The Heart of the Leopard Children (11 page)

I get recurring visions of an irreparable catastrophe, I'm running, trying to get away, I stumble and then suddenly nosedive into a bottomless pit. The fall makes me really anxious and gives me a chill worse than this icebox prison cell. I keep trying to reassure myself when I finally regain my composure, only there is nothing, no right side, no flipside, no right, no wrong.

I feel like screaming or crying when I realize that all the hours I'm in here rotting away, my poor little cat has been all alone in my room, the poor thing must be meowing, afraid, and dying of hungry. In the end, he's not that different from me, sitting around waiting, no clue whatsoever about what's going on.

One can only hope all this is some terrible misunderstanding. The door could open at any given moment and a familiar face, perhaps the red confused face of the captain, would be standing right by me. I'll accept his apology of course, no hard feelings man, a nice long shower and let's forget all about it. One or two steps back into the past, leave behind Drissa, Mireille, the questions and all this sticky mess I got mired in on the left sidewalk, a complete one-eighty and I'm good to go.

I'll breathe again, glad to have escaped a close call. I'll realize that life is beautiful for those who've escaped the worst. I'll take a stroll and take in life in all its beauty, come shy of giving myself a cricked neck from turning my head to look at all those fine ladies in Saint-Germain. Relaxed, I'll be able to enjoy a nice cold brew on the terrace of one of the chicest cafés. All smiles. Cigarette in the mouth, hello, may I sit with you. By the end of the day, I'll buy a ticket at the Gare de Lyon, mainline train, sleep in a compartment all alone with
a dream girl, wake up to an amazing view of the Mediterranean, right there smack in front of you. All nice and clean, I'm looking good at the beach. The light is so bright, it almost blinds me, or could it be that girl, the most beautiful girl in the world that I want to get to know? She's already smitten with me, thinks I'm amazing, handsome, intelligent. I take my shoes off. I'm wearing light, summer clothes. A cloud comes over me. We understand each other without needing to say a single word. The wind, the sea, we have all the time in the world to kiss each other. The entire beach is just for the two of us. She soothes me with caresses. The skin of her fingers is so gentle, velvety. Her gestures feel good to the touch, stroking my body. There are birds up in the blue sky and boats out at sea. Somewhere at the tip of the horizon, far in the distance, sadly, the door still won't open.

Some feelings don't deceive. My ears are ringing. Within seconds my whole head is starting to vibrate. Someone from far away is trying to warn me. The message seems to be extremely serious. I'd better gather up all my strength because something has happened, and I'm nearing the point of no return. What if I'd really committed a crime, some abominable, horrific, irreparable act? Or if I'd been an evil bird, who brought misfortune, sadness, and distress into the lives of men? My body is starting to shiver from fear. Having shed their tears, an interminable procession of benevolent spirits starts to recede into the distance, turning their back on me. I've become a wild beast, ignoble, a hyena, eyes skewed, lurking around a carcass, swarmed by flies, vultures, jackals, and worms. I'm already falling apart under the weight of questions that are going to be coming at me. In my defense, I'm going to say that I just can't handle this life. I'm sorry for what I might have done; I have not been doing well lately.

So here we are finally, Mr. Captain, all alone, you and I, face to face. You would think that I missed you. I can see that you feel more secure now that I'm no longer a threat to you, handcuffed to a radiator hose on the ground. Complete subjugation, I don't even have the right to sit in front of you on a chair. Humiliated. Completely at your
mercy. Half-naked. Within just a few hours, they've managed to turn me into a complete wreck. I'm basically getting used to this filth. My ass is completely exposed, and I can't even pull up my pants. This is clearly a case of miscarriage of justice. I've been reduced to shamelessly begging for a glass of water that they refused in an outburst of laughter. Believe me, even though I'm not so clear in my head right now, I am furious for giving you the pleasure of this image you have of me. If I were you, I wouldn't be so quick to rejoice. You should know that I've come a long way, and we're just getting started!

