Finally, the inevitable happened.
It was a Sunday afternoon and we were all at the beach in Terga. Holidaymakers skipped across the scorching sand like grasshoppers and dived into the cool water. Simon was having his usual afternoon nap, having just wolfed down a string of merguez sausages and drunk a whole bottle of wine. His fat hairy belly rose and fell like a blacksmith’s bellows. Fabrice, however, was wide awake. A book lay at his feet, but he was not reading; he was watching Jean-Christophe and Émilie as they laughed and splashed in the waves, timing each other to see who could hold their breath longest, then swimming out to sea until they almost disappeared. As he watched them turn somersaults in the water, legs thrust above the waves, a sad smile played on Fabrice’s lips and doubts shimmered in his dark eyes. When they emerged from the waves, Émilie and Jean-Christophe, in a gesture that seemed to surprise them both, grabbed each other around the waist, and Fabrice’s face darkened as he watched his dreams and plans slip through his fingers.
I hated that summer; the long months of confusion and heartache and increasing isolation, of lies and half-truths. Later, I came to call it ‘the dead season’, the title of Fabrice’s first novel, which began: When love betrays you, it is proof that you were undeserving; to be noble one must set it free – only if you are prepared to pay this price can you say that you have truly loved. Ever courageous, noble even in defeat, Fabrice kept on smiling, though his heart fluttered weakly in his chest like a caged bird.
Simon was sickened by what was happening, by the hypocrisy and the duplicity. To him, Émilie’s betrayal was unforgivable. He could not understand how she could turn her back on Fabrice, who was gentle and unfailingly kind; who had given himself to her body and soul. But if Simon felt that Fabrice had been wronged, he did not blame Jean-Christophe – who was deeply depressed since his break-up with Isabelle, and seemingly unaware of how much he was hurting his best friend. To Simon, the blame clearly lay with Émilie, the ‘preying mantis’, an outsider who did not understand the ways or the principles of Río Salado.
I tried not to get involved. I found excuses not to be with my friends, to avoid the dinners and the parties.
Simon now despised Émilie and, like me, began to find excuses not to be with her. He and I would go to André’s diner and play pool all night.
Fabrice left Río Salado for Oran, where he holed up in his mother’s apartment on the Boulevard des Chasseurs, working on newspaper articles and sketching out his first novel. He rarely set foot in the village. On the one occasion I went to see him in the city, he seemed resigned to his fate.
Late that summer, Jean-Christophe invited Simon and me to his house, as he always did when he needed to make an important decision. He was hopelessly in love with Émilie, he told us, and intended to ask her to marry him. When he saw the look on Simon’s face, he quickly went on, desperate to convince us:
‘It’s like I’ve been reborn . . . After what I’ve been through,’ he said, referring to his break-up with Isabelle, ‘I needed a miracle, and the miracle happened. I’m telling you, this girl was sent to me by God.’
Simon gave him a mocking smile.
‘What? You don’t believe me?’
‘I don’t have to believe you.’
‘So why are you laughing?’
‘I’m laughing because if I didn’t laugh I’d cry.’ Simon rose up in his seat, veins standing out on his neck. ‘I’m laughing to keep myself from being sick.’
‘Go on then,’ Jean-Christophe said. ‘Give me your two cents.’
‘Two cents? More like two million. Okay, you’re right, I don’t believe you. What’s more, I’m angry with you, I’m disgusted – the way you’ve treated Fabrice is despicable, it’s unforgivable.’
Jean-Christophe accepted this; he knew he owed us an explanation. We were sitting in his living room. On the table stood a jug of lemonade and a jug of coconut water. The window to the street was open, the curtains billowed in the breeze and in the distance dogs barked, their yelps and growls echoing in the silent darkness.
Jean-Christophe waited until Simon had sat down again, then, his hands trembling, he brought his glass to his lips and took a long drink. He set down the glass, wiped his mouth with a napkin and, not daring to look at us, began to speak in a slow, deliberate voice.
‘This isn’t about Fabrice, it’s about love. I didn’t steal anything, didn’t take anything from anyone. It was a thunderbolt – love at first sight – it happens all the time all over the world. That thunderbolt is a moment of grace, a blessing from the gods. I don’t feel despicable, and I don’t feel ashamed either. I’ve loved Émilie from the first time I saw her, and there’s nothing shameful about that. Fabrice has always been my friend. I’ve never been one for talking. I take things as they come.
‘I’m happy, for God’s sake.’ He banged his fists on the table. ‘Is it a crime to be happy?’ He turned angrily to Simon.
‘What’s wrong with loving someone and being loved? Émilie isn’t a thing – she’s not a painting you can buy in a gallery, she’s not a deal to be haggled over. She’s got the right to choose who she wants to be with . . . This is about two people sharing a life together, Simon! As it happens, Émilie feels about me the way I do about her. Where’s the shame in that?’
Simon was not about to back down. Hands balled into fists, nostrils flaring, he glared at Jean-Christophe and, stressing every syllable, said:
‘If you’re so sure of your decision, why did you invite us? Why force Jonas and me to listen to your speeches if you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of? Are you trying to ease your conscience? Or were you hoping we’d give your sordid little affair our blessing?’
‘You’re wrong, Simon, I didn’t invite you here to ask for your blessing, or to try and convince you of anything. This is my life, and I’m old enough to know what I want . . . I plan to marry Émilie before Christmas. I don’t need advice; what I need is money.’
Realising he had overstepped the mark, Simon leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. Jean-Christophe was right, he had no business questioning his decision.
‘Don’t you think you’re moving a bit fast?’
‘Do you think I’m taking things too fast, Jonas?’ Jean-Christophe turned to me.
I didn’t answer.
‘Are you sure she really loves you?’ Simon asked.
‘What makes you think that she doesn’t?’
‘She’s a city girl, Chris, she’s not like us. When I think of the way she dumped Fabrice—’
‘She didn’t dump Fabrice!’ shouted Jean-Christophe, infuriated.
‘Okay, I take it back . . . Have you talked to her about your plans?’
‘Not yet, but I’ll have to soon. The problem is, I’m broke. What money I had, I frittered away in bars and brothels in Oran after I broke up with Isabelle.
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Simon. ‘You’re only just over your break-up with Isabelle. You’re still not your old self. I think this thing with Émilie is just an infatuation. I think you should wait a while, see how she feels. Don’t go putting a rope around your neck. I have to say, I thought maybe you were just trying to make Isabelle jealous.’
‘Isabelle is ancient history.’
‘No she’s not, Chris, you don’t get over someone just by clicking your fingers.’
Offended by Simon’s remarks and my refusal to say anything, Jean-Christophe got to his feet, walked over to the door and slammed it open.
‘You’re throwing us out?’ said Simon indignantly.
‘Let’s just say I’ve heard enough. If you don’t want to lend me the money, Simon, that’s fine, but don’t lecture me, and for God’s sake don’t talk about things you don’t understand.’
Jean-Christophe knew that this was unfair. He knew Simon would give him anything he asked. He was deliberately trying to upset him, and he succeeded, because Simon stormed out of the room. I had to run to catch up with him on the street.