Father of a tattooed man

The alarm clock rang. Victor was tired, he had not been able to sleep all night and had just fallen asleep.

He had been watching a French movie, by Claude Sautet, "Les choses de la vie." Victor had little taste for this kind of comedy. Those mawkish Left Bank movies told either banal stories with tragic overtones, or stories so immodest that one was embarrassed to hear them. Victor preferred action movies, adventure stories where the story is about the number of deaths and the heavy Hollywood jokes. It wasn't very sophisticated, but it was better for his hormonal needs.

Yet, last night, he had stayed until the end of the movie. What was happening to him? The movie was about a man thinking about the woman he loved. Was the character dead, dying, or simply passed out, Victor didn't understand anything.  He never understood anything about these kinds of films.  But the main character was talking about the women he loved or had loved. Victor was interested in women on principle.

Now he was melancholic. He had been caught up in the game. Michel Piccoli's words no longer left his head: "I loved you so much, Hélène. We must leave each other..." What a stupid intellectual's sentence. The reasoning was absurd and yet Victor was touched.

All night long, he had been dreaming without being able to find sleep. There was something in this story that disturbed him.

Love, what could he say about it? He repressed a bitter smile. He had loved, let's say much too much loved... Women had followed one another in his life at an industrial rate, especially since he was financially well off. He consumed all kinds of women, blondes, brunettes, redheads and of all colors. Each one was another trophy on his hunting list. 

Some of them had been fun, but he always got tired of them. Among all these embraced shadows, had he loved at least one? He didn't know, he remembered a few, but he forgot the names of most.

In fact, there had only been Christiane, his wife. He regretted it. He didn't know exactly when, but he regretted it.

Christiane, too, had watched Sautet's film. But she hadn't watched it for long.  The actor Michel Piccoli annoyed her, as did the whole clique of left-wing actors, supposedly unavoidable, imposed by the system on the screens of the 1980s.

Among all these ex-maoist warmongers, there was not one to catch up with the other. Did they know, at least, these pretentious Parisians that François Mitterrand, their "uncle", had been decorated by Pétain, that he had been president of the Saint-Vincent de Paul circle? What did they hope for when they acclaimed him? That the world would be more beautiful? The idiots...

The old man was rotten, like all those talkative lawyers and high ranking civil servants, those enarques who had been parasitizing the corridors of power for centuries.

Christiane didn't like Sautet's films, films designed to brainwash the middle classes, to normalize the guy who went from one woman to another, leaving fatherless kids in the process.

It was the 60's doctrine, supposedly of the left, inspired in fact by the American State Department at the service of international capitalism.

Christiane had learned to distrust the "freedom" to love, to consume love, to have "light" feelings, to assume nothing, to be responsible or guilty of nothing.

It was this kind of doctrine that had eaten her man's brain and that now left her alone with the children to pull the devil by the tail. 

No, it was certainly not she who was going to fantasize about the difficult love affairs of Piccoli or of any of those degenerates of show business.

One only had to look at their private lives. All these worldly losers changed their companions like socks. They displayed themselves in the celebrity magazines, not ashamed to play the old beautiful with young girls who could be their daughter. These sixty-eighters disgusted her. They were happy with themselves, these old perverts. There was no reason to be.

Her man was no longer with her. He hadn't been there for so long, even though he had never asked for a divorce. He must have been at home that night, probably, getting drunk alone or snogging one of those dolls he used to fish in bars or at work. She had investigated at first, then she had given up in front of the number of girls who passed in Victor's life. The life of this man who had been the man of her life was pathetic. She had seen him walking around with a bored expression on the arms of these women. He was bored, he didn't talk to them. He was not happy, she knew. But it was his choice.

For her part, Christiane hadn't met anyone, or else bad look-alikes of her ex-husband; divorced guys, damaged, asocial, impossible old boys or unrepentant seducers that she had sent packing.

She didn't want to disturb the children by bringing a man into the house.  Christiane was a man's wife. She had chosen a bad horse, she would not take another.

