The street is the world I know. It doesn’t make me feel good. Sometimes, I long for the countryside, farmers and cornfields. Work the land, the green belt. Rise with the sun and go to bed at nightfall, after a bowl of nice, rich broth.
But there too, it’s the same misery. The man of the fields, his bestiality, his talk… we’ve known and hated each other for generations.
In Paris, at least, you can count on anonymity. Being lost in the crowd without anyone bothering. There are swarms of people all around your body, but no one notices you.
Victor & Baton
Baton is sixteen years old. He’s going to die. He’s weak, he doesn’t want to go out any more. He’s already had operations on his eyes, his mouth and his heart. He drags himself about, he shits on the floor. Victor’s afraid of ending up on his own.
This morning, Baton wouldn’t allow Victor to wash him. He thrashed about under the shower head, letting out little yelps of pain and scratching the enamel on the bath. Victor could no longer bear to see him suffering; he carried him like a child and put him on his bed.
Baton eats very little, he no longer wants to drink. Dr Blanchet says there’s nothing more to be done. Baton is sixteen years old, he’s going to die. Science can’t prevent it. Victor has a taste of rage in his mouth, an acid taste that won’t go away. He is as powerless as science and Dr Blanchet.
He must make Baton’s life as comfortable as possible before he dies, take him out for a little walk from time to time. Baton needs to smell the world before leaving it. He can’t see colours, so smell is important to him. Baton was abandoned at birth. Victor took him in and washed him, caring for him like his own son. He raised him in his little apartment in the 11th arrondissement. He made him a space in the sitting room, in his life, in his heart. When he went off to work, Baton waited for him. Now Victor no longer works, he can spend more time with him, the only soul who has never deserted him. They love each other like family. In his wallet, Victor carries a photo of Baton, as he would of his son if he had one. But all the women who might have given him one had left him. That’s life. He has no one but Baton, and he was about to die. Victor’s woes are not over! There’s still a great deal of suffering in store for him, on top of all the never-ending shit that’s happened to him. And it wasn’t about to stop: as long as he lives, he’ll continue to be stabbed all over – in the heart, the stomach, the leg – everywhere. He’ll end up lying in a pool of blood on a tiled bathroom floor, unable to get up again.
Baton must have suffered too, but Victor had rescued him. Wordlessly, they’d rescued each other. And now, Baton is dying. What will become of poor Victor? He’s going to end up alone, after all these years. He might not be able to cope. But let’s not think about that for the moment. Baton is here – he needs looking after. He shakes his head, sometimes he scratches himself, slowly, as if making the effort of one final gesture. Watching him, Victor feels as if fingernails are pinching his heart, the blood dripping drop by drop from his organs, like tears in his flesh. It is overflowing, poisoning him. It fills his head until it explodes. Grief-induced hydrocephalus.
He can picture Baton as if it were yesterday, running until he’s left panting, his tongue hanging out, froth bubbling with life around his mouth. Baton has always had that energy, as if he were somehow flying above life. No, he’s no ordinary dog, but he’s sixteen, and multiplied by seven, that means he’s old and is going to die.
Every story comes to an end. And this will be the end of their story.
Paris too seemed to be dying that day. The cyclists, the cars, even the tarmac were breathing their last. A white veil, like a shroud, enveloped everything. You immersed yourself in your occupations. Your soles stuck to the ground, as if trying to adhere to it, to stop you from losing your footing. Baton ambled slowly – he didn’t even sniff at the rivulets of piss running down the pavements. What’s the point of marking your territory when you’re going to die? He avoided the gaze of other dogs, moving a little closer to Victor’s legs each time. Victor kept walking, hunched, resigned, for love of the dog. Perhaps they’d share their final moments? Mustn’t think of it. Keep walking, eye the girls like before, impress them with his tweed jacket, show off, Baton on the leash. He and Baton would explore the parks, he’d throw sticks for Baton and they’d have a bit of fun, to escape the crushing burden of solitude. When there are two of you, it’s more practical. You’ve got an excuse, you’re taking the dog out, letting him do his thing, he needs to crap. People don’t look at you the way they do when you’re on your own. He’s taking his dog for a walk, it’s perfectly normal, it’s midnight, he must have a wife waiting for him at home watching TV. A dog gives you an excuse to live as you please, going out in the middle of the night so as not to be stuck at home. It makes you look composed, it stops people trampling on you with their dirty looks.
Victor chewed all that over in his mind. It’s calming to keep turning over old thoughts. It soothes your anxiety, you have the feeling that nothing’s changed, that Baton’s not going to die and that you’re walking as usual, the two of you, around République. This little ritual filled Victor with happiness. Women he’d written off a long time ago. They’re all the same, only good for sucking your money out of you like marrow and then running off with a sailing instructor once the bone’s sucked dry. They were very cruel and very predictable. All he needed was the occasional bit of flesh, a nice blow job so he could go to sleep with a smile on his face. You get by on your own, you make up stories – you squeeze the juice with the right hand, for health reasons, to make yourself feel a bit better. It’s more practical – women give you grief, they call the tune, they make you do things you’d never have imagined. When all’s said and done, you end up on your own anyway. They say it’s because you drink too much, because you don’t pay them enough attention, but from the start, they knew they’d be leaving once there was nothing left to take. That’s what they’re like, they suck you to put you to sleep, thought Victor. And then they take everything from you, your pride with it. They discard you, like a donkey. Women, vipers, men, traitors or arseholes. There’s no one but Baton.
But you can’t escape humanity. It’s always there, like a gaping wound that will never heal. It sweats, it drips. Sir, you’re going to lose your leg. It’s gangrenous, it’s eating your bones. You scratch the pus along your shin. You’ll see, it won’t be easy. You have to watch out, it won’t go away. You have to live with it – try to get rid of it and you’ll starve to death. It’s your fate. It’s sad, the only way out is to die.
Victor isn’t bitter, he’s just resigned. He wanted too much, he wasn’t given enough. The game’s over, he’s retiring. He won’t outlive his dog. What does it matter, he’s done his time, he’s seen what he wanted to see, he’s tasted joys and sorrows. Baton’s time has come, his too, it’s no big deal. They’ll go to sleep together, it will be beautiful, it will be simple. Farewell, sorrow.
There isn’t much in Victor’s apartment. He’s never liked furniture. Just loads of leaflets piled up as if they were necessary. He doesn’t know why he keeps them, he just does it out of habit.
Victor eats little – rice, pasta and beer. He has a routine that developed naturally, a soup plate for him and a little bowl for Baton. He sits reading the newspaper. The bit he likes best is the news in brief. It’s comforting to read about others’ misfortunes – women kept prisoner in basements, men having sex with little boys. When he thinks about it, Victor can’t see why he finds it so fascinating, but he can’t resist – blood, tears, rice and beer. They’re not ordinary stories, they turn your stomach, they make your gut churn like a fiery curry. Rapes, murders, horrors of all kinds, a baby eaten by rats – that’s what he likes to see going on in the world. A nameless brutality that sets his heart pounding as opposed to being pounded. For a while, he is outside himself, he purifies himself from within with other people’s shit. It cleanses him like a thorough wash, all that barbarism splurged in fresh ink across the headlines.