The Heart of the Leopard Children (8 page)

He told me several times how much he regretted not getting his diploma because he's sure it would have made his reconversion much easier. He was conscious of the obstacles he faced in achieving the complete transformation he hoped for. His teachers, when they talked about him, had chills running down their spine. To them, he was literally poison of the worst kind, violent and uncontrollable, who couldn't even spell his own name right.

He was so glad to help me out whenever he could and to introduce me to his new crew. He was genuinely emotional and happy when he formally introduced me to his very first employers. I could feel how much it meant to him, and he was so grateful.

His employers were a couple of low-key Jewish
pieds-noirs
who had a stand in the town's market where they sold exotic dried fruit and other products from the Mediterranean, twice a week. They didn't want to know my name or learn anything about me. I showed up one morning with Kamel; they barely explained what they expected from me and didn't even take the time to really look at me or greet me with a smile. They couldn't be bothered with common courtesy. At the time, I had only one dream, to get on the train with Mireille and take off with her on a real adventure, far away from everything. Once she'd received sufficient financial allowances for her excellent school
results, we decided that we'd meet at the Gare de Lyon. Florence, Venice, Madrid, hello world, here we come!

Sitting in my present distress, I can still feel the intensity of that unbelievable moment of happiness. It was like a shot of freedom. The kind of feelings and ideas you dream about in the privacy of your bedroom or while strolling along the alleys in your neighborhood, but that you can barely imagine actually becoming a reality. Just like a cliché, we met up on the platform. I think she wanted it to be just like that. Me standing there waiting for her; she coming toward me. A little wave of the hand, and her running up to me and throwing herself into my arms as I spun her around in the air while she held on to her hat and kissed me fully on the lips, all smiles. She wore a simple white cotton dress, just below the knees and with lace straps, her feet light in her ballerinas. Dressed exactly like the woman in the
TV
commercial I like so very much. In the commercial, the woman runs into the water, takes three steps and then jumps and throws her hat high up into the sky.

On this day, Mireille was that image! She was the princess of my days and hot wild nights!

We had so many loving words for each other during our trip to Italy. We started the trip by way of Paris, went through the suburbs, the
RER
train stations, past the gray dismal-looking buildings of the housing projects, sad and dirty, and then finally into the countryside. Far away from everything, it was just the two of us and silence. We were happy, her thick curly black hair laying on my chest, smiling, her lips on my skin. She was into me. I was her country. By dawn, we were in Italy, the freshness of the summer morning made us shiver a bit. A whole new décor, the air delightfully perfumed. The instructions from the immigration officers were music to the ear, Mireille's face expressed relief. She looked on at me to see if I had realized that I was now really far away from everything. She stretched her body and laughed, relieved. We were in Florence. It was six o'clock in the morning.
The city was still asleep. We wanted to take advantage of the deserted streets and avoid the naïve and sordid hordes of tourists.

She had spoken to me many times about the Florence syndrome. The remarkable beauty of the place would make any charmed traveler experience a terrible malaise, especially standing in the piazza Stendhal had written so much about and made infamous. We found it yesterday when we crossed the famous bridge. The city square is so narrow and the palace is so high up, but to be honest, we were so intoxicated and overwhelmed by our feelings that she literally passed out in my arms. Mireille, what pleasure to feel you so close to me, to feel your whole body vibrating as you abandoned yourself into my arms. I savor this moment with the certainty that loving someone is the one truth in this world.

Then Venice, Mireille and I gliding through the maze of the canals, swimming at the Lido beach, just so we could say we had been there at least once, later camping in Rome with the pleasure of making love under the stars, and finally the Genoa train station that we wound up missing, so caught up in our kissing. We stopped in Nice, another childhood dream, lying on the pebble beach, without a single word, our eyes looking up at the sky, overwhelmed by the feeling that we were finally living. We went on to Seville. Spain in the summer heat, thirty-six hours in the train without a shower, Mireille's scent was so strong it made me crazy. Mireille, I wanted to take you then and there!

Final stop, Portugal. Lost in Lisbon and its alleyways, we stop in a tavern where Mireille drinks too much white wine. She has the modesty not to complain about our inevitable departure. Neither she nor I express a single word of sadness or regret. We simply treasure our final walk in a faraway country. Tipsy, she meanders along, a little unsure of her footing on the steep paths. Alone in a city that has long gone to sleep, we are gradually overcome by desire. Moaning, she insists I make love to her right there and then, with her leaning up against the wall. The autumn in her eyes stares intensely into mine. We keep our clothes on, leaving the necessary space to explore the rhythm
of our bodies. Shivering as she holds me up against her in a mixture of pleasure and pain at not being able to swallow me up whole, her eyes open wide to the intensity of the pleasure. In this moment, everything becomes light and beautiful. At the height of our pleasure, I groan deeply, Mireille looks into my eyes and digs her fingers into my skin. Abandoning herself to what she's feeling, we finally hold each other. In the height of pleasure, Mireille's body twitches uncontrollably.

On the journey back to Paris in the train, we talked about future travels. Our next trip would be to Israel. You're so beautiful in your boundless joy. You know how to make dreams come alive. You're a new and unusual elixir, always so maddeningly measured, your hands in mine, with an insatiable passion. You're the one forging the key to our future. Jerusalem, culture and history to start things off, then on to Elath to relax and enjoy ourselves by the beach, one of her uncles lives in a kibbutz there where she plans to take me. She wants me to discover the land of her people. Later on, we will dive body and soul into the Bakongo country, under the protective eye of the invisible eternal leopards, sit at the tombs of our ancestor without fear of sorcerers or witch doctors. Knowing her childlike enthusiasm, I'm sure she'll love it. We could end our day lying on the white sandy beach at Pointe-Noire, listening to the sounds of the Atlantic Ocean. With the sky just above us, we could keep feeding our fantasies! The train continues in a monotonous hum, the countryside under an incredible heat wave, and the hideous buildings soon consume the horizon before us. From our window, we see commuters climbing mechanically into the
RER
. Then come the roofs and the noisy streets of Paris, while Mireille and I sleep, wrapped up in each other, peacefully.

