Philippe Djian - Betty Blue

It wouldn’t be reasonable to start making chili for the next day. It had now been thirteen thousand days I’d been alive. I saw neither the beginning nor the end. I hoped the tar paper would hold for a while. The small lamp was only twenty-five watts. I put my shirt over it anyway.

I got a new pack of chewing gum out of Betty’s purse. I pulled out a stick and folded it in my fingers like an egg roll. No matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t figure out why they put ELEVEN sticks in a pack. It was like they just had to throw a monkey wrench into the works. I grabbed a pillow and lay down on my stomach. I tossed and turned. I was determined to fall asleep. I took the eleventh stick-the one that had caused me so much suffering-and poked it with my tongue. I swallowed it.

The cops had been nervous for a few days now. They’d been patrolling the area from morning till night, their cars crisscrossing the roads in the sun. Break-ins of small-town banks always cause an uproar. The only way to avoid crossing a checkpoint within a five-mile radius would have been by digging a tunnel. I had to go see this woman about moving a baby grand through her window. I was driving peacefully along a deserted road, when a cop car passed me and signaled me to stop. It was the young cop from the night behind the warehouse-the one with the steel thighs. I was running late, but I parked diligently on the shoulder. A few dandelions were growing along the side of the road. He was out of his car before I was. I couldn’t tell if he recognized me or not.

“Hi. Still girded for battle?” I joked.

“Show me your registration,” he said.

“Don’t you recognize me?”

He just stood there with his hand out, looking around, tired. I got out the registration.

“If you ask me, the guys who did the bank job aren’t from around here,” I added. “Myself… as you can tell by looking at me… I’m on my way to work.”

I had the feeling that I was getting on his nerves. He tapped a bebop rhythm on the hood of the car. His holster gleamed in the sun like a black panther.

“Let me look in the trunk,” he said.

I knew that he knew that I had nothing to do with his goddamn bank. He knew that I knew. He just didn’t like me-it was written all over his face-but I hadn’t the vaguest idea why. I pulled my keys out of the ignition and dangled them in front of my nose. He practically ripped them out of my hand. It was clear I was going to be late.

He screwed around with the lock for a few seconds, trying to turn the knob in all directions at once. I got out and slammed the door.

“Okay,” I said. “Let me do it. It may seem ridiculous to you, but I’d rather not have my car ruined. I use it for my work.”

I opened the trunk and moved away so he could look inside. All there was was an old book of matches, all the way in the back. I waited for a minute before closing the trunk.

“…Take advantage of the situation to air it out a little,” I said.

I got back in the ear. I went to turn the ignition key, but he leaned over and grabbed the door.

“Hey, hold on there a minute!” he said. “What about this…?”

I stuck my head out the window. He was running his hand on my tire.

“Feels like a banana peel,” he said. “I wouldn’t even use it to put flowers in.”

I cooled down immediately. I sensed trouble.

“Right, I know,” I said. “I noticed it this morning before I left. I was going to take care of it right away.”

He stood up without taking his eyes off me. I tried to send him love messages.

“I can’t let you go like that,” he said. “You’re a public menace.”

“Look, I’m not going very far. I’ll go slow. I’ll change the tire as soon as I get home. Rest assured. I have no idea how such a thing could have happened.”

He stepped away from the car, fatigued.

“All right, I’ll let it go. But in the meantime, put on the spare tire.”

I felt the hair bristle on my arms and legs. My spare tire was not in any condition to be seen by a police officer. It had about twenty-five thousand miles on it. The tire he wanted me to change looked practically new next to it. I suddenly got a frog in my throat. I offered him a cigarette.

“Rhuh… care for a smoke?… Rhuh, rhuh… hey, that bank thing must really keep you guys hopping… rhuh… wouldn’t want to be in the culprits’ shoes, rhuh…”

“Right, now let’s get moving. I haven’t got all day.”

I took out a cigarette. The jig was up. I lit it, watching the road unroll through the windshield. The cop squinted.

“Maybe you’d like me to help you…” he said.

“No,” I sighed. “It’s not worth it. It’d be a waste of time. The other tire’s also a mess. I’ll have to change it, too.”

He grabbed my door with his hands. A wild lock of hair fell down on his forehead, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“In principle, I’m supposed to immobilize your vehicle. I could even make you go the rest of the way on foot. Now we’re going to turn around here, and you’re going to stop at the first garage we come to and change that tire. I’ll follow you.”

The bottom line was that I was going to be late. But a baby grand is not something you sell every day. I felt like telling him that keeping people from working does not sign his paycheck, but the sun seemed to be getting to his brain.

“Look,” I said. “I have an appointment two minutes from here. I’m not out for a joyride, I’m on my way to sell a piano, and you know very well that small, businessmen can’t afford to miss appointments. It’s hard times for everyone these days. I give you my word that I’ll take care of the tires when I get home. I swear it.

“No,” he snapped. “Now.”

I grabbed the wheel, trying not to squeeze it too hard in my fists, but my arms were already stiff as wood.

“Okay,” I said. “Since you’re determined to give me a ticket, just go ahead and do it. At least I’ll know why I have to work today-I don’t seem to have any choice in the matter…”

“I didn’t say anything about a ticket. I said you have to change your tire!… IMMEDIATELY!!”

“Right, I got that. But if it means missing out on a sale, I’d rather have a ticket.”

He stood there silently for ten seconds staring at me. Then he took one step back and slowly drew his gun. There was no one around for miles.

“Either we do as I say,” he growled. “Or you get a bullet in your tire, for starters…!”

There was no doubt in my mind that he’d do it. Two minutes later found us rolling back toward town. I checked the morning off my list.

There was a wreck sitting in the driveway, so I signaled and pulled around into the courtyard. A dog, black with motor oil, was barking at the end of his chain. A guy was sorting bolts in a shed. He watched us pull in. It was one of those lovely spring days, just warm, no wind. There were piles of car carcasses all over the place. I got out. The junkman gave the dog a kick as he wiped his hands. He smiled at the young cop.

“Hey, Richard, what brings you here?” he said.

“My job, man. Always working.”

“I came for the tires, myself,” I said.

The dude scratched his head. He allowed as how he had three or four Mercedes in the junkpile, but the problem was to find them.

“Allow me,” I said. “I got nothing else to do today.”

They went off together to drink a beer in the shed, and I strolled through the debris. I was almost half an hour late. The carcasses were warm to the touch. The ball was in the enemy’s court. I climbed up on two or three hoods before I spotted a Mercedes.