Cédric Fabre - Marseille Noir

He took the number 83 bus to see the ocean. He wanted a selfie with his feet in the sand. The bus driver pointed him to the beach called Plage du Prophète. “If you want sand, there’s tons of it, don’t worry,” the guy said laughingly, with the vulgar accent they had around these parts. Kevin had his eyes on the man’s thick, red neck sprinkled with black hairs. He suddenly felt like throwing up and squeezed the back of the seat in front of him as hard as he could. A strong mistral wind had arisen, sending torrents of water crashing against the rocks, shiny with seafoam. The beach seemed less beautiful to him than the one in Alicante, where he’d been barely a week ago. Not one walker on the horizon. A row of magnificent homes gleamed on the hillside over the Corniche, the coast road. Kevin ran down the stairs that reeked of piss, making his way to the edge of the water. At the bottom, he shivered and closed his green parka, then thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The place was deserted except for an old gentleman sitting on a raffia mat watching the waves, a fishing rod next to him. Kevin was surprised by the contrast between the heart of the swarming city with its permanent hubbub and this sandy stretch of land lost in the pounding waves. A feeling of fear took hold of him. This spot was turning him away from the world of the living. When he was a child, nightmares of haunted castles would wake him up and he’d run screaming into his parents’ bed. His father would drive him out of the room. “You’re nothing but a little sissy!” he’d yell, while his mother, huddled under the blanket, watched him with her gray eyes, paralyzed by fear.

The dark silhouette of the Château d’If, assailed by the storm, added to the impression of sinking into another dimension of darkness and terror. Kevin walked over to the man and touched his shoulder. The old guy turned around with a start, wide-eyed. Kevin raised his arm, plunged his box cutter down, and slashed the carotid artery. The blood spurted out like a geyser. The old man collapsed with all his weight. The young man knelt down beside him and gently brushed a little sand from the wet cheek of the old fellow whose eyelids were fluttering. He held up the man’s head while taking out his cell phone. He didn’t post this selfie; it went into his personal collection. He walked back, tormented by the desire to find himself a girl for the night.

He had reserved a room at the L’Hôtel Duc, formerly L’Hôtel de l’Oasis, in the heart of the Canebière. A plaque at the entrance said Louise Michel had died there on January 9, 1905. He had never heard of Louise Michel, the red virgin, the heroine of the Paris Commune. He was not an anarchist, still less a revolutionary. Just a bloodthirsty guy who was out to conquer the most impregnable city in France. Kevin dreamed of a submissive Marseille on her knees, sucking his dick. He was sure of it, he’d get free of this fucking place without too much trouble. His room was on the third floor, overlooking the street. When he’d arrived the night before he’d slept very badly, his sleep interrupted by the noises from the street and the incessant stampedes up and down the stairs. Adventurous customers, eager to dive into the narrow streets of the Vieux-Port. Kevin passed by the concierge, who shot him a quick look. Suddenly, he had the strong feeling that the man was reading his mind. The radio was droning on — a whole string of Koranic suras broadcasting through its tinny speakers.

A woman came charging down the corridor. A small creature with big eyes and dark eye shadow, a scarlet mouth, and a narrow chin. Her bleached-blond hair went down to her waist. Kevin told himself it was too long and silky to be real. He breathed in big, jerky breaths, his heart beating hard. His chest hurt and he was suddenly afraid of getting a nosebleed. The girl was dressed in a pink sweater and a short black skirt that stopped halfway up her thighs. She was wearing laced black boots and a thin gold chain around her right ankle. Her translucent pink plastic earrings were the shape of kittens. Kevin had never seen earrings like them. The kittens were sticking their little pink tongues out. Her nail polish was also pink. She held her small hand out to him and said in a singsong accent: “Hey, brother, go get me a beer and a chicken-and-fries sandwich.”

He almost broke her arm but controlled himself, his jaw clenched in anger. The concierge burst out laughing and said: “Come on, boy! You can’t refuse that. You’re a hit with Maria.”

The girl didn’t take her eyes off him. She came up close enough to graze the fur of his hood. He breathed in her perfume like a madman: a mix of cinnamon and cloves. He almost ripped the bill out of her hands and slammed the door on the way out, his cheeks flushed, pursued by the mocking laugh of the concierge. That woman had treated him like a little child. This city is a shithole, Kevin raged, humiliated. He tapped a number on his cell and screamed more than he spoke: “Brother, I swear, you threw me into the lion’s den! You lied to me! You were lying all along. I’m so fuckin’ mad I could burst. This city’s a shithole!”

Abou Salem replied calmly: “You were warned. It’s not a city, it’s a mouth. Make sure you don’t get swallowed up. Tomorrow, be at the place known as Porte d’Aix, a kind of open-air junk market. Our contact will be waiting there for you.”

Kevin was dying for a beer as he walked along boulevard d’Athènes. He turned onto rue Nationale and walked into the first café he saw. Two men were sitting at a table playing dice and sipping whiskey-Cokes. A flat screen was showing a muted soccer game. He paid for his beer with the money Maria had given him and went to jerk off in the bathroom while thinking of her. He imagined her ass while he was screwing her. Kevin’s naked butt was rubbing against the filthy walls, covered with drawings of cunts peppered with telephone numbers. Cheikha Rimitti’s hoarse voice was coming out of an ancient stereo. A bitter raï song about a dark-haired girl who loved a man but made fun of him. The man went crazy with desire and sliced his rival’s nose with a razor blade.

Kevin couldn’t stand those burning laments, just as he hated Marseille rap. A rush of protest lyrics that were meant to be political. Those rappers weren’t afraid of words. They grabbed syllables in their fists and gave you an uppercut to the chin. He’d tried to listen to some of them last night in his room at the L’Hôtel Duc and had ended up with his head hanging over the sink, his face twisted by tears, vomiting. He’d rather listen to rap in English; that way he was sure not to understand a thing.

The next day, Kevin stationed himself at Café Mauresque on place Jules Guesde in Porte d’Aix. As he drank his Coke, his eyes searched the swarming semi-legal market. Confusion reigned in the square from one end to the other. The putrid belly of Marseille, its contaminated face. The lawn of the arc de triomphe was a seedy disaster, wretched rags scattered in all four corners. Battered sets of pots, burnt frying pans. Paperbacks with dog-eared covers and pages stained with tomato sauce. Mangy goatskin boots, trench coats in threadbare, imitation leather, fur coats moth-eaten at the armpits. A shambles of cracked dishes, handbags with their handles coming off, and old teddy bears piled up at the mouth of the gutters. Cars that couldn’t brake fast enough drove over this stuff amid the curses of the enraged drivers. All this was the residue of dumpsters from L’Estaque to the Corniche, including the Canebière. The hideous debris of stuffed bellies, picked through tirelessly and sorted night after night by a whole army of needy souls before being resold on place Jules Guesde.