Chourmo Read Free

right?” an old lady asked him.
    â€œMy wallet’s been stolen.”
    â€œOh, you poor boy. Nothing you can do about it! It happens all the time.” She looked at him sympathetically. “Just don’t go to the police. Whatever you do! It’ll only cause more trouble!”
    And she went on her way, holding her little purse tight to her chest. Guitou watched her as she walked away. She melted into the motley crowd of passers-by, most of them blacks and Arabs.
    Things hadn’t gotten off to a good start in Marseilles!
    To chase away his rotten luck, he kissed the gold medallion of the Virgin hanging on his chest, which was still tanned from his summer in the mountains. His mother had given it to him on the morning of his first communion, taking it from around her neck and putting it around his. “It’s come a long way,” she’d said. “It’ll protect you.”
    He didn’t believe in God, but like all children of Italians he was superstitious. And besides, kissing the Virgin Mary was like kissing his mother. When he was still just a kid and she put him to bed, she’d plant a kiss on his forehead, and as she did so the medallion would come closer to his lips, borne along on his mother’s opulent breasts.
    He dismissed this image, which always excited him. And thought about Naïma. Her breasts weren’t as large as his mother’s, but they were just as beautiful. Just as dark. One evening, kissing Naïma behind the Rebouls’ barn, he’d slipped his hand inside her sweater. She’d let him stroke them. Slowly, he’d lifted the sweater to see them, his hands shaking. “Do you like them?” she’d asked in a low voice. He hadn’t answered, only opened his lips to take first one, then the other, in his mouth. He started to get a hard-on. He was going to see Naïma again, and that was all that mattered.
    He’d get by.
    Â 
    Naïma woke with a start. A noise upstairs. A strange, muffled noise. Her heart was pounding. She listened hard, holding her breath. Nothing. Silence. A weak light filtered through the blinds. What time was it? She wasn’t wearing a watch. Guitou was sleeping peacefully, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward her. His breathing was almost inaudible but regular. It reassured her. She lay down again and snuggled up close to him, with her eyes open. She’d have liked to smoke, to calm down. To get back to sleep.
    Gently, she moved her hand over Guitou’s shoulders, then down his back in one long caress. He had silky skin. Soft. Like his eyes, his smiles, his voice, the words he spoke. Like his hands on her body. It was that softness that had attracted her to him. An almost feminine softness. The boys she had known, even Mathias, with whom she’d flirted, were rougher in their ways. From the first time she’d seen Guitou smile, she’d wanted to be in his arms and rest her head against his chest.
    She wanted to wake him, she wanted to have him caress her as he had before. She’d liked that: his fingers on her body, his eyes filled with wonder, making her feel beautiful. And in love. Making love with him had seemed the most natural thing in the world. She’d liked that too. Would it be just as good the second time around? Was it always like that? Her whole body quivered at the memory of it. She smiled, planted a kiss on Guitou’s shoulder, and snuggled even closer to him. He was warm.
    He moved. She slid her leg between his legs. He opened his eyes.
    â€œAre you awake?” he murmured, stroking her hair.
    â€œA noise. I heard a noise.”
    â€œAre you afraid?”
    There was no reason to be afraid.
    Hocine was sleeping upstairs. They’d talked to him a little, earlier in the evening. When they’d come to get the keys, before they went out for a pizza. He was an Algerian historian, specializing in the ancient world. He was interested in the