He thought of Christiane, his wife. She had not been the easiest to live with, but she had been "his wife" and, deep down, he knew that she would always be "his wife" and the mother of his children. Yes, Christiane was probably the one he had loved, the one he had taken the time to love. He still remembered her on the wedding day, a pretty redhead. She challenged his father and the family with her eyes. She had character, she had never been a vase.

When they had met, he had started his usual seduction game. She stopped him, looked him straight in the eye and told him that she would not be seduced by a "Dom Juan of construction sites". He found this funny and appropriate. So he courted her for a year, proposed to her father-in-law in the proper way.

After the wedding, they moved in together quickly. It had happened naturally, without her asking or him feeling obliged. He was working, she was working. She was a young teacher at the time. They didn't make much money, but they were a couple like any other. She demanded that he come home after work, that he tell her about his day, that he call her. She wanted to know if there were any girls hanging around. She sulked when he was evasive or responded poorly. It had been hard for him to change his bad habits, but little by little he was changing. He became a family man. They went out together on weekends, visited the family, went shopping on Saturday afternoon. Victor missed a bit of his single life, his boyfriends, his bars, the girls and his motorcycle that was now lying around in the garage.

Victor, oh Victor. She remembered the handsome young man she had known at first. He was a good guy, a solid, hard-working, uncomplicated guy. Of course, he already had a seductive side that she had immediately tried to correct. With the father he had had, it had been necessary to educate him quite a bit about fatherhood. But he was kind, not vicious, a little childish like many men. She had almost succeeded. With patience and love, he became a good person. He loved his kids, was kind to her. She remembered the wonder he had when he discovered he was a father.  He would come home at night, bring her flowers, even start reading books, trying to understand. He was on the right track...

And then he met Ambroise. The latter was a bad guy, an ambitious businessman. He was a son of the city's upper middle class, a lover of wine, women and the liberal philosophy of the Enlightenment. He tickled the hands of his brother masons, did business with his fellow men and enjoyed everything he could while throwing up any moral obstacle to his money, his desire and his power. The devil was laughing...

Victor was under the influence of Ambroise who allowed himself everything. The mason admired the freemason, the manual was subjugated by the graduate of the grandes écoles who spoke well, lived like a great bourgeois, free of any conscience.  Ambroise constantly invited him to parties "in good company", mocking his life as a husband who had fallen into line. Ambroise, with a formidable flair, had guessed Victor's sensual weaknesses and the ascendancy he could have over him. He wanted to attach himself to this Victor, whose skills would serve his ambitious real estate project for many years to come. The best way to attach him was, of course, to corrupt him permanently by giving him a taste for women, parties, alcohol and luxury.  It would be easy, Victor was weak. The Freemason knew well how to manipulate men.

Ah, this Ambroise, this bundle of vices and pretension that she called the "lace truffle"! From the first moment, she had sensed the danger. This guy was hypocritical, mean, manipulative. But Victor saw nothing. She looked at her man who was drinking in the words and attitudes of this great bourgeois. Ambroise was trying to show them off. He invited them to his house, to Dad's yacht, and gave them gifts.

Christiane did not like money. Her father had been ruined in business in Tunisia. Her mother had studied classical literature and had met Albert Camus... Christiane had therefore known money and books. She preferred books. She knew above all that when it came to money everything could change from one day to the next, that there were more important things. She was also not impressed by Ambroise's HEC degrees and his ready-made formulas for the ENA exam.  Other than that, he was a misogynistic flamer.  But Ambroise's money had turned Victor's head, had driven him away from her. She had watched him walk away, hypnotized. He had begun to imitate Ambroise's attitudes, to adopt his reasoning, his cynicism, his contempt.  When she had had proof of his infidelity, she had fired him. It was too late, he was starting to rot from the inside.

There was business potential in the city at that time, many urban projects to be realized.  Ambroise had the contacts and the money to get into the game. He still needed a competent and dedicated deputy to step in and pick up a big package. So he worked with Victor. One night, Victor had a meltdown. He had gone to one of Ambroise's ordeals, had come back home late. It was stupid, with no tomorrow. But it had been enough for once for him to do it again, more and more often.

