the
Continental Furor
concerning Bernard-Henri Lévy, which bolstered his trust in his accidental chauffeur:
Bernard-Henri Lévy, the almost-philosopher who is not a writer, in a fat book published by Grasset …
Too much rigor annoys B.H.L., who has seen nothing, written nothing, made nothing, except cash, and always with the help of others …
B.H.L., a sad character whom I will finish off one day with a Moulinex kitchen knife …
To see Lévy’s name paired with the words “fat” and “cash” and the avowal of a murderous impulse: he was in familiar territory. The car crossed over the ring road and wove through the housing projects. Beyond small talk, the skinhead printer had a hard time formulating questions, keeping up a conversation. Rhetoric was not his strong point. Gabriel did not push him, and they continued on in silence.He turned toward him after stopping at a red light, a hundred meters from the corner of Boulevard Berthier.
—Shall I leave you here or at the metro?
—This is good … Nice of you to drop me off. But if you have a little time, I could offer you a drink, around here …
—I won’t say no.
The Saussure served only ordinary beers, and the foam on the Adelscott on tap that Gabriel ordered disintegrated as soon as it touched his lips, leaving behind two craters that resembled eyes floating in a soup. Francis lit up a Celtique and drank his Pelforth straight from the bottle, like a man.
—Would I be wrong to say that I have a feeling we’re interested in some of the same things …
Gabriel played the innocent.
—That would depend on what you’re alluding to.
Francis looked around him. He leaned forward and whispered.
—Real History, the end of the lie spread by the lobby of …
Gabriel considered the difficulty of his task. He had just entered into contact with his first fascists, and it was already impossible for him to rise to the challenge of having a simple conversation. He tried a new tack, tapping the skinhead’s shoulder in a friendly way. They toasted, glass to bottle.
—Tonight, I’m on duty at a meeting just around the corner from here … It’s closed, but if you show up with me, there won’t be a problem … It’s in honor of one of ours who’s returned from Serbia … He fought with the Dragan militias, in Krajina …
—I didn’t know Frenchmen could be admitted to the ranks of … Serbian nationalists …
Francis flashed a proud smile as if to say, “You don’t know who you’re talking to, my friend!”
—There are quite a few of our comrades there, but tonight it’s a Russian who will take the stage: Ivan Astrapov.
Gabriel started when he heard the name. A dozen years ago he had demonstrated in support of political exile for a Soviet painter named Astrapov, who had been persecuted by Brezhnev’s administration. His paintings weren’t interesting in the least, but he had seemed to be a talented dissident. Gabriel pushed away his glass.
—Astrapov? Is he related to the painter?
—Same guy. But now he only paints with a gun! Preferably a machine gun.
16
IN THE FIELD
Gabriel let him pay for the drinks before following him along Boulevard Berthier. Young but battle-weary women, their arms perforated like colanders, sat on the trunks of parked cars and opened their thighs to the passing truck drivers. They passed by the old general stores that had been converted into scenery lots for the Opera de Paris and took a back alley that went along the tracks of the Saint-Lazare line.
Francis nodded to a guy who seemed to be busily tying his bootlace, and they were given the green light to go in. They entered the courtyard of an old warehouse. Another man was waiting on the loading dock. He took hold of Francis’s wrist for a Roman handshake, and after consulting with him about Gabriel, he led them into a freight elevator, closed the heavy grille on them, and flipped the worn switch that hung from a wire. The elevator began to
Continental Furor
concerning Bernard-Henri Lévy, which bolstered his trust in his accidental chauffeur:
Bernard-Henri Lévy, the almost-philosopher who is not a writer, in a fat book published by Grasset …
Too much rigor annoys B.H.L., who has seen nothing, written nothing, made nothing, except cash, and always with the help of others …
B.H.L., a sad character whom I will finish off one day with a Moulinex kitchen knife …
To see Lévy’s name paired with the words “fat” and “cash” and the avowal of a murderous impulse: he was in familiar territory. The car crossed over the ring road and wove through the housing projects. Beyond small talk, the skinhead printer had a hard time formulating questions, keeping up a conversation. Rhetoric was not his strong point. Gabriel did not push him, and they continued on in silence.He turned toward him after stopping at a red light, a hundred meters from the corner of Boulevard Berthier.
—Shall I leave you here or at the metro?
—This is good … Nice of you to drop me off. But if you have a little time, I could offer you a drink, around here …
—I won’t say no.
The Saussure served only ordinary beers, and the foam on the Adelscott on tap that Gabriel ordered disintegrated as soon as it touched his lips, leaving behind two craters that resembled eyes floating in a soup. Francis lit up a Celtique and drank his Pelforth straight from the bottle, like a man.
—Would I be wrong to say that I have a feeling we’re interested in some of the same things …
Gabriel played the innocent.
—That would depend on what you’re alluding to.
Francis looked around him. He leaned forward and whispered.
—Real History, the end of the lie spread by the lobby of …
Gabriel considered the difficulty of his task. He had just entered into contact with his first fascists, and it was already impossible for him to rise to the challenge of having a simple conversation. He tried a new tack, tapping the skinhead’s shoulder in a friendly way. They toasted, glass to bottle.
—Tonight, I’m on duty at a meeting just around the corner from here … It’s closed, but if you show up with me, there won’t be a problem … It’s in honor of one of ours who’s returned from Serbia … He fought with the Dragan militias, in Krajina …
—I didn’t know Frenchmen could be admitted to the ranks of … Serbian nationalists …
Francis flashed a proud smile as if to say, “You don’t know who you’re talking to, my friend!”
—There are quite a few of our comrades there, but tonight it’s a Russian who will take the stage: Ivan Astrapov.
Gabriel started when he heard the name. A dozen years ago he had demonstrated in support of political exile for a Soviet painter named Astrapov, who had been persecuted by Brezhnev’s administration. His paintings weren’t interesting in the least, but he had seemed to be a talented dissident. Gabriel pushed away his glass.
—Astrapov? Is he related to the painter?
—Same guy. But now he only paints with a gun! Preferably a machine gun.
16
IN THE FIELD
Gabriel let him pay for the drinks before following him along Boulevard Berthier. Young but battle-weary women, their arms perforated like colanders, sat on the trunks of parked cars and opened their thighs to the passing truck drivers. They passed by the old general stores that had been converted into scenery lots for the Opera de Paris and took a back alley that went along the tracks of the Saint-Lazare line.
Francis nodded to a guy who seemed to be busily tying his bootlace, and they were given the green light to go in. They entered the courtyard of an old warehouse. Another man was waiting on the loading dock. He took hold of Francis’s wrist for a Roman handshake, and after consulting with him about Gabriel, he led them into a freight elevator, closed the heavy grille on them, and flipped the worn switch that hung from a wire. The elevator began to
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