W
e took off as best we could, hobbling along in the sun and wind, like in that Yves Montand song.

I had made a splint for Franck with some pieces of wood and some string and he used Donkster like a walker.

We were no longer the ones who guided the providential little donkey; rather it was he who was bringing us back to the fold.

At least that's what we were hoping . . .

To the fold or anywhere.

Anywhere but near my last victim, right?

Right, Donkster? Don't do that to me, okay?

Please.

No, no, he answered, I'm bringing you back to the stable.

I've also had it up to my snout with all of your bullshit . . .

Fine.

We trusted him.

 

Hobbling along,

in the sun and the

wiiiiiiiiiiiiind so strong . . .

 

(Okay, for sure, it sounds better if you have the tune in your head.)

 

He was really too cute that little donkey.

Well, I'll come back and make off with him one day.

 

I stopped talking.

Completely.

End of discussion.

Too much emotion, too much exhaustion, too much pain and too much offense taken as well, I have to say.

Franck tried two or three times to start a new topic of conversation, but each time I let it peter out.

Okay, I'm no saint either . . .

 

He could have spoken to me at least once that night . . .

Just once.

 

I was as mad as hell at him.

Plus, I had made a fool of myself in front of all those cold stars that couldn't give a damn about my stories.

And I cried and everything.

What a jerk.

 

Silence.

A big fat silence in the sun and Siberian cold.

 

And then . . . after about an hour perhaps . . . I finally cracked.

I'd had enough of being all alone with my thoughts since the evening before. Enough, enough. I was really bad company for myself. Plus, I missed him. I missed my bastard of a friend.

So I said:

“Say, it's warm, isn't it?”

And he smiled at me.

 

Then we talked about this and that like in the good ol' days, but without making the slightest reference to my latest feat. Well, that did it. It was forgotten . . . But there would be others.

After a few minutes, he asked me:

“Why were you laughing?”

“Excuse me?”

“I understood that you were very unhappy and extremely preoccupied with my being in an advanced coma, but at one point, during the night, I heard you laugh. Burst out laughing. Why? Were you thinking about everything you would be able to steal from me in the rue de la Fidelité?

“No,” I smiled. “No . . . It was because I was thinking again about the face of the guys in our class when we finished acting out our scene.”

“What scene?”

“Uh, you know . . . the scene from Musset . . . ”

“Ah really? I was dying right in front of you at that time and you were thinking about the morons from our class ages ago?”

“Well, yeah . . . ”

“And what was the connection?”

“I don't know . . . it just came to me.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You're really a funny girl, you know?”

“ . . . ”

 

Silence.

“Say, you don't mean that play where Perdican marries Rosette in the end?”

And it started up again. We were at it once more.

It was the most timeworn of all our running gags, but fine . . . we would get right to it if that's what he really wanted, and we were off.