Vernon Subutex 3

Book 3: Vernon Subutex

by Virginie Despentes

Genres: Humor & Satire; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

One of Vulture 's most anticipated books of 2021 Paris may burn, the world may crumble, but Vernon Subutex shall reign supreme! ―The final installment of writer/filmmaker Virginie Despentes’s Man Booker International Prize shortlisted punk-rock trilogy. As storm clouds gather, portending a final reckoning, ersatz rave-cult leader Vernon Subutex decides to return to Paris. Even if it means leaving behind his disciples. He has to. He’s got a dentist’s appointment. Back in the city, he learns that an old friend from his days homeless on the Paris streets has died and left him half of a lottery win. But when Vernon returns to his commune with news of this windfall, it’s not long before his disciples turn on each other. Such good fortune does not accord with the principles Vernon has handed down. Meanwhile, the monstrous film producer Laurent Dopalet is determined to make Aïcha and Céleste pay for their attack on him, whatever it takes and whoever gets hurt. And, before long, the whole of Paris will be reeling in the wake of the terrorist atrocities of 2015 and 2016, and all the characters in this kaleidoscopic portrait of a city and era will be forced to confront one another one last time. In the wake of all this chaos and hate, the question will rise again: After all he’s been through, who is Vernon Subutex? And the answer: He is the future. Virginie Despentes’s epochal trilogy ends with Vernon Subutex 3 ―in fire, blood, and even forgiveness. But not everyone will survive to see the dawning of the golden age of Subutex.

Release date: May 11, 2021

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Print pages: 384

Sample

THE TRAIN STATION IN BORDEAUX is being renovated, its belly filled with a forest of scaffolding poles. On the platform, a boy is pacing up and down, chain-smoking cigarettes; he’s wearing sneakers with no socks, and breaks the heels as though they were espadrilles. He shoots hostile glances through the windows of the train. He looks as though he’s just waiting for someone to look at him sideways before jumping aboard the train and beating the shit out of him. The ticket inspectors have spotted him and are posted by the doors to stop him from getting on at the last minute. The four notes of the train jingle echo through the cars, followed by the shrill siren announcing the departure. The boy is left on the platform. Vernon catches his eye and is startled by the ferocity of his hatred. As though it were directed at him personally. It goes beyond the urge to kill, the desire to annihilate—this is a fury that longs to reach back through time, across seven generations, and rip out his guts.

Vernon slides back in his seat and stretches out his legs. He had forgotten how much he loves taking the train. He feels a calm euphoria sweep over him. He watches as the flashing landscape picks up speed. There is a particular atmosphere to train journeys, a collective resignation not to be disturbed for several hours, a tranquil shift between two states. Jumbled memories come of days before Christmas, going on holidays, traveling with groups to festivals or on his own to meet up with a girlfriend in the provinces. The images flicker past, and one by one are carried away by a nostalgia he would describe as feeble. His memory is filled with eddying fragments with no particular chronology. Everything about his former life has become tarnished with an otherness, melted into a shapeless, distant chaos. He cannot blame his confusion on drugs: he has not taken any in months. It happened of its own accord. As soon as he got stoned, he started to get bored waiting for it to wear off, wondering what he could ever have found fun about this debilitating disruption. Drugs are designed to alleviate boredom, they make everything seem interesting, like a dash of Tabasco on a dish that is a little bland. But Vernon no longer fears boredom, or loneliness, or silence, or obscurity. He has changed a lot. Drugs are no longer of any use to him.

* * *

In the past few days, however, while suffering from a vicious toothache, he has been popping handfuls of an opium-based analgesic that makes him feel agreeably stoned, and the feeling of moving through cotton wool is not unpleasant. He is bathed in a muted light that envelops him, adapting to the contours of his body wherever he goes. It has been a shitty couple of days. Usually, he would wait until a toothache stopped him from sleeping before he visited a dentist. But this one was the worst he had ever experienced. Whenever the decayed tooth touched the tooth below, it was a knife cutting through him, the pain lifted him bodily and threw him onto the ground. He howled uncontrollably. Olga recommended gargling with grain alcohol and, having nothing to lose, Vernon swilled vodka around his mouth; it anesthetized the pain for a time, but then he collapsed, dead drunk. The following morning, a hangover, accompanied by a searing pain from the abscess, left him in sheer agony. He crawled into a corner like a wounded animal and curled up, delirious from the pain.

