Holiday in a Coma & Love Lasts Three Years: two novels by Frédéric Beigbeder. Frédéric Beigbeder
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stories spring up between holidaying nomads and the sedentary jet set. The fist-fights are filled with tenderness. The same people are introduced to the same people ad infinitum but nobody complains. We are in the presence of a Europarty.
‘What’s for dessert?’ asks Clio. ‘I hope it’s not Space Cake with laxatives again. That I don’t need.’
Her voice has changed. Usually, a drug diluted in a glass takes an hour to reach the brain. Unless the drug is very strong.
‘People are so superficial,’ she whines, ‘I have so many things to tell you. I’m still thirsty. Is it late or is it me? Why didn’t Joss come over and say hi?’
Clio is fast becoming very talkative and very depressed. Her eyes well up with tears. This was not exactly the desired effect.
‘YOU MEN,’ she shrieks, ‘you’re all so égoïste! Boorish, ugly bastards!’
‘She’s got a point,’ says Loulou Zibeline, of whom – it would appear – nobody sought an opinion.
And Clio starts to sob on Marc’s shoulder and the coward takes advantage of the situation to caress her neck, run his fingers through her soft hair and murmur sweet nothings in her ear.
‘Easy now, It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m one of the good guys …’
Result! She kisses him on the lips. The sound system is playing ‘Amor, Amor’ and Marc hums along with Clio as if he were rocking a baby. A tiny baby dribbling mascara onto his jacket. A little baby who is getting heavier by the minute and sniffling back mucus. A little baby whose breath smells like an ashtray.
‘Amor, amor,’ hums the gigantic little baby. ‘Marc, could you do me a favour and go and get Joss … please …’
Marc’s result was short-lived. But he takes it philosophically. Clio smiles at him, smearing mascara over her cheeks. Chemical seduction has its limitations, and Marc is not entirely unhappy to palm the baby off on someone else.
Joss Dumoulin darts between the tables, the impulsive catalyst of this eclectic soirée. Marc waves him over. When he gets there, Clio throws her arms around him, blubbering.
‘MY LOOVE!’ she cries.
‘Um …’ says Marc, ‘I think your girlfriend is a bit tired.’
‘Wait a minute, what the hell’s going on here?’ says Joss. ‘Don’t tell me … you didn’t slip her that tab of Euphoria, did you?’
‘Me? Of course not, why do you say that?’
‘You stupid bitch! You promised me you were off the stuff!’ yells the DJ. ‘Last time, she nearly didn’t come back!’
Joss puts his girlfriend over his shoulder and takes her somewhere to throw up. Marc tries to look innocent but he’s sweating like a pig. He’s sorry now he didn’t have time to conduct the Triple Why test on her. At his table, everyone acts as if nothing has happened. Loulou breaks the shamefaced silence.
‘If truth be told, Marc, I thought your first book was very well written.’
‘Oh, fuck!’ whimpers Marc. When somebody tells you that your book is well written what they mean is that it’s boring. If they say it’s funny, that means it’s not well written. And if they say it’s ‘really great’, that means they haven’t read it.
‘Well, what do you want me to say?’
‘Tell me I’m the man.’
Marc loves ‘fishing for compliments’, as they say in English. At least when he masterminds the flattery, he knows that nothing is expected in return.
‘Go on,’ he insists, ‘repeat after me: “Marc, you da man!”’
‘Marc, you da man.’
‘Loulou, I think I love you. What was it you recommended as a chat-up line again? Oh, yeah, “Would you be so kind as to move your enormous arse as it appears to be blocking the aisle?”’
‘Clever, clever …’
While this is going on, Fab is discussing tonight’s playlist with Irène.
‘Comprehension, truth, drumandbassism. His mix is pretty wack, but Joss got the sense of realitude.’
At precisely that moment, the music suspends its flight and an orchestra of twenty bonzes descends from heaven on a suspended footbridge. Ondine Quinsac is playing percussion to tumultuous applause. ‘Good evening, we are Fuck Yo Mama. We trust your shit evening will be utterly ruined by our presence and that you all snuff it as soon as possible.’ Then a landslide of electric decibels rains down on the diners. In the background, a trio of choristers sway their sulky hips.
Loulou Zibeline has to shout to be heard over the music. Marc thinks she talks too much. The more she talks, the less he wants to listen. It’s an amusing paradox: chatterboxes wind up as social misfits. Marc thinks: ‘The nicest things I’ve said in my life have been when I kept my mouth shut.’
‘D’YOU KNOW THIS BAND?’ she asks him.
‘What?’
‘I ASKED IF YOU KNOW THIS BAND!’
‘Stop yelling in my ear, you overripe slut!’
‘WHAT? WHADDYOU SAY?’
‘I said a bunch of people have slaved their balls off to give us this rack of lamb. First they had to rear the beast, then take it to an abattoir, kill it with a bolt-gun to the brain. Then someone had to cut it up, a butcher had to come to the wholesaler and choose the meat. Lastly, the caterer picked it out after haggling over the price. How many people had to work so I could nibble on the cutlet I’ve got in my hand? Fifty? A hundred? Who are all these people? What are their names? Can someone give me their names? Tell me where they live? Do they holiday in Les Alpilles or on the Côte d’Argent? I want to send each and every one of them a thank-you note.’*
‘WHAT? I CAN’T HEAR A THING!’ screams Loulou.
Marc hasn’t got very far. The woman on his left despises him and the one on his right is a Klingon. To top it all, he nearly killed the ringmaster’s fiancée. It would probably be best for him to head home while there’s still time. By the way, Clio is feeling better: she is sleeping soundly on a banquette near the DJ booth. The ruckus doesn’t seem to be bothering her unduly.
The food fight breaks out immediately. The vacherin flows, the coulis flies, the vol-au-vents glide. Cream is spilled on the canapés, canapés are spilled on the sofas. Is that smell of vomit parmesan, or vice versa? Does the chicken smell of egg or the egg smell of chicken?
‘I’m not standing for this shit!’ mumbles Marc as he sits down.
A few virgin sodomites modestly begin the first stripteases. Roger Peyrefitte has the Hardissons’ baby sniffing glue in front of Gonzague Saint Bris who is flagellating himself with a studded belt which provokes a coughing fit. Fuck Yo Mama are massacring ‘All You Need Is Love’, smashing plates on the microphones. Sauce-boats and dry biscuits mingle in the firmament. Marc even thinks he spots a Haribo crocodile flashing its teeth.
‘THIS CHEESE IS PRETTY GOOD!’ screams Loulou into his auricular pavilion.
‘Yes,’ he replies, ‘now all I need is a rope with a knot like the cheese: running.’
‘WHAT?? DID YOU SAY SOMETHING??’
Let us not delude ourselves: Marc Marronnier will soon be inebriated. Already the night is upending its hierarchies. Important things seem suddenly trivial and the most insignificant details seem critical. TV programmes, for instance. Suddenly he clings to them. TV programmes, at least, he can depend on. He does not know the meaning of life, he doesn’t know what love is or death is or whether or not God exists, but he can be certain that Wednesday night