He had resumed his bad habits as a pretty-boy, adding to them a taste for private clubs and large patrician villas. He had taken out his motorcycle again. Ambroise, too, was a biker...

From a small contractor, he had become a master builder on large construction sites. The construction works that he was entrusted with in the region were more and more important. He finished later in the evening. The opportunities to fall were multiplying since he was earning money.  Christiane was concerned about the changes she saw in her husband. He now had a wry smile when he saw the simple life she continued to lead. He had tasted something else, the great life of the wealthy of this world. He had become intoxicated. He had not wanted to go back. Christiane had chased him away. He had moved elsewhere. Christiane no longer spoke to him.

The story of Christiane and Victor was as sad as the times, and it got even uglier, because they had two children. The daughter, Sophie, was a teenager in crisis, grumpy, immature, who did not do anything at school. Thomas, the son, was a tattoo artist who spent his evenings smoking joints with people who looked like him, goths and hard-rockers mixed with neo-pagans. He was a bit of an artist, Victor didn't know much about what he was doing. It was a world he didn't know.

Sophie adored her father. She hung around his neck and cried every time he left. She would call out to him constantly. Victor tried not to put her down, even though she often bothered him in the middle of work. Thomas had cut off all relations with his father. One evening, Victor was out with some colleagues in a pub in the city. His son was there with friends. Victor got up from the table to greet his son. His son greeted him with a wink, as if greeting a relationship, and continued his conversation with his friends. The message was clear: Victor was not much of a person to Thomas anymore. Victor had been shocked that night. It was "deserved", Victor's father had said.

The latter belonged to another generation.  He didn't approve of his son's "dom juanism.  He had been a hard man, consumed by his work. His wife had probably suffered from his character, but he would never have committed infidelity. It was not done. He disliked his son's flamboyant character, although he recognized his professional qualities. It was he who had taught Victor to work, taking him to the construction sites as a teenager. He had guessed his son's weakness and regretted not having been able to correct it. He too had distanced himself from Victor and what he had become. This world of decadent businessmen disgusted him, his son disappointed him. It was not a world of men, well, of men as in his time.

Victor was thinking today about all that. He regretted, yes, now he regretted. 

He stayed like that all morning. He thought of his son, it was too late. The little one too. Even if he resumed a normal life with her, she was damaged.

Christiane, Christiane especially, he had betrayed her. He had betrayed this intelligent woman who had wanted to give him a normal life as a couple, the best life. He had collected the passing girls, the cold beauties, the twisted ones, the exotic ones. None of them had been important. He was bored with these dolls, these women lost in their own divorce. He loved Christiane, but he had screwed up.

Christiane was finishing correcting her papers. She had to hurry before going to school this afternoon. She heard the doorbell of the building. Who could want to come at this hour? She wasn't expecting anyone. She didn't want to open the door to a stranger, nor did she want to let people into the building, so she went out on her balcony.

It was Victor! What was he doing there?

"What do you want?

Can you take me upstairs?

Why?

I just... I can come in. I want to talk to you.

The door opened. Victor went up the stairs to the second floor. It had been years since he had returned. He remembered the smell, the paintings of Mrs. Vassiliu, the neighbor of the third floor. He remembered the old days, his normal life. He arrived on the doorstep.  Christiane was there. He looked at her, she had grown a little taller, her hair was shorter. But it was definitely her.

"What do you want?"

I wanted to talk to you.

I don't have time, I have to leave.

Listen, I apologize. I won't be long.

He pretended to move forward. She kept the door closed, wedged behind it.

"I told you I don't have time."

Finally, Christiane, I... I need to talk to you. I'm not going to tell my life story in the stairwell.

You show up out of the blue after years...

Look, I want to apologize for all the bad things I've done to you. I want to make amends...

You want to fix it?! But it's too late, baby!!! You don't show up years later, you should have thought about it before ! The damage is done, Victor, so...