How could you have forgotten the intensity of our nights together, Mireille, the peaceful sleep, my head against your chest? Is this really what you're now calling stories about kids? Remember the night Kamel stole the blue car with the big engine. Drissa and I were used
to taking the
RER
to go to parties, but Kamel was showing off about his new invention taxi-débrouille. You want to go somewhere, just find a ride down the road, and then you pretty much take off. You know, it's kind of like a mini-loan. Long live solidarity! He laughs, revealing the few teeth he has left, and before you know it we're off for a night out on town.

Nine miles down the highway, Bob Marley blasting through the speakers, the owner of the car has some good tunes, Kamel driving still with no license, he never got the code so he could pick one up in the bureau; Drissa, up front, scared for his life; and me, hanging out in the back seat wondering if Mireille will hook up with us. We were going so fast that the trees on the sidewalk seemed to form a straight line. Kamel and Drissa realized I wasn't in the mood to talk or mess around. Drissa was listening to Kamel tell him that they'd finally found his sister who'd run away. Kamel's mother had given him the privilege of lacerating the offender so that she would forever wear the unforgiveable scars of her moral degradation. One more reason for Drissa's descent into insanity, his captivity in silence. What is the best part of man? I am one with the reggae music and I open up a bottle of gin. Up in the front of the car, dead silence, the end of that tragic story left a chill in the air. Drissa would like to exit for another life, slip into another skin; Kamel isn't quite sure anymore of the difference between good and evil. He recalls the games he used to play with his sister when they were kids but very quickly returns to his mask of the fierce brute, ready to take on the whole world if he has to. It's a huge relief when he finally parks in front of the entrance to the party. After all it's Saturday night, it's time to have some fun. We greet our friends, shake a few hands here, four kisses there, this is Kamel's crowd and he's back in his element as the big boss man; Drissa, the dark mysterious silent one, clueless when it comes to relaxing and being lighthearted; and then there's me, practically drunk and pretty much feeling hopeless. I get the feeling that she's not going to come. Ludovic was also there, dancing like a crazy man on the huge dance floor.

Mireille did finally show up with her friend Carole while Drissa was helping me between tears and vomiting. After being so gentle and taking really good care of me, he explained to Mireille how much I'd missed her. Mireille stood there torn between wanting to go have a good time on the dance floor and a sense of duty to stay and take care of me. Mireille, light of my life, you knew how to use just the right tone to talk to me. We sat together at the foot of a tree in the night, the sound of your voice lulling me, while you soothed me by caressing the nape of my neck. My head on your thighs, I was virtually drowning in the universe between your legs. Drissa and Carole had hooked up with the others for some time now when suddenly chairs started flying around the bar area. Mireille was telling me that they'd had to hitchhike to get here and that a fascist pig in a red and white car had picked them up. He was a student officer, on his way to visit his grandmother not far from the dance hall. He would have been glad to give them a ride home but was too afraid of these kinds of parties. She always knew how to temper my jealousy. With a reassuring smile, I kissed her inner thighs, her dress was a bit rolled up and with my teeth I freed her from her undergarment. A bit embarrassed at first, she laughed and then took a deep breath once my mouth touched her thick and tender skin. With the juices from her adorable garden on my lips and tongue I tasted the spice of lovers.

Hidden in the darkness about some sixty feet away from the dance hall, we had missed the beginning of the fighting. All of a sudden people were rushing outside, tear gas had been sprayed, some people were screaming, others were crying. A huge brawl was going on in mass confusion. By some sheer miracle, Drissa and Kamel found us. We had to get out of there as fast as we could! Two
CRS
police vans had already turned up, loaded with clubs, boots, and helmets. Those who were jumping like crazy on top of cars or running around not knowing what to do were among the first to get caught.

Drissa gave us one of those warm, almost paternal looks, like you would give a baby who was just having a good time, not making any trouble. He thanked Mireille. Kamel couldn't contain his excitement.
For him a night out without a fight was not a real night out. He managed to land a couple of punches and get away from the police. Luckily Mireille recognized the student officer's car that had picked her up earlier in the evening, which made Kamel overjoyed. There's nothing quite like stealing the car of a son of a bitch, future representative of law and order, to make a Saturday night out really special. He promised to bang it up pretty good once he got it back to the neighborhood.

Back on the highway in the dark of the night, the same trees but in the opposite direction and this time no music. On the back seat, Mireille and I were wrapped up in each other, tighter than ever, the palm of my hand crushed under the volume of her bare curves, my fingers inside her, drowning in pleasure. She was biting her hand to stop herself from screaming out her pleasure. Drissa, serious and brooding, listened to Kamel explain how angry he was that he'd never set foot in Algeria and yet his father had fought on behalf of France during the war. No one could give a shit. For the French, he's just another brown-skinned, frizzy-haired guy. An Arab. For others, he was the son of a traitor. The more he talked, the worse his driving became. The car was going to be a way to avenge himself. Once we arrived, I asked him to loan me the car for an hour and then he would have all the time in the world to destroy it. He wished us a good fuck and took off grinning with Drissa.