From time to time, he spots a bottle of red poking out of a basket. The sound of the cork popping before lunch. He crooks his finger and makes a popping sound in his cheek. Pop. Pop. Another bottle that’ll course through our veins. We need to forget for a while, we need to get drunk when we’ve got nothing better to do. It’s the fruit of our land that we’re drinking. Pop. The bottle neck clinks against the sides of the glasses. It can’t be bad, we say to your good health before drinking. We don’t say cirrhosis or alcoholism, no, we say to your good health, so come on, let’s have a drink to celebrate! After all, what’s the problem? We drown our sorrows where we please.
The bustling street makes him restless. All those housewives out and about, all those cars, all those kids on scooters. Go out, that’s a good idea. Slip on a jacket, it’s not cold today. This one will do. Close the window. Mustn’t forget my keys, whatever happens. In my pocket. Cell phone. No one will call but take it anyway. Also in my pocket. There, I’m ready. Oh yes, shoes. Quick, the fresh air’s calling. Shoelaces. Faster, for Chrissakes! Get out. Get out. Escape from the daily gloom, walk through the streets of the 14th arrondissement. A little expedition on foot. Dogs, passing women, mopeds.
How about taking the métro?
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know, sweetheart!’ (Laughter) ‘You’re the boss.’
‘Can I ask for anything I want?’
‘If you’ve got the money. As far as I’m concerned, you know…’
‘I haven’t got much money.’
‘So we’ll make do with what you’ve got.’
I’m done for the night. The money comes fast. At what cost?
Back to the Zenith Hotel. Always the same old routine. I climb the six flights of stairs up to my dismal room with the paint peeling off the walls. The stairs are worn down in the centre from too many feet tramping up and down them in boots or trainers. I don’t like this stairwell. I hurry to the top.
I unlock the door with my big gilt key, then slump down on my little bed and lie there, on my back, my legs dangling, still dressed, the strap of my bag around my arm. I’d like to be able to stay like this forever – as flat as a pancake. I feel good. I think of nothing.
But I have to sit up. Mentally I count. On thirty, I’ll get up. Twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty. Right, another two minutes. I count again. I don’t want to get up. Twenty-seven… twenty-eight… twenty-nine… thirty…
Slowly I take off my make-up. I wipe cotton wool over my face with one hand, holding a small fragment of mirror in the other.
I ignore my reflection. I’ve given up looking for crow’s feet around my eyes and new blackheads on my nose. I think about other things – I don’t want to see myself.
Slowly, I get undressed. I let my clothes drop gently on to the white-tiled floor. I don’t fold them, they’re dirty. I’m going to the launderette tomorrow, as I do every week.
I slip into my nightie. That’s my evening routine. My movements are mechanical, like in the morning when I scratch my head and make coffee.
My routine makes me forget the nasty taste seeping through my body. I concentrate on the moment. I slip into my nightie and go and fill my water bottle on the landing.
I go back to my room and smoke a cigarette in silence.
I double-lock the door. At last I can go to bed, turn on the television and light up another fag.
I gently fall asleep, watching people living on the other side of the screen.
The commentators’ voices are soothing. They have that journalistic tone that makes them sound beautiful and professional. The voices of those who keep us informed.
I trust that voice. It isn’t nasty. I can let myself go. I listen with one ear. With the other, the one that’s glued to the pillow, I start to nod off. A pleasant voice with a journalistic tone.
I fall asleep. Tomorrow’s another day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Oscar Coop-Phane was born in 1988. He left home at 16 with dreams of becoming a painter and at 20 moved to Berlin where he spent a year writing and reading classics. There he wrote Zenith Hotel, which won the Prix de Flore in France, and then Tomorrow, Berlin (Arcadia, 2015). Today he lives in Brussels and is working on his third novel, October.
Praise for Zenith Hotel, winner of the Prix de Flore, 2012
‘Oscar Coop-Phane oozes affection for his characters, from their beautiful humanity to the depths of their weaknesses’
‘One of the most intriguing and exciting new voices on the French literary scene’
‘The best first novel of the year’
‘He’s only 23, but Coop-Phane’s sparse style cuts to the bone and reveals a sensibility far beyond his years’
‘A melancholic and earthy novel that marks a rigorous, vigorous entrance into contemporary French literature’
‘Coop-Phane has achieved the modest and moving prose of Calet and Bove – not a copier, but an extraordinary amateur paying tribute to his readings. His poetic text is as sad as a lonely Sunday’
‘Zenith Hotel is a melancholy portrait of desire and radiant grace’
‘In this astonishing first novel, Coop-Phane has brought alive the inhabitants of the dirty, poor streets of Paris, compiling a spare yet tender portrait that is never sentimental. An unbelievable discovery’
‘It’s beautiful. It’s sad. It’s pure poetry’
‘A short and thought-provoking book that lays bare the unvarnished heart of city dwelling. It’s populated by people trying to manage their lives, and their footsteps reverberate across the hard tarmac of the arrondissements – the unforgiving structure that underpins each vignette. Astutely observed and told with care’
‘Zenith Hotel is pure poetry. It’s a one-sitting read that manages to fit more emotion into 105 pages than most novels do in 500’
Copyright
Arcadia Books Ltd
139 Highlever Road
London W10 6PH