Jean-Patrick Manchette: The Mad and the Bad

“I don’t want to go,” said the boy.

“Do as I say! Get dressed.”

Julie stamped her foot. Peter shrugged.

“Is it true, what Marcelle says, that you were in the nuthouse?”

Julie’s white face got even whiter. Her violet eyes flashed. She took a step toward Peter. The little boy jumped back. He looked at her in alarm. Julie turned on her heel and left the room. A bright flush crept up her throat. In the elevator she pounded the sides with her fist. She went down the hallway and into her room. She crossed it, zigzagging and stumbling and beginning to cry. She was seeing red. She had a photograph in her hand. She tossed it onto the table. She punched the table. She tore off her yellow blouse and her pants. In panties and bra, she circled the room, staying close to the wall and rubbing her head against it. Her tears fell onto her toes. She flung open cabinets. Getting dressed again did nothing to calm her.

She slipped into smoky-gray tights, pistachio-green shorts, and a sort of T-shirt, long and orange. She strode up and down the room, the muscles of her legs rippling superbly. She went to look at herself in the bathroom mirror for consolation.

“Fuck the whole lot of you!” she declared.

Mockingly, the bathroom tiles resounded with hate. Julie took four Tofranils and washed them down with fifteen centiliters of scotch. She shivered.

“Brrr!”

She went for her yellow suede handbag, which she had thrown onto the table. Beneath it was the photograph. Julie looked at it. What a beautiful place! A labyrinth. A house to get away from oneself in. Julie turned the photo over. On the back, written with a nylon-tip marker: “Moorish Tower. Canton of Olliergues. Massif Central, 1967.” The girl stuffed the photo into her bag. Her teeth were chattering. The inevitable adjustment crisis. Relax. Drop a line to Doctor Rosenfeld. Julie looked around for her Hermes Baby. Nowhere to be seen. Impossible to find it. Impossible to remember where the hell she stuck it. Damn it then! Julie went to the door. Go for a walk.

It was ten in the morning when Julie and Peter arrived by taxi at the Jardin du Luxembourg. The girl’s anger was gently congealing in her mind.

“I’ve never been here before,” said Peter.

“You must have been.”

“No, never. Marcelle used to take me to the Bois de Boulogne.”

The boy walked along hunched forward, hands in the pockets of his velvet jeans, eyes glued to the pebbles on the path, which he kept kicking. He looked like a furious little old man.

“What are we going to do?”

“Walk. Talk.”

“Rats!”

Julie sighed. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“I liked Marcelle better.”

“There’s some kid stuff over that way,” said the girl. “I’ll take you.”

She made for the western edge of the park, with its tennis courts, boule pitches, children’s rides, merry-go-round, and Punch-and-Judy show. Along the way Julie and Peter passed students, mothers, old folks. Overwhelmed by the atmosphere, the colors, the sounds, the girl opened her eyes and nostrils wide.

“I’ll take you to lots of places,” she said in a conciliatory tone.

Peter could not have cared less. He climbed unenthusiastically onto the merry-go-round and allowed himself to have a strap fastened around him. He sat astride a large wooden lion. Distractedly, he fingered the beast’s fangs. The ride started up. Peter gazed off into space.

“Rats it is then!” muttered Julie.

She sat on a nearby bench. Before getting the cab, she had bought a copy of Vogue. She thumbed through the magazine. Sumptuous long-limbed women floating in fabulous fabrics. What expressions they had! What hair! What jawlines! What legs! What ecstasy! If only I could be a model, thought Julie. The pages of Vogue dripped with luxury. The girl wiped her nose with a Kleenex.

“Hey!” came a voice from close by.

Julie started, uncrossing her legs. She cast a haughty look at the young man with a long nose, a smile, blue eyes, and a thick mop of brown hair who was leaning towards her holding a copy of Le Monde. He looked like a permanent student with his navy-blue pea jacket, jeans, and espadrilles. Grasping the back of the bench, he bent even closer to the girl.

“Be careful, don’t scream-it’ll be better for you. See this?”

He unfolded his newspaper. In his hand was an MAB Model C automatic.

“That’s a toy!” exclaimed Julie.

“Don’t you believe it. And don’t mess up. We are here to take the kid. There are two other armed guys around you. If you mess up, you’re dead. And the tiny tots over there will catch the stray rounds. So you see, it’s not worth it.”

“You seem quite serious.”

“You bet. This is a kidnapping. You’re going to call Peter Hartog over here just as soon as the merry-go-round stops. And do it fast.”

Straining her neck, Julie looked all around. She saw nothing but seemingly harmless passersby.

“Don’t try anything,” said the brown-haired young man patiently. “What’s in that for you? We won’t hurt you. We’re going to let you go later, with a letter. Hartog will pay up. We’ll return the kid. Everybody will be happy. Hey, the merry-go-round is slowing down. Call him now! Do it! Don’t think about it.”

Sweat greased the young man’s upper lip. A tic animated the corner of an eyelid.

“Take it easy,” said Julie. “I’ll do what you say.”

The merry-go-round was stopping.

“Peter!” called the girl. “Peter! Come here!”

Peter shook his head and clung to his lion.

“He’s not going to listen to me. Let’s go and get him.”

“Okay.”

She got to her feet. The young man took her arm. The two of them entered the fenced-off enclosure around the merry-go-round.

“I want to stay!” cried Peter.

“No arguments.”

Julie undid his strap. The boy got off grudgingly.

“We’re all going for a walk,” the brown-haired young man told him. “My name is Bibi-like Bibi Fricotin, it’s easy to remember.”

“Bibi Fricotin? Who’s that?”

“Come on, let’s walk, and I’ll tell you.”

Bibi took Peter’s hand and pushed Julie ahead. They headed straight for the park’s Rue Vavin exit. No sooner were they past the railings than a blue Renault 16 pulled up at the curbside. Bibi opened the rear door and got in first, pulling Peter behind him. Julie hesitated for a split second then felt herself pushed forward and into the car. Someone got in after her and slammed the door. It was the blond giant who had delivered the television that morning.

“You?. . You!” stammered Julie.

She was half sitting on the floor. The blond giant took her arm and hoisted her onto the seat. His large blue eyes had barely any lashes. The R 16 sped down the side of the Jardin du Luxembourg, turned left, snaked through a few small streets, emerged onto Boulevard Raspail, and headed for Denfert-Rochereau. Julie was terrified, and her stomach growled. Cramps doubled her over. Bibi and the blond giant lit cigarettes.

“Let me have one please,” Julie mumbled.

Bibi passed her the one he had just lit, a Craven Filtre. A caramel smell invaded the car. The blond giant opened his window.

“Close that!” yelled the driver without turning round.

The giant obeyed. Of the driver Julie could see no more than the shaven, reddish nape of his neck below a green, vaguely Tyrolean hat.

“You won’t get away with this,” said the girl. “It’s not too late to let us out.”

“Shut up.”

Peter was looking at Julie anxiously. He dared not speak. His eyes were moist with tears held back, tears of sheer fright. The girl stroked his hair.