“I’m gonna die!” Elias howls.
“We’ll get her Thursday.”
“I’m gonna die!”
“Not before Thursday, please,” Diabolo says.
“Tell him I’m going to sue Kirzenbaum for slander,” Jérémie whispers.
“Hear that, Elias? Jérémie’s going to fuck Kiki with a slan—”
But Elias has already hung up and didn’t hear the joke. Olga’s scheme didn’t improve the situation, only made it worse: despite the publication of the fake, she’s still in jail, and he’s still more marginalized at H24, whereas Kirzenbaum can take it easy as he does his blog. It really makes you believe in predestination, in fatum as the ancients called it, in misfortune already written up above. For even an act of love like Olga’s to have such perverse, devastating effects, you have to believe you’re cursed.
He makes blunders all morning; his mind isn’t in it. He distractedly works his console without thinking of what he’s doing: close-ups that last a whole minute during a discussion, the camera focused on a participant who’s listening while picking his nose while the speaker isn’t even in the frame. Marcel finally charges into the production room to see what’s going on.
“You’re totally going off the rails, Elias.”
“A forger accuses me, and you take his side! Olga’s in the slammer, and you don’t even ask the embassy to intervene! Just what are you waiting for? For us to kiss our ass goodbye, her and me? You want us dead? Is that it?” Elias retorts, aware he’s risking everything.
For this could turn out badly; he might actually be thrown out after making a scene like this, it’s possible. But it’s also a good way of shaking up his colleagues, forcing people to take sides. Elias knows how to create divisions.
Danielle Godmiche finally says, “After all, we can’t let them publish bullshit about Elias without reacting, Marcel. His honor is also the honor of the channel.”
“Our lawyer is on it,” Marcel protests.
“Yes, but meanwhile, Elias is being punished on the basis of a fake, and that’s not right,” someone else says.
“What’s more, we’re doing a blackout on Olga!” a third one chimes in.
“OK, OK,” Marcel answers, sensing a growing rebellion. “I promise I’ll clarify the situation before tonight. Meanwhile, I’ll take it on myself to put Elias back in the newsroom.”
The tension drops then, and Elias tastes a bit of inner peace at last. And yet Marcel knows the case inside out. He knows it’s not so simple and Elias and Olga are not entirely blameless. But you have to save the store and face up if the machine is to continue to work. Luckily, for the moment, the Israeli media outlets aren’t interested in the story. That gives him elbow room. Even Kirzenbaum has dropped it, no doubt afraid of being accused in his turn.
After work, Elias rushes to Kerem without taking any precautions. He’s avid to hear about Olga, and Diabolo doesn’t wait to be asked. He pretends he was at the hearing and embellishes the scene as much as possible. Inventing, making up stories, faking it to make someone happy—that’s his thing, Diabolo. No need to push him.
“Y’know, she was fantastic on the stand, with the beautiful way she holds her head and her braided hair. Believe me, you’re lucky to have a chick like that. She spotted me from far away, and she made a heart with both hands for me to take a message, and she wrote, ‘Elias, I love you’ with a marker on a piece of paper. The judge even asked her to be more discreet, you get the atmosphere, but it’s wild, she’s got you under her skin, trust me. And you should’ve seen Jérémie, he was perfect, he’s a real mensch, believe you me.”
“I hope he’s not too expensive. I’m afraid to talk about bread with him.”
“Cool it, we’ll owe him, that’s all.”
“I feel like throwing a Frisbee,” Elias says suddenly.
“Frisbee, now there’s something new.”
“Come on, we’ll go to the beach and play a little game.”
They walk to Banana Beach, which is next door, with Diabolo dragging his massive body along and Elias charging ahead. On Sunday afternoon, there are few people on the sand, and it’s the best time to play, just before sunset. It sure is a change from Paris, nine miles of beach available all year round. It’s even disproportionately long for a city like Tel Aviv, but above all it has an almost magnetic pull on French immigrants: you see them walking or biking up and down the Tayelet, not out of necessity, but just to take a look at the Banana Café to see if anybody’s hanging out there, like when you’re a teenager or on vacation, or like reminiscences of North Africa in times gone by, Khereddine and El Marsa, the Mediterranean, the dark skin of the girls and your buddies. Banana Beach is one of the last beaches of Tel Aviv before Yafo. It comes before Blue Bird, the surfers’ beach, and it’s recognizable not only by the green deck chairs and yellow beach umbrellas, but also by its bands of newly arrived French women and men of all ages. You can also find lots of French on Gordon Beach in the other direction, toward the north, where the developments on the Tayelet strangely make you think of a Hopper painting, God knows why, given the lathed promenades of the flooring and the smooth stone benches. It probably has to do with their geometry or design—who knows exactly why—but anyway, Elias is ready to throw the Frisbee when he gets a selfie from Juliette with little pink hearts and his urge to play immediately drains from him in a mixture of discouragement, shame, and remorse. Then a second message, just one word: Tonight? She wants to start again, it’s clear, doesn’t want to admit he was just momentarily distraught last night; it was a fit of passing madness like the time before, due to his anguish at being deprived of Olga. So Elias sits down on the sand, without feeling like playing at all, cursing himself and asking why he lets himself be ruled by his dick. And why did he screw her without a condom?
Not too unhappy that the game ended before it began, Diabolo comes up to him, slightly worried to see him in this state.
“Bad news?” he asks soberly.
“I’m so fucking sick of my screwups, Diabo… so sick, you know…”
“Don’t torture yourself, it’ll be OK. It always is.”
“Help me, Gérard, I’m running right into a wall. Please give me some advice.”
“What’s your latest fuckup?”
“I slept with Juliette last night.”
“Now there, you’ve got the rights to a Gold Card,” Diabolo says, lightly.
“Without a condom.”
“Let’s go have a drink.”
At this moment, a trio of malcontents charge out of the Banana Café with mean looks on their faces, full of frontal aggressivity toward Diabolo. They’re young guys he hired as reporters at IBN despite their uncertain French, but he hasn’t paid them for the month, as the coffers are more or less empty. Diabolo’s prosperous period is no more, as Elias realized when he saw the box of Havanas reduced to its starkest state the night before. IBN hasn’t earned a thing up to now and costs more than it was supposed to, but these three little guys don’t give a good goddamn. And they’re mad as hell. Usually so full of respect for the boss, so solicitous, here they are with daggers drawn. Because they could already see themselves as star reporters, these guys—PPDA, FOG, BHL, their names contracted into universally known acronyms—and they believed so much in Diabo as a great media magnate! Great is their disillusion, strong is their bitterness.
“I want my money!” says one.
“You owe us!” the other says, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger.
“OK, guys,” Diabolo replies. “I had a little cash flow problem, but it’ll be settled next week.”
“What day?” the third asks.
“Monday or Tuesday,” Diabolo answers. “Here’s a thousand bucks each, and the rest next week. But don’t forget the refresher session Friday morning.”