Someone phoned Kiko. Because he has more money than the others, Kiko seems the most adult of the gang. Kiko immediately said, I’ve got a good friend who’s a dentist, I’ll call him right now. The doc faxed a prescription to the nearest pharmacy, Pamela took the car and went to fetch the antibiotics and the painkillers. It was the first time that an emergency had compelled them to make contact with the outside world.

* * *

After that, Vernon swallowed everything he was given without a murmur. He was convinced that no drug could be powerful enough to alleviate his ordeal. But, half an hour later, he was too blitzed to feel any pain. He saw the world from a distance. The only thing better than these painkillers, he thought, would be a morphine pump. He felt great confidence in this dentist, capable of prescribing such an effective medication. Vernon was so relieved that he could no longer feel his tooth that he crashed out for three days straight, letting the antibiotics do their work, while the painkillers carried him away into slo-mo dreams.

* * *

During this time, those around him were busy planning his trip to Paris. Vernon likes to be managed. Things progress, whether he gets involved or not. He does not need to be ill to be indolent. If you allow yourself to be carried by the current, life in a group assumes you should always be doing “something”—there’s always a tire to be changed, bags to be unloaded, vegetables to be washed, a chair to be mended. Vernon says, “I’ll look over my playlists,” and he lies down on his bed. The most amazing thing is that no one argues. On the contrary, they all like the notion that they are helping him, being kind to him, doing him a favor. So, he lay down on his side, relieved that he was no longer in pain, and, when he woke, he was told which train station they had chosen for his journey, the departure time, the name of the dentist, and the keycodes to get into Kiko’s apartment, where he would be staying.

He leaves the camp for the first time in more than a year. The others—or most of them—come and go between the camp and civilian life. But Vernon has no bills to pay, no family to visit, no work to turn in … So he no longer sets foot in towns and cities. There is nothing to be done. When they told him he would be going to Paris to get treated, he was happy at the thought of seeing the capital. But he feels more out of touch than he expected.

Sitting opposite him is a slim woman with long straight hair colored bourgeois-blond. Her raincoat is cinched at the waist, she is wearing high-heeled boots. She has beautiful, magnetic-blue eyes. She must be at least sixty. The wrinkles may have been filled in, but her hands betray her age. She is wearing a solitaire diamond, perhaps an engagement ring. There is something poignant about her. Vernon gives the woman little smiles, to which she responds gracefully. He wants her. Something about her skin attracts him. He feels like suggesting that they get off at the next station and find the nearest hotel.

He is no longer in the habit of seeing women who are not wild about him. At the camp, even the girls who have no intention of sleeping with him flirt and flatter. He has a particular position; he is treated like a guru. It has changed his relationship with the female sex—these days all girls are his friends. They all want him, and he is obliging by nature.

* * *

He will never know whether the blond woman would have responded favorably to his advances. She will never grace him with that famous post-coital expression of gratitude. He will not sleep with her: he is being accompanied on the journey by Mariana. She has been his girlfriend now for several weeks, which is something of a record. He has trouble settling down; he is too much in demand. He gets along well with a girl, it may last, and then another comes along, makes him doubt, throws him off balance, and he transfers his affections. Young people call it polyamory. From what he can work out, this means sleeping with whoever he likes without worrying about what the last girl might think. But Mariana has stopped him in his tracks. She has set herself up as his steady girlfriend with a disconcerting artlessness for someone so shy. He doesn’t protest, because she reassures him more than she suffocates him. He finds her sexy. He first desired her when he saw her imitating Axl Rose, flailing like a demon and brandishing an invisible mic. He fell half in love when she danced to Tina Turner, whose dance moves she performs with terrifying brio. He knew his days as a lothario were over when she performed a choreographed routine to Missy Elliott. She’s even got moves for Madball and for Korn—there is no musical register whose codes she doesn’t innately understand with a very individual magic. Between her body and the sound there is a harmony that stems from an extensive knowledge that is surprising in a woman her age. Mariana hasn’t yet turned thirty. She knows AC/DC as well as she knows M.I.A. She listens to things Vernon has heard of but never really paid attention to, and she knows precisely which song to play to get him into them. They spend their time listening to music, and Vernon feels as though he has gained a friend as well as a lover who seems like a mermaid when she fucks—her whole body undulates, seduces, profits, and provokes. She pours into sex and into dance everything she cannot put into words.

