Hamed sips his Malibu and orange as he talks a little about his life in Marseille, and his companion drinks in his words without really listening. Hamed knows what those spaniel eyes mean: he is this man’s master, because the man is overcome by the desperate desire to possess him. He’ll give himself to him later, or not, and maybe he’ll find some pleasure in it, but that pleasure will undoubtedly be less than the feeling of power he is experiencing now by knowing he is the object of desire—and this is the upside of being young, handsome, and poor: without even thinking about it he can calmly despise all those prepared to pay, in one way or another, to have him.
The evening is in full flow and, as always, in this large bourgeois apartment, in the heart of the capital, as winter comes to an end, the feeling that he does not belong here intoxicates him with a cruel joy. What we steal is worth twice as much as what we earn through hard work. He returns to the buffet to pick up more slices of bread and tapenade, which reminds him vaguely of the South, fighting his way through the mob wiggling their hips to Bashung’s “Gaby Oh Gaby.” He finds Slimane there, swallowing handfuls of escargots while forcing himself to laugh at the jokes of a paunchy publisher who is discreetly fondling his arse. Next to them, a young woman guffaws, arching her neck exaggeratedly: “So he stops … and walks backwards!” At the window, Sa?d is smoking a joint with a black man who looks like a diplomat. The opening words of “One Step Beyond” come through the speakers and a frisson of fake hysteria runs through the room; people cry out as if transported by the music, as if a wave of pleasure were moving through their bodies, as if the madness were a faithful dog, supposed lost but now running toward them wagging its tail, as if they could stop thinking or not thinking for the duration of an instrumental punctuated by blasts of throaty saxophone. After this, there will be a few disco tracks to keep the good mood going. Hamed helps himself to a plate of truffle tabbouleh, seeking out the guests most likely to offer him a line of cocaine or, failing that, a bit of speed. Both make him want to fuck, but the speed softens his hard-on, although that’s not very important, he thinks. Just keep going as long as possible so he doesn’t have to go home. Hamed goes over to the window to join Sa?d. A streetlamp illuminates the advertising billboard, on the corner of Boulevard Henri-IV, showing Serge Gainsbourg in a suit and tie, above the words “A Bayard changes a man. Doesn’t it, Monsieur Gainsbourg?” Hamed can’t remember why that name is familiar. And, as he’s a bit of a hypochondriac, he goes to look for a drink, reciting his previous year’s schedule to himself out loud. Slimane contemplates a series of lithographs hanging on the wall representing dogs, in every color of the rainbow, eating from bowls filled with one-dollar bills, while he pretends to ignore the paunchy publisher, who is now rubbing against his backside and breathing into the back of his neck. From the speakers, Chrissie Hynde’s voice orders any guests who may be sobbing to stop. Two long-haired guys discuss the death of Bon Scott and his possible replacement as AC/DC’s singer by a fat truck driver in a flat cap. A young man with a side parting, wearing a suit, his tie untied, repeats excitedly to anyone who will listen that he has it on good authority that you can see Marlène Jobert’s breasts in La Guerre des Polices. He’s also heard that Lennon is making a new single with McCartney. A gigolo whose name Hamed has forgotten asks him if he has any grass, mocks the party briefly as too “designer Left Bank,” and points out the window at the statue of the Spirit of Freedom atop the July Column: “You see the problem, buddy? I want us to be Jacobin as much as the next guy, but, you know, there are limits.” Someone knocks a glass of blue cura?ao onto the carpet. Hamed thinks about going back to Saint-Germain, but Sa?d gestures toward the bathroom, where two girls and an old man are heading in together. As the girls know they are going in there not to fuck but to sniff (something the old guy pretends not to realize because, if he can’t get what he wants, at least he’ll enjoy the prospect for five minutes), Sa?d and Hamed figure that, if they play their cards right, they’ll be able to negotiate a line or maybe two. Someone asks a balding guy with a mustache if he’s Patrick Dewaere. To get rid of the paunchy publisher, Slimane grabs a blonde in stretch jeans and dances with her to “Sultans of Swing” by Dire Straits. The surprised publisher watches the couple whirling around while trying to look simultaneously ironic and easygoing, an expression that fools nobody. He is alone, like all of us, but he can’t hide it, and no one really notices him except to remark how lonely he looks. Slimane keeps his partner for the next dance, “Upside Down” by Diana Ross. Foucault enters the party with Hervé Guibert, just as the opening riff to the Cure’s “Killing an Arab” comes on. He’s wearing a big black leather jacket with chains and has a razor nick on his shaved head. Guibert is young and handsome, his beauty so exaggerated that only a Parisian could take him seriously as a writer. Sa?d and Hamed hammer on the bathroom door and try to coax it open by lying to the people inside, coming up with ridiculous excuses, but the door remains hopelessly locked. All they hear behind it are furtive sounds of metal, enamel, and inhalation … “The sand was starting to stir under my feet…” Now as always, Foucault’s arrival provokes a sort of fearful excitement, except for the few people too out of their heads on speed to notice, who jump around to what they imagine is a song about a beach holiday: “It was the same relentless sun, the same light on the same sand…” The bathroom door finally opens and the two girls emerge, looking scornfully at Sa?d and Hamed, sniffing showily, with that pride typical of a high-society cokehead who has yet to feel the loss of the liters of serotonin evaporated from her brain, although, as the months and years pass, it will take longer and longer to replace it. “He was alone…” At the center of the circle that has already formed around them, Foucault is telling young Guibert a story, as if he hadn’t noticed the turmoil his presence has aroused, continuing a conversation they’d begun on the way here: “When I was little I wanted to become a goldfish. My mother told me: ‘But you know that’s not possible, poppet. You hate cold water.’” Robert Smith’s voice yelps: “Nothing mattered!” Foucault: “That plunged me into a quandary. I said to her: ‘Please, just for one second, I’d really like to know what they think about.’” Robert Smith: “The Arab hadn’t moved!” Sa?d and Hamed decide to try elsewhere, maybe at La Noche. Slimane goes back to the publisher because, well, a boy has to eat. “I was staring down at the ground…” Foucault: “Someone has to confess. There’s always one who confesses in the end…” Robert Smith: “Whether I stayed or went made no difference…” Guibert: “He was naked on the sofa, and couldn’t find a single phone booth that worked…” “I turned back toward the beach and started walking…” “And when he did finally find one, he realized he didn’t have a token…” Hamed looks outside again, through the curtains, sees a black DS parked below, and says: “I’m going to stay here a bit longer.” Sa?d lights a cigarette and in the frame of the window the two figures stand out perfectly, illuminated by the party.
22
“Georges Marchais? No one cares about Georges Marchais! Surely you know that!”
Daniel Balavoine is finally able to speak. He knows that in less than three minutes they will stop him speaking, one way or another, so he tears into his maniacal monologue, stating that politicians are old, corrupt, and completely missing the point.
“I’m not talking about you, Monsieur Mitterrand…”
But still …
“What I’d like to know, what would interest me, is who the immigrant workers pay their rent to that they pay … I’d like to … Who dares every month to ask seven hundred francs a month from immigrant workers to live in Dumpsters, in slums?” It’s muddled, unstructured, full of grammatical errors, delivered way too fast, and it’s magnificent.