Christiane, Christiane... She was now screaming in the stairwell. This was exactly what he didn't want to do, to talk about his life in the building.  He didn't want to run into the neighbors, their eyes, their curiosity. "Can you calm down and let me in."

He had tried to speak calmly, without raising his voice, "Christiane, I really need to talk to you. I won't keep you long."

She finally fell silent, turned around, releasing the door.

He entered and closed it behind him. Christiane was in her room, standing in front of the window. He remained on the threshold. He had noticed that nothing had changed in the apartment, the furniture, the paintings.  Nothing had changed since he had left one evening, several years before. "Here I am, realizing my mistake, my errors. I wanted to ask for your forgiveness. You are my wife, the only woman who ever mattered. I know there is no going back..."

Christiane didn't move, didn't say anything, she couldn't hear him anymore, her head was buzzing, she could feel the tears running down her cheek. She had waited for years for such a day. She knew that Victor had loved her. She knew he still loved her and that was why he had never asked for a divorce. Even during those years of absence, she knew that he had often thought of her. Now he was here and it was too late. He had changed little, except for his weight. He had eaten too much, spent his time in restaurants, drank mostly. He had ruined everything. He kept talking: "... I'm going to leave the company, Ambroise, all that. I have to leave the region, they won't let me go. I have a house in the Luberon, a farmhouse lost in the countryside. I want you to know that the door is open for you, for the children. It takes time, Christiane, but I want you to know that I am waiting for you..."

Christiane had collapsed.  She had slipped soundlessly to the ground, trembling, sobbing.  Victor had come forward to take her in his arms. She freed herself and shouted: "No! No, go!"

He had remained motionless, for a moment, then went out, as he had gone out years before. 

He found himself outside, on the landing, after gently closing the door.

A young man was coming down the stairs, he greeted Victor.

Victor could not answer.

His face was flooded with tears. He didn't care, he had done what he had to do. He felt liberated.

Victor's father was pruning his roses when he heard Victor's car coming. He didn't turn around as Victor opened the front gate. "Hello, Dad."

Hello. What brings you here, aren't you at work?

No, I'm leaving them.

Well, what are you going to do?

I don't know, I'm leaving. 

...

I... I went to see Christiane. I asked her to resume her life with me, I asked her to forgive me.

... And?

I don't know, we'll see.

She's a good girl. You did the right thing.

Well, do you need anything?

I don't need anything. What do you want me to need?

...I also wanted to tell you that I love you, Dad.

... Is this how you feel?

Yes, I know it does... But I wanted to tell you. 

...

Hi, Dad.

Victor was already leaving. His father heard the car door slam and the engine start. He did not turn around.  Victor was the only one with whom he still kept in touch, well, more or less. His poor wife had died without him ever showing too much affection. He didn't know how. 

His eldest son and daughter, Victor's siblings, had left home when they came of age. His daughter was married to an American, living in Seattle, and had not left him any news since his wife's death.

As for his elder brother, he was a gangster. He was either in jail or dead, we didn't know.

Victor's father suddenly turned and wanted to run towards the car that was driving away. But, too late, Victor didn't see him, the car was leaving.

The old man stood there, his face in tears. "I didn't want that either, son.

Victor went to his son's house. Thomas lived in a building. He stopped at the address, looked for the name on the mailboxes. Half of them were smashed, he saw it marked with calligraphy "BlueVineTattoos". This had to be it. He knocked on a door painted entirely with faces on a cathedral motif. It was quite impressive, a bit morbid with skulls and fantastical creatures all over the place.  But it was a beautiful design. Thomas had always drawn well.

He knocked again, heard a little noise. But nobody opened the door. He waited and knocked again. After ten minutes, Thomas opened the door. "It's you, Dad, but what are you doing here?"

Thomas had appeared in the doorway, huge, hairy with a Viking beard. His guy was a colossus now. But he was fat. Victor couldn't help but think that his son would do no good on a construction site.  Obviously, Thomas had just woken up. "Were you sleeping?"

Yeah, I had a big night.