When this trip was organized, she said that she would go with him, that they would take the bus, that it would be really cheap, but the bus from Bordeaux is a nine-hour drive and Kiko said, WTF? Are you living in the Middle Ages or what? We’ve got high-speed trains in France, I’ll score the tickets right away. Mariana is going with him; it was a no-brainer. Vernon’s too out of it to travel on his own, she said, he’ll end up on the wrong platform and wind up in Frankfurt with an abscess ten times worse. She loves Vernon. He can feel it. And that’s all right with him. It punches a hole in his chest. He succumbs. She has put her headphones on, she’s listening to Amy Winehouse and looking at stuff on the net. She doesn’t like the camp rule that says she cannot go online. She says it’s tired old technophobe bullshit. She abides by the rule because she has no choice. She must really care about him to put up with it; as soon as they got to Bordeaux and she was given her tablet, she lit up. Finally, she could reconnect with the world.

Over her shoulder, he looks at the succession of photos on Instagram, a baby pig, a girl lying on a sandy beach, a green milkshake, Paul Pogba shirtless, shot in half-light. Soko waking up, a drawing of a trash-punk angel holding a bomb, a fat bud of sinsemilla dripping resin … She slips her hand into his, never taking her eyes off the screen. Vernon feels a tracery of warmth course through his arm to his shoulder and flood his chest. He can visualize the feeling, he can even say what color it is—deep emerald green. This is not the meds. This is what he’s like straight. Something inside him malfunctioned, something that never returned to normal. He has changed.

He’s heard many theories of varying ludicrousness about the reason for his transformation, which a lot of people at the camp call “an awakening.” Some say his serotonin levels have exploded. Why not? The theory of hormonal chaos has its defenders. After all, as Daniel says, “With all the endocrine disruptors swirling around us, go figure—in you, it’s produced a global reboot.” Others favor the theory of a brutal, accelerated male menopause whose effects, paradoxically, are salutary. Maybe … Vernon doesn’t feel as though his physical strength has waned, but then he was never built like a lumberjack. Perhaps his libido has changed—but it’s difficult to say: previously, he wasn’t surrounded by girls fighting for his favors. Too much demand kills the demand—he’s less insecure than he used to be, but that’s logical: in the camp, he fucks anything that moves. At other times, people talk about the awakening of the Kundalini to explain these curious sensations, the strange visions, the trance-like states that overcome him without warning. He has been breathing too deeply, or too well, and energy has been released from the base of his spine, catapulting him into a sort of never-ending acid trip. The most inventive talk about alien abduction—the visit of some extra-terrestrial that has made its earthly home in Vernon. There is also talk of shifting frequencies—reality as a radio with some heavenly hand turning the dial.

At first, Vernon felt that the camp was attracting an awful lot of weirdos. Gradually, he came to the realization that the world is full of people with fantastical beliefs who, on first meeting, may seem completely sane. The enigma that is Vernon gives them free license to express their bizarre nature. This is how, between the salad and the cheese course, someone can end up telling him about their privileged connection with the vibrations of macrocrystalline quartz. The country is full of fanatics convinced that the dead walk among us, that invisible creatures gambol through the forests, and that by exposing oneself to the right sound waves you can restore your magnetic field … Give them an opportunity to expound their theories, and you can find yourself going down some very strange paths.

* * *

People from outside the camp come every two or three months when there is a convergence. This is the name they have chosen— no one remembers coming up with the term, but everyone uses it—for the night when Vernon spins the music to make the participants dance. Their lives are lived to the rhythm of these convergences—finding a place to set up, preparing the space, the event itself, packing up and moving on to another site. This came about without anyone deciding that it should happen this way. Let’s just say it occurred.

Applications to attend the convergences quickly became so numerous that it requires a whole organization to select the participants without inviting more than a hundred. Something is happening. People show up, some of them are a pain in the ass, they come to “check it out,” suspicious and aggressive, as though someone is trying to sell them some bullshit philosophy, when no one is trying to sell them anything, not even a story: it’s about dancing till dawn, that’s all. The extraordinary thing is what the dancers feel—with no drugs, no preparation, no special effects.