You're quite right officer, life in concrete jungle didn't really help. I never really learnt to feel my pulse beating in my arteries. I remember the boredom, the everyday mini dramas you get used to despite everything. We would meet up at the train station to hang out together. Everything is so sad and silent around us in fall and winter, and then total boredom in summertime, killing time at the local youth center just to piss off the deejay, smashing up telephone booths at night, putting out street lights with one well-calculated kick, smoking joints, and drinking cheap beer in the vacant lot or in the basement when it was raining. Idle, looking for any reason to pick a fight, insulting the petrified females going by, directing obscenities at them when they refused to talk to us.

Of course, I had Mireille and her books; she loved our endless discussions, the magic of the words and sentences that allowed us to travel together without it costing a penny. It was a great formula for feeding our dreams that lasted weeks at a time. When she spoke, her face was always beaming. She rarely mentioned her family or talked about herself, only about the cascades of verses and stanzas and pounds of prose that she wanted to share with me, during our walks together, sitting on a bench or sometimes on the ground, hand in hand. When the words were so beautiful and the meaning so infinitely profound, we would kiss each other even with our mouths full. We had always been so close that we were convinced that we'd found each other, as we say, for life. At this point in our adolescence, Drissa had already chosen a different path. Drissa, my brother, my friend,
you have to cut it out, stop hitting that girl, she loves you, leave her alone. He sleeps with her as though he were masturbating with a porno magazine in the other hand. He insults her, you're nothing but a bitch dog, you bitch; he slaps her, kicks her in her sides. And yet she still keeps hanging on, begging him to come back to her. It's almost like she's herself again when she's by his side. She snuggles up right next to him, like a frightened little animal. Be careful, brother, the spirits don't forgive cruelty. They're all about benevolence and teaching us how to be generous. Watch out for a heart that turns bitter-homie! Stay alert. Stay attuned. Be on the lookout for vicious winds.

Shit, he throws his hand above his head, he's screaming, completely tone deaf. He can only see from one eye, the other eye is fixed on the basement. You're pissing me off with your whole bullshit about mystical signs, all that nonsense. It's primitive Banana nonsense that has never helped anyone. Just look around you, nothing has changed! Drissa sells stolen televisions and luxury items he's accumulated from all the robberies and drug sales. Now, I'm tttrrippping, bro; I'm a huge success, couldn't give a shit, go back to your yuppie-upper crust university with your little White girl. Who do you think you are? And who does she think she is showing contempt for me, as if she doesn't know me anymore, didn't we all grow up together? She can go fuck herself! Drissa, it's Mireille. Remember when we were kids, we were always hand in hand running around together on the vacant lot.

Be careful, Drissa, all the cruel words you throw out to hurt other people can wind up poisoning your own blood.

I'm making money now so I can shit on whatever I want. Please, leave me alone with all your bullshit, you're so naïve. While he's going on he's groping his girlfriend under her skirt and she's blushing. He pushes her violently to the ground and when she gets up, he grabs her crudely by the hair, get lost, you stupid bitch, hurry up. I know Carole; she's also from the neighborhood. She's slept with just about everybody. Her mother took off one day without leaving an address and never came back, tired of the daily beatings from her
alcoholic husband. When we saw her everyday wearing her huge black sunglasses, we thought she was showing off. Some of us even called her Deneuve. Carole stayed and took care of her father who became stricken with grief and an even worse drunk. Those rare moments she had to herself she liked to spend them with Drissa whom she'd found so sweet and gentle ever since primary school when he was so cute, looking so lost, like someone who didn't even have a clue where he lived.

Now he beats her, hurts her, but never forgets her or leaves her. He's her one and only love, the only reason she has to keep going. She never ever wants to be without him. Not even madness could separate Drissa from Carole. She's filled with so much love and incredible tenderness that she radiates tremendous warmth and charm that make her irresistible. She had nothing to do with the ideal woman Drissa used to get all wet-dreamy about, but she had firmly secured her place in his life. She had a power over him that was borderline obsessive. Drissa couldn't stand next to Carole for more than an hour without getting flooded by a violent desire for her extremely feminine body, its smells and its curves, always ready to welcome him, not to mention her face beaming with pleasure, her lips pursed. He was crazy about her body. All his attempts to humiliate and hurt her only made his love for Carole greater, something he was never ever going to admit.

