Zenith Hotel (5 page)

On Sundays, Estelle goes to see her mother. He stays at home.

It’s become a habit. He goes into the sitting room and draws the curtains, then he takes off his clothes and sits on the sofa. That’s when it all begins properly. At first, he rubs his belly with the palm of his hand. He continues like that for five minutes,
thinking about a girl he’s seen. He always has a little rag beside him. What would Estelle say if she found a stain on the sofa! Best not to think about it.

Then he twists round and rubs himself against the sofa arm. Like Granny’s dog against visitors’ legs. Sharp little thrusts. Convulsive, his naked body racked with tremors, his back to the coffee table. His legs are straight, paralysed, his feet on the floor, his hunched body espousing the curves of the armrest. He rubs himself again. When he feels he’s about to come, he stands upright on the sofa cushions and finishes the job by hand. He grabs his penis with both hands, pumping hard. His feet dig into the deep foam cushions. Hundreds of images flood into his mind. Bodies banging into each other. A crowd of bodies. And he rubs against them all as if trying to get inside them. He dominates. The girl from the bakery is always there. Her face stands out. She smiles at him. Emmanuel loves that.

When it’s over, he wipes everything, puts his clothes back on, opens the curtains and sits on the sofa re-living it all, waiting for Estelle. He finds the images that go through his mind at those times a bit smutty, but that’s what he likes and anyway, he’s not doing anyone any harm. Other people must do the same.

Sometimes, when he’s sitting on the sofa with Estelle, he thinks about it. It makes him laugh a little. Right there, where the two of them are watching TV! Honestly! He’s a bit ashamed and he stops thinking about it. He stares at Estelle’s big breasts and goes back to watching TV.

The living room is not very big but it’s got all mod cons. A sofa, a TV. They’ve even put in a little bar with lots of different bottles on it. It’s for when they entertain. Which is rare. Estelle says she doesn’t enjoy herself because she’s in and out of the kitchen. And anyway, five people eating around a coffee table isn’t practical. They eat out, it’s more convenient.

There’s a little Italian on the main road.
Emmanuel
and Estelle have dinner there sometimes. The two of them, gazing into each other’s eyes. He always has lasagne, which irritates Estelle. He never has anything different – the lasagne’s good, he doesn’t see why he should have something
different
. They know them there, him and Estelle. The waiter looks like a real Eyetie. His name’s Édouard. Estelle always wants to leave him a tip. She always says he’s stylish. Sometimes, Emmanuel’s jealous. At the same time, he likes it. It’s simple, whenever they come home from the restaurant, Estelle wants to do stuff. It never failed. Driving home, he
gets himself in the mood. He chooses the girls he’s going to think about. He’s happy, he feels as if he’s earned his treat. It’s never especially passionate, but it’s worth it anyway.

Then they go to sleep. It’s a school day tomorrow.

It’s worse when it’s cold. I see the customer coming (I wish there was another word, I’m not running a
business
), we’re going to be in the warm. I swallow my pride for some dosh and ten minutes’ electric heating.

I’m not in good health, I stink of the street. I’m a girl who’s spent her whole life doing this, who doesn’t know how to do anything else. I think that’s what they want. It’s OK to despise me. It makes them feel
civilized
, it gives them a sense of power. They get turned on by an old trollop who reeks of syphilis and mulled wine. They find it comforting to taste destitution, to defile themselves a little. When they get home, they’ll have a shower and forget all about it.

I wash myself too, but it doesn’t come out. Their filth is under my skin, under my nails, in my hair. Their smell clings to my body. I scrub myself raw but I can’t get rid of it. Even though I’ve been doing this for a long time, you don’t get used to other people’s filth. It contaminates you as much as it did on the first day.

These are not the days of cheerful brothels and
soldiers
on leave. The guys don’t boast about it. There’s
nothing clever about damaging me a little more. I can tell from their body language that they despise me. That’s my only contact with men. It’s quite something.

Selling my body and my cunt, my mouth and my hands is a freedom that I give myself. It never lasts long, five or six minutes at most. The rest is chit-chat, answering their questions, laughing at their jokes – that’s another form of prostitution.

Every morning I loathe myself a little bit more. It’s all very well telling myself that I don’t have to get up at 5 a.m. and jump on a commuter train, put on white clogs Crocs and serve frozen meals in a works canteen, it’s all very well telling myself that I have my freedom, I don’t have to work nine-to-five or file tax returns or fend off a lecherous boss, I still loathe myself.

There’s no going back. You’re a prostitute for life. The ones who give it up will always remain whores. You’re branded, a tattoo on the heart.

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.

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.

But this evening, he’s unable to read, his mind is completely taken up by Baton. He keeps going back to him, he can’t help it. Slumped quietly on the sofa, he doesn’t watch TV; he wants no
distractions
. He’d like to chase away his gloomy thoughts. Why not put an end to it now, to save time? In the bathroom, reach for the barbiturates. Just for a laugh, put an end to it. It would be so easy, crush some in Baton’s bowl, swallow the rest and fall asleep lying on the floor, the two of them.

He contemplates it. The moment passes. He dozes off. We’ll see tomorrow.

Before, the dog used to sleep in his basket, but for the last few days he’s been resting in Victor’s bed. They fall asleep snuggled up together. They’re tired after their evening walk and they drop off at once. At nights, the dog sometimes has trouble
breathing
, his bronchial tubes are blocked with
God-knows
-what, a rather unsavoury viscous liquid. Victor soothes him as best he can, to appease his dog’s anxieties. They cradle each other to get through the night. You could say that they depend on each other. Neither dominates, there is a sort of balance that sustains them. Insofar as it is possible given that one is a man and the other a dog.

Baton isn’t domesticated, he’s not a servant, he’s simply learned to live at the man’s pace and to be a companion to him in his solitude. Without each other, they’d be wiped off the map. Fate’s a fine thing, thinks Victor.

Baton slept badly that night; Victor, beside him, was aware of him. Even so, they woke up very late. Victor smokes in bed. He opens his eyes, a
cigarette
between his lips. Inhaling the smoke makes him feel alive again, sullies him a little as soon as he wakes up. The dog rouses himself. He lays his head on Victor’s stomach, his ears drooping and his eyelids caked with a yellow discharge. A new day to face.

Victor washes. The dog watches him scrub his naked body with a purple flannel. Baton lies with his head on the tiled floor, soaking up the splashes like a hairy bathmat. Victor towels himself and gets dressed. The dog doesn’t wash himself any more, there’s no one for him to charm now, no one to look at, not even any puddles of piss to sniff. Baton no longer pokes his muzzle into things, because it died before he did.

Your body falls apart, disintegrates. And
eventually
it’s unable to carry you.