Oscar Coop-Phane - Zenith Hotel

But it’s always the same old story, his parents will never trust him. So they spend hours arguing over the chairs and tables, the stools and the colour of the walls. They sit there, Father, Mother, Antoine and Jean-Paul, stupidly flicking through the glossy catalogue and niggling over the prices, colours and fabrics. At least Father has a sense of occasion, he smokes his pipe and watches it all with a superior air as if it’s a playground fight. Antoine, his brother, says nothing, dull as ditchwater. Mother’s the worst, she won’t budge an inch, she insists on her Perspex tables with her big gob full of molars, she’s like a dog with a bone. Perspex is easier to clean, I tell you. Crap! She wants Perspex because it’s cheap. But Jean-Paul won’t give in either. He wants wood and metal in his bar, like they have at Costes.

At one time, he wanted to be an artist, the persona appealed to him. He had greasy hair and smoked roll-ups. But he likes money so he decided to do bar work. Paid every night – cash in hand, thank you very much. He’s seen some things in his twenty-five years, he has! The café world is a different world, as he often says. At night, of course he’s tired, but he’s content with his life. He was made manager – he no longer has to wear an apron. Now it’s a white shirt and fat tie, much better.

He has more money in his pocket but there are responsibilities. The buck stops with him. Keep an eye on the waiters, watch the till, lock up every night and open up every morning. It’s been two years. He’s slaving his arse off, but he doesn’t think about it. When he’s not working, he sleeps.

He’s about to leave his job and open a café with Antoine – a present from their parents. It’s at Convention and is called L’Épervier. He can already picture it, a bar that’ll be a magnet for chicks, the cutest ones for him – one of the perks of being the boss. Antoine will be joint owner, but it’s not the same, he’s Jean-Paul’s younger brother, he’s never been a manager. Antoine’s always been a follower. At school, his enemies were Jean-Paul’s. He cultivated his personality alongside his brother’s, slightly in the wings, a little in the shadow, his understudy. At the rear, you’re not required to think, you take care of the provisions and the wounded. No glory for those who deal with the women, the children and the elderly. No monuments, no associations, only fear and hunger, the smell of mould and of a barn at the bottom of the garden.

Antoine used to be fat. It still shows a little, he has love handles and his shirt doesn’t quite tuck into his trousers. He’s slightly shorter than his brother, of smaller build too. He’s often been told he’s good-looking, but that doesn’t help pull the chicks. They’re never interested in him. If they do talk to him, it’s only to catch Jean-Paul’s eye. It doesn’t annoy him, he’s used to it. He’s confident that one day he’ll find the woman of his dreams, a Russian dancer. She’ll love him, she’ll caress his love handles, they’ll go for a spin in his car and bathe in rivers. When Antoine can’t sleep, he thinks about her. He calls her Melody. He doesn’t really have a clear picture of her face but he knows he’d recognize her if he met her. He’d like to work with her, set up a business and buy a modern house. Happiness that smells of mashed potato and chestnuts on a Sunday afternoon. A glass of Coke by the fireside, a cigarette that tastes different when it’s raining outside. He and Melody are nice and warm; they smoke and sip Coke. Outside, it’s raining. They’re shielded from hard knocks, sadness and bankruptcy. Ultimately, they’re not asking for much. Antoine dreams of leisure and a leather sofa, work during the week and Frisbee at the weekend. A pretty wife, two curly-haired kids and a decent coffee after lunch.

Jean-Paul’s ambition is fired by the movies. On the road with Faye Dunaway, afraid of neither God nor man. A passionate affair laced with cocaine and champagne, and an automatic gun. Something violent that wrenches your guts and rips out your stomach. Life at 130 mph in a convertible, smashed plates on the floor and Virginia cigarettes. Pain, addiction, a broken heart and hollow cheeks. The idea of mouldering in a little provincial house and listening to the radio like his parents fills him with horror.

In that respect, Antoine and Jean-Paul are very different. Even though they had the same upbringing, the same bike crashes racing down the hill next to their house, the same school, the same football team and the same mates. There’s only a year between them. So people say it’s their nature, that a person’s predestined for heroism or the petty bourgeoisie.

Right now, there’s no question of an American shoot-out or a cosy fireside. They’re busy choosing tables and chairs, bar stools and the colour of the walls. L’Épervier opens in one month. No time to waste, negotiate with Mother without coming out of it too badly and reach an agreement. It’s a strategic battle – strength and diplomacy, the weapons of victory. Patience, compromise, Perspex tables, aluminium tables. Taupe, red, brown, purple, tempered steel, marble, armchairs or sofa, Pastis, Ricard, Stella, Corona, Pelforth, pastries, croissants, buns. Perspex tables, aluminium tables.

Végétal is a weird surname to be lumbered with. Jean-Paul Végétal, Antoine Végétal. They’d both love to change it. But you have no say on the subject of the name you’re given. It’s the burden of being born. Antoine and Jean-Paul’s burden. It’s a bit of a handicap. It’s not really heavy, more like a huge empty box that they don’t know how to carry. Végétal is cumbersome. They were mercilessly bullied at school because of their name.

Their father never seemed to have had a problem with it. Végétal is a name, it doesn’t mean anything. I don’t understand why you take it so badly. Would you rather have been called Porcher or Chevrolet? I don’t see what you’ve got against our name. I like it, it sounds healthy. Everyone eats organic these days, we’re very fashionable, my boy. It’s even lucky, being called Végétal; people find it reassuring. I can hear them saying, ‘A Végétal can’t be bad, they’re sweet, the two little Végétal boys, they’re gentle, they’re fresh, you could eat them!’ You should be proud, my sons. It’s a gift from your ancestors. My poor father would turn in his grave if he could hear you. You’re lucky he was always a bit deaf. The Végétals, a family of workers, deeply attached to their land. You’re disparaging our family lineage, my boys. Lestrange? Do you think Lestrange is any better? Végétal’s your name and you should be proud of it. Bleed for it! Get your face smashed in defending Végétal! Good God, have some guts, boys. A Végétal doesn’t allow people to walk all over him. A Végétal will never allow himself to be trampled on. So don’t ever let me catch you whining like sissies again. It’s your name, it’s beautiful, wear it like a flag. And if you don’t like it, that’s tough.

Father often made scenes like this. When Antoine and Jean-Paul were little, it scared the pants off them. But it boosted their morale. They set off for school prouder than ever. It was true: Végétal is better than Lestrange! We’re not going to let people walk all over us, are we, Antoine? We’re not going to let people trample us! We’re going to shove their faces in their sauerkraut. Who do those scumbags think they are? Stupid numbskulls! Go and eat your puke like those fucking Lestranges! Yesss, nice one, Jean-Paul, let them eat their puke, those fucking Lestranges! Like those poor… huh… like those poor Lestranges.