You sleep during the day?

Well, yeah, if I'm working nights...

I didn't come to bother you, I came to tell you that I was sorry, that I was sorry I left you. 

Whoa, like that? Well, listen, if it makes you feel better... You know, for me, it's all in the past.

I know, I know; I just wanted to tell you that.

Okay, okay; you want to come in?

Victor hadn't left until after dark. It was the first time he had spent time with his son. Thomas had shown him all his drawings, his lyrics, his life as an artist.

Victor had discovered that Thomas was a lyricist for a band that was becoming important on the national scene, that he was starting to break through, that he was happy with what he was doing. They had exchanged impressions, shared injuries. Thomas was a pretty solid guy. Victor was glad to have had this moment with his son. He and his son parted, good friends, strangers but at peace

There was still something to do.

When he reached the street, he saw that there was still light in Ambroise's office. He got out of his car and entered the building. He came across Rachida smoking a cigarette downstairs. He liked Rachida, she was a sensitive and intelligent girl. She had an unhealthy relationship with Ambroise, her boss, but that was none of his business. She guessed from his energy that something was going on. She picked up her things and went home without a word or a glance. 

Ambrose was at his desk. He looked up at Victor, without paying any attention. Victor entered the glassed-in office.

Good evening

Hi, what brings you here?

I came to tell you that I'm leaving the company.

What? Say that again? What's the matter with you?

I'm fed up. I didn't take the right turn, I'm going back to my old life.

What old life? You were a bricklayer.  You didn't earn a cent.

Maybe, but I was happy.

Well, fuck off, go back to your old life, even with your asshole...

Ambrose paused. Ambroise had grabbed him by the collar and was squeezing him with a terrible grip. Victor was a strong man, capable of crushing Ambrose like a mosquito. Ambroise was a man of show, not a man of courage.  He was used to having his entourage of obligers crush him. Here, the rules had changed, Victor was going to slaughter him.

Wait, you're coming here, you're telling me... OK, OK! I beg your pardon!"

Ambroise let him fall brutally back on his seat. He had a huge urge to throw his fist in his face. He spoke calmly, however, "So, here I go. You shut your mouth and listen. You do your business without me.

Without me and my friends, you won't be doing anything here.

Okay, I don't care.

But what's going on with you, Victor? You're tired, get a grip. You want to take a break, don't you? Go on vacation.

No, it's you and your rotten world that have tired me. I'm moving on, I don't want to end up like you.

What the hell is...

Shut up. You're an asshole, you know that. Your wife hates you, your kids hate you, your employees hate you. You're just a poor guy, a piece of shit...

Ambroise, white with fury, was silent, however, under threat. Victor was right on top of him, ready to destroy him. Ambrose stood for a few seconds staring at the bastard, hesitating to smash his face in. Ambrose looked down, not daring to breathe. 

Finally, Victor left, without looking back. He vaguely heard the other one insulting him between his teeth. He turned around and fell on him. Left, right, knee strike. He hit until Ambroise was knocked out. He checked that his former partner was breathing well, put him in the lateral position of safety. He went into the small kitchen next door, filled a glass of water and poured it down Ambrose's face until he woke up.

"I know you're going to want revenge. You're like that, you're a jackal. So, just so you know, I took all the files, including the Bioplus file, the one where you give me written instructions. I kept all the exchanges with your brother and the others.

I also kept the instructions from your asshole dad, I have all the evidence of your shenanigans, the insider trading and all the crap you did to the employees.

I have all the accounting evidence and the exchanges with your inspector buddies. If I hear about you and your Freemason buddies, I'll broadcast it to anyone who will listen. I'm thinking, in particular, of the judge, the mayor and his friends from the Grand Orient who don't like you very much... Do you understand? If you don't understand, I'll make copies to give to my friends in case I have an accident..."

Victor needed to breathe cleaner air.  He had one more person to see.

He hadn't been there for a long time, far too long. He entered the building that was still open at this hour. Candles lit the chapel dimly. He knelt down and asked, for a long time, for forgiveness."

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