Total Chaos Read Free Page A

mother worked packing dates, fourteen hours a day. In the evenings, the
nabos
and the people from the North, the
babis
, met up on the streets. They pulled chairs out in front of their doors, talked through the windows. Just like in Italy. Just like the good old days.
    He hadn’t recognized his house. That had been redeveloped, too. He’d walked on past. Manu was from Rue Baussenque. A dark, damp building, where his mother, already pregnant with him, moved in with two of her brothers. His father, José Manuel, had been shot by Franco’s men. Immigrants, exiles, they all arrived full of hope. By the time Lole appeared on the scene, with her family, Manu and he were already grown up. Sixteen. At least, that’s what they told the girls.
    Living in the Panier wasn’t something you boasted about. Ever since the nineteenth century it had been a neighborhood of sailors and whores. A blight on the city. One big brothel. For the Nazis, who’d dreamed of destroying it, it was a
source of degeneration for the Western world.
His father and mother had lived through the humiliation. Ordered to leave in the middle of the night. January 24th 1943. Twenty thousand people. Finding a wheelbarrow quickly, loading a few possessions. Mistreated by the French gendarmes and mocked by the German soldiers. Pushing the wheelbarrow along the Canebière at daybreak, watched by people on their way to work. At school, the other kids pointed the finger at them. Even working class kids, from Belle de Mai. But not for long. They simply broke their fingers! He and Manu knew their bodies and clothes smelled of mildew. The smell of the neighborhood. The first girl he’d ever kissed had that smell at the back of her throat. But they didn’t give a damn. They loved life. They were good looking. And they knew how to fight.
    He turned onto Rue du Refuge, to walk back down. Some distance away, six Arab kids, aged between fourteen and seventeen, stood talking, next to a gleaming new moped. They watched him coming, warily. A new face in the neighborhood spelled danger. A cop. An informer. Or the new owner of a renovated building, who’d go to the town hall and complain about the lack of security. The cops would come and check them out. Take them down to the station. Maybe rough them up. Hassle them. When he drew level with the kids, he gave the one who seemed to be the leader a short, sharp look, then walked on. Nobody moved. They’d understood each other.
    He crossed Place de Lenche, which was deserted, then walked down toward the harbor. He stopped at the first phone booth. Batisti answered.
    â€œI’m Manu’s friend.”
    â€œHi, pal. Come by tomorrow, have a drink. About one, at the Péano. It’ll be great to meet. See you, kid.”
    He hung up. A man of few words, Batisti. No time to tell him he’d rather have gone anywhere but there. Anywhere but the Péano. It was the bar where the painters went. Ambrogiani had showed his first canvases there. Then others had come along, influenced by him. Poor imitations, some of them. But journalists went there, too. From right across the political spectrum.
Le Provençal, La Marseillaise, Agence France Presse, Libération. Pastis
knocked down the barriers between them. At night, they waited till the papers were put to sleep, then went into the back room to listen to jazz. Both Petruccianis had played there, father and son. With Aldo Romano. There’d been so many nights. Nights of trying to figure out what his life was all about. That night, Harry was at the piano.
    â€œAll you need to figure out is what you want,” Lole said.
    â€œYeah. And what I want right now is a change of scenery.”
    Manu had come back with the umpteenth round. After midnight, they stopped counting. Three scotches, doubles. He’d sat down and raised his glass, smiling beneath his moustache.
    â€œCheers, lovebirds.”
    â€œShut up, you,” Lole had