* * *

There is always a handful of doubters who wander around telling anyone who will listen that they don’t believe, that they want to see for themselves, that they’d be pretty surprised if something happened to them that night, because they’ve been there, done that, and they’re too shrewd for this kind of headfuck. Vernon and the others don’t try to persuade them. They have only to wait. That night, on the dance floor, they start out with arms folded, supercilious little smile, determined not to fall for it. And two hours later, they’ve fallen for it. The following morning, they cannot pinpoint the moment when they merged with the crowd, with its slow repetitive movement. They are generally the ones who, at dawn, are most shaken up. This is one of the things that happens on nights when there is a convergence—a general upheaval. This is what people come looking for at the camp, at the convergences. A gentle, luminous confusion that makes you want to take time and keep silent. Epidermises lose their boundaries, everybody becomes every body; it is a boundless intimacy.

* * *

And, at each convergence, Vernon feels like a worm in the center of a powerful spotlight. He is too important. They call him the Shaman. Officially, it is just for a laugh. In practice, he feels everyone looking at him behind his back, feels expectation coil around his spine. People eye him suspiciously, wondering if he’s a con artist, or stare at him adoringly, convinced that he can save them. He doesn’t quite know how to go about staying cool when everything depends on him. Fortunately, his train of thought quickly goes off the rails, so it does not bother him for very long. He thinks, it’s too much stress, I can’t handle this, and a minute later he is contemplating a leaf on a branch and is utterly engrossed. It limits his frustration. But even so, he has discovered the fear of losing. Never in his life had he feared losing what he had: he always felt that it did not depend on him. Now, he revels in a comfort that is not material. They sleep in abandoned houses—when they can find houses—which are rarely heated, pitch camp near springs when there is no running water, wash out of doors when it is 45°F, eat out of billycans, and yet theirs is a life of luxury. They are convinced that the experience they are sharing is exceptional, an extra ball that life did not owe them, something gifted, magical. And he does not want it to stop.

* * *

In the compartment of the TGV train, the passengers have opened their laptops on the tables. They are watching movies, catching up on work, replying to an email. Others are riveted to their phones. They are all in thrall. There are no longer any bodies without accessories among those who can afford to pay for a train ticket. Admittedly, there is a man in his fifties a few seats away who is reading an old-fashioned newspaper. When he turns the page, it slightly irritates his neighbor. He is the only one whose vision is not blinkered by a screen. Even the five-year-old is not bawling or running up and down the compartment disturbing passengers, mesmerized as he is by the cartoon he is watching. Next to him, his mother is watching too, though without headphones; she does not have a second to waste on the landscape, still less on her immediate surroundings.

Vernon has gotten out of the habit. At the camp, all internet connection is forbidden. It began with one of the Hyena’s fits of paranoia, it was she who decreed that they had to learn to live under the radar, to leave no digital trace of their movements or their conversations. She constantly gives the impression that she is priming the group to survive a third world war in which not sending emails would be particularly important. Initially, everyone accepted this protocol as some crazy ritual whose main purpose was to establish a set of rules allowing them to demarcate the camp as a bubble. Over the months, Vernon noticed that people’s attitude changed. Snowden went through the same thing. The order came to seem less outlandish. Mistrust of technology grew, and no one now laughed cynically when entering a network-free space.

* * *

When they disembark at Gare Montparnasse, Vernon feels engulfed by the crowds, it is a strange feeling of vertigo. He is particularly overwhelmed by the noise. As though sensing his disorientation, Mariana puts her arm through his. She is a tiny slip of a girl, but there is a comforting authority in her gesture, reminiscent of an adult reassuring a child.

It is not just that he is out of the habit, the city itself has changed. Paris has become hard. Vernon is immediately aware of the pent-up aggression—people are furious, pressed up against each other, ready to come to blows. In the corridors of the métro, not a single person smiles, not a single body suggests, I’ve got time to waste. No one dawdles, as they do at the camp. This is a grown-up city—no one speaks to strangers, or if they do, it is only to shout. He is bombarded by images, too many posters, too many junk messages. But it is only when they reach the platform that he identifies what it is that has been bothering him since their arrival. The smell. Paris is an olfactive cesspit—a mixture of rot of air rancid with body odors of perfumes of metallic machine smells of filth and chemicals. Vernon realizes that he is holding his breath. For months, wherever they have gone, he has been breathing everything in, each new place has its own smell, making it individual and unique. Here, for the first time in a long time, he refuses to smell where he is.

