Georges-Olivier Chateaureynaud - A Life on Paper - Stories

Some men in his company would've sold their souls for a taste of such local specialties. Francois wasn't as fond of them, but accepted so as not to put his hostess out. He let her ready the pipes, which she did quite matter-of-factly, no island mumbo-jumbo. Then, while smoking and drinking tea, they played petits chevaux, which he hadn't done since childhood. He found it infinitely more pleasurable than he'd expected. Was it the hashish? The die struck the wooden board with a thunderous sound, and he seemed to hear the hurrahs of an invisible crowd mingling with horses' galloping hooves. It lasted awhile, then the cavalcade and the ovations faded into some unknown distance. He became aware that he and Lalena had tumbled onto the bed, that they were naked. Her lips at his ear, Lalena twittered sweet, unintelligible words.

Claveton's voice tore Francois from the happy haze where he'd retreated after disentangling himself from Lalena.

"Francois! Francois! It's late! Where the hell are you?" Claveton had gotten over his initial vision of Francois lying with his throat slit in a ditch, but he was still afraid of missing roll call.

"Your friend's barking," Lalena said.

Francois nodded. True enough, but Claveton wasn't the only one. Everyone in the company did their share of barking. Francois rose and began getting dressed.

"Francois! You there? What the hell are you up to?"

"Coming!"

"Christ, get your ass in gear! It's getting dark!"

"Coming!" Francois smiled apologetically at Lalena, who smiled back.

"He's right. The road's not safe at night. You'll come back?"

"First chance I get. If not tomorrow, the day after."

She blew him a kiss with her fingertips. "Go on…"

He grabbed his shirt and hurried downstairs. Night was falling in earnest now. Even if they got back safe and sound, they'd still have to get past the guard on duty. Francois didn't know what Claveton feared more, guerillas or Sergeant Colombani, but the big fellow was hopping up and down impatiently.

"C'mon, c'mon now! Let's beat it!"

"You going to let me put my shirt on?"

"If you're lucky. Hey, what's that? You get a tattoo?"

"Tattoo?"

Claveton's finger, lightly gleaming with gun lube, pointed at Francois' chest. Francois dropped his gaze. Under his left pec, almost right over his heart, was something written in blue. He was puzzled for a moment, annoyed, then figured Lalena was playing a prank.

"What does it say? I can't read it."

"That bitch is a regular comedian! It says `Mortal:"

"Huh? `Mortal'? What the fuck? What's that mean?"

"No idea. Get in, we're outta here!"

"Wait a minute, dammit!" Francois pressed his fingers together like a brush or a palette knife, spat on them, and rubbed the letters vigorously. "Is it coming off?"

"No. Get in and start'er up already, or they're gonna take us hostage on this piece-of-shit road!"

They weren't taken hostage, but they did miss roll call. Sergeant Colombani noticed they'd had no real reason for taking the jeep, and promised to stick it to them when they got back from the action. For now, though, everyone was needed: they were headed south on a peacemaking mission.

This time, a shepherd who didn't respond to their shouted warnings in time had his peace made for him once and for all. They found a penknife on him. A rumor went around that Onfret and Bastini were getting decorated for their little exploit. From that day on, Francois had to keep a closer watch on Claveton, who was clearly ready to make just about anyone's peace to get himself a medal too. After a bloody beginning (at least for half-deaf shepherds), the campaign dwindled to road checkpoints and supply distribution. Neither Onfret nor Bastini ever wound up with a medal; unofficially, they remained mere criminals of war.

Soldiers cannot afford to be modest. They dress, undress, and wash beneath the eyes of fellow soldiers. The entire company filed past Francois to check out his so-called tattoo. It was generally considered pretentious and pathetic at the same time. Mortal, huh? Big whup! What, you didn't know, ya dunib fuck? Francois let them ride him without protest. What good was telling them, or trying at least, that first of all, it wasn't a tattoo, and second of all, whatever it was, it hadn't been his idea? The word had appeared on his skin as simply as a butterfly alighting, sudden as a tumor. Words didn't flit about in the air looking for a fleshly page, or sprout from the body like mushrooms from a damp, dark spot; it just didn't happen! And yet it had. Try getting them to buy that: the men of his company, who fled poetry and abstraction like the plague, or even an honest army doctor faced at worst) with one bullet wound for every sixty cases of the clap… Opening his mouth would've been risky. Francois was careful to keep it shut. In the end, his "tattoo" was a sorry sight beside Bastini's, and the rest soon lost interest.

Francois knew-his skin knew-that it wasn't a tattoo. First of all, a tattoo didn't change. You had it, you kept it. Your skin could get old, wrinkled, creased, spotted, and the tattoo ruined, but it wouldn't disappear till you did, into the eternal night of the grave. His own was constantly changing. Clearly no one else had noticed, but he'd quickly seen that its size and color depended on… Francois was reluctant to say his "mood;" but that was how it was. The six letters that made up the word "Mortal" got bigger or smaller, clearer or blurrier, went from dark to light blue, and sometimes almost green, according to his feelings at a given moment. Sometimes the letters even grew so clear as to be imperceptible. At first, Francois was tempted to show Claveton. He stopped himself just in time. Claveton would've been a troublesome witness. He'd have yelled out loud and gotten everyone else stirred up. Or he might not even have understood that the sudden absence of the word on Francois' chest was as unnatural, as "miraculous," as its presence five hours before or after. For the word always returned. The same night, or the next morning, when Francois took a moment alone to check, he found it back in its place, seemingly indelible, definitive, fateful, like a stamp on an official file.

They wound up north again. Sergeant Colombani hadn't forgotten his promise. Francois and Claveton were confined to camp for fifteen days. While everyone else caught up with the easy beauties of the bar district, Colombani made it his job to find them more morally as well as physically wholesome activities.

When the fifteen days were up, the first place they headed was a brothel. Claveton was fine with stealing a jeep, dropping Francois off at Lalena's, getting busted by Colombani on the way back, and catching a month of extra chores and confinement all over again-but not before getting himself laid.

Several days went by before an opportunity presented itself. This time they didn't have to misappropriate army equipment. Two reporters off to explore the coast gave them a ride in their Range Rover and arranged to pick them up again that night on the way back.

The house was all locked up. Francois found a letter tacked to the door. Sun and sea wind had already weathered and discolored the paper. In violet ink on the envelope was written Francois' first and last name, misspelled. Letter in hand, he went to sit down on a concrete bench facing the strip of beach. He read the letter several times. It was polite and bland, nothing like the letter of a witch who wrote disturbing things in magic ink on her lovers' bodies. Lalena had left for Switzerland. She wanted to see him again. She'd left a phone number in Geneva, but the campaign in the south had lasted several months and the number was probably no good now. If it belonged to a hotel, or friends of hers, thought Francois, surely he could pick up her trail again? He shrugged. Even if he found her, what would he say? What is this goddamned thing you stuck me with? Don't play innocent with me! This thing on my skin? I caught it from you, and now it won't go away!