A French Novel. Frédéric Beigbeder

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      4

      VOWELS, CONSONANTS

      On 28 January 2008, the evening had started out well: dinner washed down with grands crus, then the usual bar crawl through dimly lit watering holes, the shots of coloured flavoured vodkas: liquorice, coconut, strawberry, mint, curaçao, downed in one; the shot glasses, black, white, red, green, blue, the colours of Rimbaud’s poem ‘Vowels’. Riding along on my moped, I hummed the Pixies’ ‘Where Is My Mind’. I was dressed up as a schoolboy, wearing suede cowboy boots, with unkempt shoulder-length hair, cloaking my age in my beard and my black raincoat. I have indulged in such nocturnal excesses for more than twenty years; it is my favourite hobby, the sport of grown-ups who refuse to grow up. It’s not easy being a child trapped in the body of an amnesiac adult.

      In Proust’s Sodom and Gomorrah, the Marquis de Vaugoubert wants to look ‘young, virile and attractive, though he could see and no longer dared to peer into his mirror to inspect the wrinkles solidifying around a face whose many charms he would have wished to preserve’. As you can see, the problem is not new: Proust used the name of the château that belonged to my great-grandfather Thibaud. A mild state of inebriation began to envelop reality, to temper my speed, to make my childish behaviour seem acceptable. A new law had been passed by the republic a month previously forbidding smoking in nightclubs, so a crowd had gathered on the pavement along the avenue Marceau. I was a non-smoker expressing solidarity with the pretty girls in patent-leather pumps who huddled around the proffered cigarette lighters. For a second, their faces were lit like a painting by Georges de la Tour. I was holding a glass in one hand, using the other to cling to friendly shoulders. I kissed the hand of a waitress still waiting for a part in a major motion picture, pulled the hair of the editor of a magazine with no readership. An insomniac generation gathered on Monday nights to stave off the cold, the loneliness, the financial crisis already looming on the horizon – God knows, there’s no shortage of excuses to get plastered. There was also an actor who dabbled in art-house cinema, a few out-of-work girls, bouncers both black and white, a singer on his way out and a writer whose first novel I had published. When the latter took out a white wrap and began to tip powder onto the bonnet of the gleaming black Chrysler parked in the access road, no one protested. Flouting the law amused us: we were living in an era of Prohibition, it was time to rebel like Baudelaire and Théophile Gautier, Brett Easton Ellis and Jay McInerney, like Antoine Blondin, who was rescued from a police station by Roger Nimier disguised as a chauffeur. I was meticulously cutting the white crystals with a gold credit card while my writer friend bitched that his mistress was even more jealous than his wife, something that he considered (and as you can imagine, I was nodding vigorously in agreement) an unforgivable lapse of taste, when suddenly a strobing light made me look up. A two-tone car pulled up in front of us. On the doors were strange blue letters underscored by a red stripe. The letter ‘P’. Consonant. The letter ‘O’. Vowel. The letter ‘L’. Consonant. The letter ‘I’. Vowel. I thought of that TV game show, Countdown. The letter ‘C’. Oh, fuck. The letter ‘E’. Doubtless these widely spaced letters had some hidden meaning. Someone wanted to warn us of something, but what? A siren began to wail, the blue light whirled as on a dance floor. We both scarpered like rabbits. Rabbits in slim-fitting jackets. Rabbits in ankle boots with slippery soles. Rabbits unaware that in the 8th arrondissement 28 January 2008 was the first day of the hunting season. One of the rabbits had even left his credit card with his thermally moulded name lying on the bonnet of the car, while the other did not even think to throw away the illicit packets hidden in his pockets. This dawn marks the end of my endless youth.