Submissive, she kneels before him. Disgusted, I take off. I'm her God, I can do whatever I want. His yelling and crazy laughter followed me all the way into the corridor. It still resonates within me to this day.

Be patient, captain, let me put things in the right chronological order, then I can give you all the confessions you need for your report and put your conscience to rest.

Drissa, my brother, my friend, always hanging around in these groups of rowdy young guys, impolite, vulgar, always aggressive among themselves and merciless with people they don't know. Settling scores, gun shots, one dead, another seriously injured, handicapped
for life, gang rapes, barbaric acts, drug trafficking, police beatings in the neighborhood police station, joyrides, damages rising up to tens of thousands of Euros, multiple car thefts. The local schools have become incubators for delinquents, large-scale police operations, who combine merit badges with repeated cases of police misconduct.

You frighten everybody, Drissa, your mother, pedestrians, Mireille who used to be your friend. There are times you even dump your rage on me. You have to realize that, for us, you've always existed. In fact, we'd recognize you a lot better without this whole performance. We'd understand you so much more without all this freaky brouhaha you put on. All you're doing is making trouble in the streets, the train station, the
RER
, your life, your love. We only get a glimpse of you, make out the sound of a distant echo, without really getting to know you. Articulate, take a deep breath, choose your words carefully, one at a time, smile like you used to.

Drissa makes Carole sleep with other guys so that he can get a new
CD
player, a car radio, a little bit of hashish, insults, and beatings. Where is the deafness coming from that prevents you from realizing that you're already an important part of this world?

I could never truly be disgusted with Drissa or any of my friends from the neighborhood. I cherish the memories I have, the ever-present warmth of days and nights spent just being together, sharing a laugh, kicking back, and chilling. I would love to forget all that I've witnessed and learned and go back to the days of laughter, when there were no important decisions that had to be made, no stands that had to be taken. What if we just went over to the vacant lot and ran around till we were all out of breath like back when we were kids, or simply sat around at the entrance, sharing some cigarettes and the latest news about the football championship, talked about the new girl in the neighborhood, her chest, her face, her ass. When our lives started to change, Mireille could no longer tolerate the violence, the harshness, and the unhealthy environment, abominable in fact, into which many had fallen.

The last time she made an appearance in the neighborhood, she got into an argument with some of the guys who just killed time hanging out on a bench not far from the supermarket. Infuriated, she compared them to a bunch of pigs wallowing in their own shit, only good for terrorizing their own people and disappointing their mothers. Real losers, who had to get stoned to avoid looking each other directly in the face. Only the most brutal anger can let you forget the mistakes you try to hide from yourself because the truth is that they're torturing us all the time. You see yourself drifting on the road of no guts, no glory, and you keep on going, and somewhere along the way you just give up.

One of the guys answered her by making it clear that he doesn't give a shit and that she can pretty much go fuck herself. Another one burst out laughing to avoid hitting her. That's good, Mireille, not even your mother puts on airs like that. Maybe we're not luminaries but she doesn't seem to care. She has no problem having a good time with us, squealing like a sow the moment your racist father is out there on the road. We take her in twos, sometimes even in threes. What do you think? They crack up, doubling over with laughter, slapping the palms of their hands and high-fiving each other. No surprise that she's friends with that asshole Drissa. He almost lost it because he thought she was totally obsessed with him, when all she really wanted was to have a little fun. At some point in this cacophony of laughter, with all the salacious comments and insults, Mireille took off, horrified and hurt, harboring thoughts about killing somebody. She didn't even look at me, standing there, a silent coward in the shadow of the street lamp. I never ever brought up this delicate subject with her.