Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

“How you doing?” I asked.

“Okay, and you? What’s the matter? You don’t look so good.”

“This whole fucking thing is my fault. But I’m going to get you out of here in a hurry. Just hold on, baby.”

The bars were thick. No way to bend them apart after all I’d drunk-I was out of strength. Her hair was trying to tell me something. I put my hand out to touch it.

“I’d feel better if I had a lock of hair to take with me,” I blubbered.

She gave it a toss, laughing. Suddenly it wasn’t a prison cell-it was the cavern of Ali Baba. I was surely crazy, but I like being crazy-getting shaken by the sappiest of sights, putting my hand out to a girl to be taken away from all the senseless shit that surrounds us, a small flame burning in my belly.

She had such an effect on me. I stumbled, then righted myself with a smile. All that counted was that she was alive. The rest didn’t exist.

“Hey…” she said. “Man, you can hardly stand up. Come here…”

I didn’t. I backed up a little.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through-I haven’t stopped thinking about you one second.”

“Yeah, but it hasn’t killed you, has it? It hasn’t been a waste of time…”

I felt like a moving sidewalk was pulling me toward the door. I backed away, against the wall. I absolutely had to leave with a sweet image in my head-something I could carry around like a good-luck charm.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” I said. “I got to go now, but I swear you’re not going to rot in here very long, because I’m going to take care of everything. I’m going to solve all our problems.”

“Yeah, I can see that. You can barely stand up. I’m sure you’ll do a good job. Hey, don’t go away like that…”

But I did. I kept backing up until I found myself in the shadow of the hallway, where I couldn’t see her anymore.

“Don’t forget, I’m getting you out of here!” I shouted. “Don’t be afraid!”

There was a hollow noise, as if shr’d kicked the bars with her foot.

“HAHA!” she said. “YOU THINK THIS STUFF SCARES ME??”

I went home slowly, going in through the back to avoid Eddie and Lisa. I went straight to the bedroom without turning on the lights. I heard them talking downstairs. I lay down and smoked an entire cigarette. I breathed slowly, bringing her image up in my head for as long, and as often, as I pleased. I felt better after that. I splashed a little water on my face, then went downstairs. I felt their eyes on me halfway down the stairs.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s almost all taken care of.”

“You been here long?” Eddie asked.

“Now don’t get upset. Do you realize that Mario is working without olives? Looked at your watch lately?”

We jumped in the car. I worked like a dog all night, but my heart wasn’t in it. Tips, zero.

I woke up the next morning. I didn’t think twice. I got out of bed and, while the coffee was heating, did twenty push-ups without batting an eye. I don’t usually do things like that, but somehow it felt right. I stood up again and walked to the window. A ray of sunshine hit me in the face. It made me smile. I went to turn off the coffee, and broke the knob on the stove in half. I felt fit-incapable of coming up with a single thought, but wound tight as a spring and responsive as a remote-control engine. This was fine with me. From time to time it feels good to unplug your brain. I watched myself get dressed, straighten up the room, and do a few dishes. I smoked a cigarette before I left-the last cigarette of the condemned man. The condemned man wasn’t me, but I smoked it for him, to save time.

When he asked me through the door who I was, I said I was producing a television show on Literature. The first thing I saw when he opened up was the bandage across his cheek. His eyes bulged when I gave him a hard right to the stomach. He folded in half. I went in, closed the door behind me, and delivered another one. This time he went down to his knees. It hurt me to see him like that-eyes popping out and mouth twisted in an inaudible cry-it hurt me. I sent him rolling into the living room with my foot.

He landed under a table. Ile tried to get up, but I was on him in two steps. I grabbed him by the lapels of his housecoat and twisted my fist in it to strangle him. I dragged him coughing and spitting to an armchair, and sat down. I let up a little on the lapels, so he could catch his breath, but at the same time gave him a sharp knee in the nose, to maintain the psychological edge. I moved aside quickly to keep the blood from getting all over me.

“If you think I’m doing this because you shit on my book, you’re wrong,” I said. “Has nothing to do with that.”

He slowly got his breath back. His face was finger-painted in blood from his touching his nose. I held him fast.

“If you think that, you’re wrong,” I repeated. “Real wrong, you get me?”

I fired my fist into the top of his skull. He let out a moan.

“I don’t hold it against you, because it isn’t really your fault, I recognize that. I didn’t write the book for someone like you. So let’s consider that a simple misunderstanding-no harm done. That’s all there is to say as far as you and me go. You agree?”

He let me know he agreed. I grabbed him by the hair and yanked. Our eyes met.

“Still, you don’t know shit from shinola,” I said.

I punched him in the ear. I took the telephone in my lap.

“I’ll make it brief,” I said. “That girl is the only thing that counts in my life. So you take this phone and you withdraw your complaint, or I’ll be forced to do something unpleasant, okay?”

All those swear words echoing in that room furnished in Louis XVI-it was like sprinkling confetti on the bed of a dying man. He nodded his head immediately, a small bubble of blood hanging from his lip. I tied a noose around his neck with the telephone cord and then let him be. I listened in while he told his little story to the cops.

“Good,” I said. “Now say it one more time…”

“But…”

“I said say it again.”

He repeated the magic words in a tired voice and I gave him a sign to hang up the phone. I sat there deciding whether or not to smash a few more things before leaving, but I thought better of it-I was starting to lose my nerve. I pulled the cord just a little, to squeeze his Adam’s apple.

.

“You’d be foolish not to forget this ever happened,” I said. “It’s up to you if we ever see each other again. Of the two of us, it’s me who’s got less to lose.”

He looked at me, his head nodding, fingers clenched on the telephone cord. The blood was starting to dry on his nose-blood is something that never lasts too long. For a moment I almost asked myself what I was doing there. I’m used to that kind of change, though-l can slip from one level of consciousness to another with the ease of a leaf floating down a river, regaining its gentle pace after falling over a sixty-foot waterfall. The guy was nothing to me. He was just the cheap image of something that had nothing to do with reality.

I left without saying another word. I quietly closed the door behind me. Outside I got a hit off the icy wind.

We made a lot of money at the pizzeria Christmas Eve-a real haul. Eddie couldn’t believe his eyes. We went all out. The night before I’d brought in double the usual amount of champagne, without saying anything. Now there was only one bottle left standing, and there was money overflowing from all sides. It was almost daylight by the time the last customer left. We were dead. Lisa put her arms around my neck; she’d worked all night with us and done a hell of a job. I picked her up by the waist and sat her on the counter.