* * *

At Kiko’s place, Mariana looks around with the air of defiance Vernon knows so well—the expression those unused to luxury adopt when confronted with it: she looks as though she has been plunged into boiling oil. It is Vernon’s turn to lay a hand on the small of her back in the hope of imparting some of his calm. Extremely rich people know what they are doing when they furnish an apartment, even if they do it instinctively. Every object here screams at those unaccustomed to luxury: fuck off, you filthy prole. This is the distinction between boho décor and that of the grand bourgeois: the former says to all comers “make yourself at home,” while the latter seeks to exclude all those who do not understand its codes. But Vernon knows this apartment, it does not intimidate him.

Kiko, too, has changed a lot. Of all the people at the camp, he is perhaps the one who has undergone the most radical revolution. Vernon has become his expensive indulgence, his weekend hobby. Kiko has chucked his career as a trader. Like a guy in a casino who decides to leave the table when he’s on a roll. Take the cash and run. In hindsight, he doesn’t regret his decision—as he puts it, you’d have to be crazy to be rich and keep working.

He is not the only one in his profession who has had an epiphany. He knows other guys who, one day, warming their asses in a Jacuzzi under the palm trees of their villa in Mauritius, stared at the booty of the girl who had come with them and were suddenly transfixed by a lightning bolt of lucidity: their life is shit. The only good thing about it is the conviction that everyone on the planet envies them. Whereas, what Kiko discovered in the group that so astonished him was that no one wanted to swap places with him. Anyone else might have changed the people he hung out with—might have sought out company that was more reassuring. Kiko stayed. He changed his strategy.

In the early months, he was gripped by a sort of libertarian fever. It was as though he was decompressing. In certain people, age unleashes a reactionary energy that sometimes shoots out and destroys everything in its path. With Kiko, it was the libertarian that he allowed to emerge. One that had spent too long curled up, censored, imprisoned and made a hell of a racket as it now spread its wings. Or perhaps not the libertarian: the Christian. But in the most primary sense of that word: the person within Kiko who loved Christ—repressed for all these years—suddenly took over. The whole thing lasted about six months. He went from being embarrassingly generous to a complete pain in the ass.

He never wanted to work again, swore that he loathed money, that he was going to come and live with them. He and Olga pored over leaflets for minivans; he could already see himself living in a motor home, following them around. He no longer felt remotely materialistic. He had a new idea every day. He would sell off his Paris apartment and buy a little abandoned village in the Jura Mountains, they would all settle there and form a commune. Just because the hippies fucked it up didn’t mean other people shouldn’t try. Ideas always fail until, eventually, they succeed. Kiko knows a bunch of doctors and—in the hierarchy of his world, doctors are at the top—he would persuade one of them to come and live in the village. That way, they would always have someone who could tell the difference between a heart attack and a panic attack, between a tumor and a large pimple. They wouldn’t have to worry about anything. They would grow old in peace.

* * *

But, over time, his ardor cooled. He got fed up with camping, moved back to Paris, got his nose into a baggie of coke and hooked up with his old acquaintances. His Christlike passion abated. He had invested in a cannabis start-up in Los Angeles. He was not as visible around the camp. But he came back regularly. He spent whole evenings regaling them with plans for his theme park—he was waiting for France to legalize weed, which was bound to happen. He imagined it as a cross between Jurassic Park and the spa at Le Bristol, all organized around the theme of weed. His crazy fantasy became so detailed that it began to sound plausible. In his theme park, there would be Jacuzzis, video projections, specially designed yoga lessons for the stoned, a little contemporary art, massage treatments, a lot of music, and muffins everywhere for when people got the munchies.

Kiko has gone back to his former life, but a defiant streak has opened up within him. He is no longer prepared to give his all. All his time, all his thoughts, all his desires, all his convictions. He is no longer willing to prove that he can always add another task to this schedule. His role in the system is no longer perfect. Compliance no longer excites him the way it had. His way of expressing himself is to go back to the camp, to people who are nothing like him. He has not gone back to square one—he has found an alternative equilibrium, an alternating identity.

