Cédric Fabre - Marseille Noir

Something moist has just landed on his palm. Maurice jumps, but it’s only the nose of the terrier. In the shadows that are quivering like some formless creature, he can sense the repugnant embrace of that tub of lard and his lovely girlfriend. In his effort to stand up, he finds under his hand something he identifies as the base of a metal lamp, heavy and cold. His strength returns. Despite his headache, he manages to stand up and in the same movement smashes down blindly on what he takes to be the guy’s back.

“Ooof!” is the onomatopoeia the guy collapses with. His arms have released Sarah — she felt them withdraw like a moray eel going back into its hole. He has fallen like a boxer, and the thud didn’t cover up the sound of a strange, plaintive crack.

“Sarah?” whispers Maurice softly.

The young woman’s delicate hand finds him and lands on his cheek. Her imitation gold ring is rolling like a pearl on his lips and he’s kissing those fingers in the air, his eyes closing briefly in the dark.

“He. he was going. ” she stammers. Maurice draws her to him. She does not resist. Lets herself be hugged in someone’s arms again, yes, but this time they’re the right ones. She says thank you, she begins to cry, her head against Maurice’s shoulder, pressing against him, hiccupping. She says again: “He was going to. ” They’re talking in low voices, as if someone might hear them. as if they were doing something bad by letting themselves be raped in a building entrance. They’re in shock.

“We can’t stay here.”

“Did you.?” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

Maurice lets go of her — time to kneel down and check the body. He figures out the fat guy’s lying on his belly. He gropes upward, toward the head; at the neck, thick as an ox’s, Maurice feels a lukewarm, sticky substance on his fingers. “Blood. ”

“He’s dead?” Sarah whispers.

“I must’ve smashed his skull in. Come on, let’s get out of here!”

They run. Hand in hand. The echo of their footsteps does not attract a single nose to a window. Why bother? Nothing to get excited about. In their beds, the insomniacs are watching documentaries about hunting and fishing in the bluish halo of their TV sets, other night owls are drinking alone or have gotten up to eat or drink a glass of milk, and others are grasping at one another, staining their sheets. and in the street, fugitives: the police or some other hoods are probably in pursuit, but by the time they arrive, the fugitives are already far away. Sirens would have to stop right under your windows for it to be worth checking out.

Maurice and Sarah don’t stop running till they get to la Plaine. They catch their breath between two cars, bent over and panting, before they cross the huge square, which is transformed at night into a parking lot. Provoking the barks of a big dog forgotten in a van. they walk as naturally as possible, to fool people: a nice young couple nobody would suspect of being a modern Bonnie and Clyde.

At a street corner Maurice takes his keys out of his pocket. Only after he’s double-locked his door do they both breathe again. They calm down little by little. Leaving the room in darkness, they remain hidden behind the half-closed shutters for the time being, watching the narrow street, pricking their ears for any unusual commotion, any police sirens heading in their direction.

Sarah wraps her arms around the young man, inhaling his sweat, while he feels the warmth of her breath on his neck. The joint is exchanged like a kiss, sticky from the lips of the other. They remain silent. He has his hand on hers and they stay there while time stands still, a thousand confused thoughts assail them, as if everything they just went through wasn’t quite real. United more strongly by their shared nightmare than they could ever be by the parish priest.

They make love with the rising sun. Sarah is the first to fall asleep, wiped out by their lovemaking, after giving all she had; the sleep of a woman exorcised. After intermittently giving in to a restless half-sleep, he is now watching her.

She’s beautiful. In peace. A soft light shines through the Venetian blinds, making the red wave of her hair gleam. Redheads are pretty. “Very classy,” Maurice mumbles to himself, thinking of the flock of trashy women on rue Saint Ferréol traipsing around the shopping center on Saturdays, brunette by nature or blond against the will of God, shouting in their shrill voices. Little by little Sarah’s distinct beauty has entered his heart and the troubadour begins to fear he’s on the brink of falling in love; that’s never advisable for a future rock star.

What color are her eyes? Green, he thinks, slightly gray? If he remembers the color of her eyes, it’s a sign he’s in love, he thinks: suspense.

From time to time, a little moan escapes from Sarah; he can’t tell if it’s from pleasure or fear, or from what she’s dreaming about. She’s sleeping on her stomach. Maurice has pulled the sheet down to her butt. He counts her beauty marks. Admires her freckles, light on her shoulders, assessing the velvet of her skin with a horse-trader’s stroke that does not wake her. Sarah is a real redhead, he knows it now. He has her scent on the tip of his nose, so special, inebriating and sweet.

How many times has he opened his eyes, sober now, on a dog, white. or black? A complete stranger stretched out naked in his bed, a woman you have to get rid of as soon as possible. When you wake up Sunday morning it’s all different: you went to sleep with a model, and it’s a sea monster smiling at you as she says good morning. That’s the price you pay for drinking. You should never go out on Saturday nights, Saturday night is an illusion, just a little makeup. And what about all those skanky groupies?

An eyelid lifts, then two. “Good morning,” she grimaces. She has big green eyes, slightly gray, and they’re having a hard time staying open.

“Good morning, Sarah.” He takes pleasure in saying her name. She gives him a big smile, which suddenly shrivels up.

“Jesus, that disgusting fat guy. I’d forgotten him!”

The memories of the night before surface. That building entrance. her fear in the dark. The fat guy who wanted to rape her and Matt knocking him out, leaving him for dead. Their flight! The apartment as a refuge.

“It’s over now,” Maurice reassures her while combing her long hair with his hand. “You have nothing to fear now.” He kisses her tenderly on the forehead.

“But what if you. ”

“Who cares? Come into my arms. ”

Sarah obeys and curls up in his embrace. With her ear against his torso, she hears her man’s heart beating calmly. Like when she was a little girl, when she had the right to end her Sunday nights in her parents’ bed and she would snuggle up to her daddy.

“If Daddy knew I slept here,” she sighs.

“You think he’d raise the rent?”

They laugh nervously.

The morning stretches on as they go over the incident without leaving the sheets: Maurice and Sarah rewrite the story ten times over without managing to change the ending. The fat guy is almost certainly dead. But there’s no reason why it should be traced back to them. It was dark and even if neighbors heard everything without showing themselves, how could they recognize them? The investigation will go nowhere, Maurice says. People get mugged every day in Marseille, corpses are found on the sidewalks, and there are unsolved crimes all over the city. In a week, the cops will move on to something else, and until then they’ll just have to be careful: not see each other for a while, so as not to attract attention, avoid Le Petit Nice and the Haunted House, where they were seen together. And even if the police are looking for a young couple and make the rounds of local bars and restaurants, what would have distinguished them from hundreds of other couples aimlessly walking through the neighborhood?