Solea by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis Page A

Call me if you want to.
    After Pascale had left, Mavros and I spent a few nights together. Drinking, talking about the past, about life, love, women. Mavros felt wretched, and I couldn’t do anything to help him regain his self-confidence.
    Now he was living alone.
    â€œYou know, I used to wake up at night sometimes, and there’d be light coming through the shutters, and I’d just lie there for hours watching Pascale sleeping. She’d often be lying on her side, with her face turned to me, and a hand under her cheek. And I’d say to myself, ‘She’s more beautiful than ever. Gentler.’ Her face at night made me happy, Fabio.”
    Lole’s face had made me happy, too. I loved the mornings best of all. Waking up. Kissing her on the forehead, stroking her cheek, her neck. Until she stretched out her arm and put her hand on the back of my neck and pulled me to her to kiss me. It was always a good day for love.
    â€œOne separation is like another, Georges,” I’d said to him when he’d called me after Lole left. “Everyone suffers. Everyone feels pain.”
    Mavros had been the only one to phone me. He was a real friend. That day, I’d made a complete break with all the buddies. And their parties. I should have done it before. Because they’d dropped Mavros. Gradually the invitations had dried up. They all liked Pascal and Benoît. And they all preferred happy relationships. It made life easier for them. It also stopped them from thinking the same thing could happen to them one day.
    â€œYeah,” he’d replied. “Except that if you love someone else, you have a shoulder to lay your head on, a hand to stroke your cheek, and . . . You see, Fabio, the new desire takes away the pain of the old one.”
    â€œI don’t know about that.”
    â€œI do.”
    The pain of Pascale’s leaving was still with him. As Lole’s was with me. But I was trying to find a meaning in what Lole had decided to do. Because it had to have a meaning. Lole hadn’t left me for no reason. By now, I’d finally understood a lot of things, and what I could understand I could forgive.
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    â€œHow’s about we spar a little?”
    The boxing gym hadn’t changed. It was as clean as ever. Only the posters on the walls had turned yellow. But Mavros was attached to his posters. They were a reminder that he’d been a good boxer. And a good trainer. These days, he didn’t arrange matches. He gave lessons. To the neighborhood kids. And the local town council gave him a small grant to keep his gym in good condition. Everyone in the neighborhood agreed it was better to see the kids learning to box than setting fire to cars or smashing store windows.
    â€œYou smoke too much, Fabio,” he said. He hit me in the abdominals. “You’re a little flabby here.”
    â€œHow about here?” I said, hitting him on the chin.
    â€œYeah, me too!” He laughed. “Come on, let’s see what you can do.”
    Mavros and I had fought over a girl in this ring. We were sixteen. Her name was Ophelia. We were both in love with her. But we were good friends, and we didn’t want to fall out over a girl.
    â€œWhoever wins on points,” he’d suggested. “Three rounds.”
    His father, who found the whole thing amusing, agreed to referee. He was the one who’d started the gym, with the help of a sporting and cultural association connected to the CGT.
    Mavros was a whole lot better than me. In the third round, he drew me into a corner of the ring, clinging to me, and started hitting me hard. But I was angrier than him. I wanted Ophelia. As he hit me, I caught my breath, freed myself, and got him back into the middle of the ring. There, I managed to land about twenty blows. I could hear him breathing against my shoulder. We were both as strong as each other. My desire for Ophelia compensated for my lack of technique. Just