* * *

He always takes up a little more space than others, he talks a lot. Silence is an important concept at the camp. Except for Kiko. But no one complains. He is the one who solves every problem. He abuses his position only in the sense that he takes up a lot of sonic space. There is one thing about which he is sincere, one thing that does not change with the seasons: the feelings he experiences during the convergences are unlike anything he can feel on drugs. And he wants to go “there.” His latest harebrained notion is that Vernon should take his role as guru more seriously. Kiko has ambition to spare.

* * *

He invites them to sit down around the kitchen table, opens the fridge and compulsively takes out all the food he can find, as though the two of them are starving. He opens a bottle of champagne and Vernon says no, with the antibiotics it would finish me off. Mariana takes the proffered glass and drains it in one gulp. She is incandescent. Seeing him at the camp, she hadn’t realized that Kiko was this rich. She had worked out that his life was not the same as theirs from his obsession with flashing his credit card every time there was a problem. But she had not been expecting this, this opulence that is an insult to those unaccustomed to it. She squirms in her chair, shooting angry glances all around. Even the red Smeg fridge, with its good-natured curves, makes her livid.

* * *

Kiko can’t sit still—he puts on an Erykah Badu CD, too loud, asks them if they want some drugs, he’s got a new dealer, hot shit, never keeps him waiting. He feels the need to fill the silences—it’s impossible to tell what he’s so shit-scared of that he needs to make a racket all the time. Vernon is used to his feverishness.

“Hey, you know what, that tree in the Buttes-Chaumont, the one with the huge roots where you used to sit all the time? They’ve ripped it out. Did you know?”

“When?”

“Beginning of February.”

“How did it happen?”

“Accidentally backed into it.”

“A tree that size? They didn’t see it in the rearview mirror?”

“They’ve been doing a lot of work in the park. That’s all I heard.”

* * *

The news bothers Vernon. The fact that things do not stay as they are remains the most difficult thing to accept. He thinks about the tree, tall as a building, about the hours he spent enthroned like a king against the trunk. He says:

“I’ll ask Charles. He knows the park rangers … It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Charles. I’ll drop by and see him…”

* * *

Kiko is no longer listening. He has launched into a solo about his favorite subject: Vernon has a gift. There are few words to describe it. And, as he sees it, the whole problem, because there is a problem, stems from the fact that Vernon refuses to assume his role.

“You can’t be a leader if you don’t pull your weight. Okay, I get it, it works, this shit you’ve got going on. And the way you have of keeping people at a distance during the convergences makes you seem interesting and mysterious. That’s clever, I’ll give you that. It’s instinctive, it’s class. You leave a space for imagination. Kind of like storytelling by leaving gaps. Until the night gets going, no one knows what’s so fucking special about Vernon Subutex. Fair enough, it adds to your charm.”

But this, Kiko feels, is not enough. Vernon never does anything really attention-grabbing, like healing people with his hands, or communing with the dead so they can talk to the living as if he was some sort of cosmic answering machine. He doesn’t take himself seriously enough. Kiko sees the big picture. It’s in his nature. He nervously taps his fingernails on the table. He’s come up with a new idea:

“You know Confucius? That story about the tree, I think we could use it … The Romans ripped out the tree that Confucius used to preach under. I heard it on the radio. I think this thing about the tree—what was it? An oak? I guess you don’t know either—anyway, I figure it would be a good backdrop for your origin story as a prophet.”

“Have you been listening to France Culture again, Kiko? Knock it off. I’ve told you before, it really doesn’t mix well with your coke habit. I’m a DJ, not a fucking prophet.”

“I’m educating myself, asshole, I’m educating myself and here you are insulting me. They figured they’d cut down the tree Confucius used to preach under to force him to leave, they did it because he was too influential … Okay, right there, you’ve got a story. We could start out with that: the French authorities, alerted to your great power, cut down the tree you used to sit under…”

“Kiko, you know me, I’m prepared to swallow any old shit, but I can tell you right now that Confucius and me … it won’t work—even if they did cut down his tree.”

“So you’re telling me you know Confucius?”

“No. But instinctively I can tell you there’s no fit.”

“Instinctively … that’s typical of ignorance. You don’t understand how