The inhabitants of Valenton also say the Old Paul is able to cut fire. Not cure warts—for those you would have to go see the priest in Saint-Vrain. But if you ever get burned, you can call the Old Paul, for he can take the pain away through the landline. This made you smile as a child until your own dad admitted to having used the hermit’s service, right after he lost three fingers in melted iron, back at the factory. Despite the story, despite the legend, this is not why you know of the Old Paul. You think about him because of his occult moonshine and also the strange occurrences surrounding his disappearance.
Summer rolled fast in 1986, as did the radioactive cloud everyone talked about. You didn’t know what “radioactive” meant back then; you still do not. What you knew was that over in the USSR, a nuclear plant had been ripped open. Chernobyl was its name. Anyway, the Russian mist was coming in quick. It scared the adults. Funny considering all your teenaged self cared about were the terror attacks. They stemmed all over France as some airborne plague. In your mind, you had built this scheme where the far right was responsible for Balavoine’s death. The singer talked way too much about them so they had gotten to his chopper—while he was feeding children down in Africa.
Nothing beats a good story and here is one. On a rainy day, right before the Chernobyl cloud hit France, the Old Paul climbed the mountain like he always did before brewing a new batch of liquor. The hermit was way up there when the poisoned air unenthusiastically crossed the border. Let’s say no one was able to talk to the bootlegger afterwards. He just came back and locked himself in his house.
Some women around here, they say the Old Paul brewed for about three days through the dead of night in the valley. For quite some time, you could see jade and vermilion sparks erupting from his windows. People were beginning to say the Russian cloud might have hit the old fool harder than expected. As it did France, despite what officials said. There is still no excuse for townsfolk not acknowledging his disappearance, not before two months had passed, anyway.
It’s certain the group of males who decided to knock on the Old Paul’s door were deep down sure they would find him rotting. Your dad was there, on this very evening. According to him someone voiced concerns that after so many days, the elderly man sure had turned into a black goo. This hit you. Hard. The muffled knowledge that we all end up turning into something dark and sticky, reminiscent of petroleum. To this day, you still imagine tar-covered old men trying to climb upon your bed. You don’t speak about this. Not even to Eva.
At the Old Paul’s house, the men found no tar, no black puddle with isles made of bones. Truth is, there were no signs of the hermit ever being inside the building. Pa told you the men, they walked miles on end, trying to find a carcass which just did not exist. What remained of the Old Paul were three barrels of moonshine. And nobody would let those go to waste.
A persistent rumour spread once the men assured themselves of the Old Paul’s vanishing. That one night after the rescue team came back empty-handed, the men burned a fourth barrel in Le Ferrand’s field. Cyril, a boy from the town, said he could see the pyre from his bedroom window, what with the adult males all over, drinking and laughing. You’ve never known if this was true but couldn’t not associate this hearsay with this peculiar evening your dad got home late and teary-eyed, smelling of ashes and gasoline.
~~~
The fragrance of the Old Paul’s moonshine consists of fruits and mostly alcohol. Hold the bottle under your nose long enough and you can almost scent the resin. The odour of a lone pine falling in a blanket of snow, high up on an uncaring mountain.
This is what you think while Jacques hands some to you. The whole gang’s here. Marcel, your boyfriend, Sylvie, Jacques’s girl and Jacques and you. Two boys, two girls, an alcoholic beverage, a regular evening. Your eight naked legs surround a bonfire the boys lit in the middle of the soccer field. “This’ll piss off Etienne,” Jacques says with a laugh.
Because of Jacques’s malevolent smile or simply because you do not like hurting people, you dislike the remark. Yet, here you are, seated, warm, cosy while listening to your boyfriend’s best friend brag way too much about those faraway girls he allegedly dated. Sylvie seems not even mildly annoyed.
You don’t feel safe though. It may be because the boys only talk about horror movies before settling on a subject which actually interests you. Still, you cannot shake off the feeling that, on the periphery of the light the blaze offers, some strange creature might appear at any moment. Think of it long enough and you can almost make out the lengthy arms, the bent legs, the crawling approach. The glow exploding sparks paint across its dirty, pallid skin.
“Here. Take a swig,” Jacques says, still holding the bottle towards you. Flask is translucent and unmarked. “This some Chernob’ wine,” the lanky fellow continues. “Courtesy of Ol’ Paul.”
“And Gaston,” Marcel adds.
Jacques stares at your boyfriend, bemused. “She needn’t hear that,” he says.
“Cynthia’s old enough. She knows when not to talk,” assures your soulmate while putting his arm around you. You like the warmth of his body.
“Still, take a sip,” Jacques says after reflecting.
You look at Jacques, at his confident smile. He already smells of becoming some beer-bellied salesman, car trunks packed with calendars and Tupperware. The air reeks a tad like your dad, a tad like decayed moss. Dying trees.
“Okay,” you say, taking hold of the bottle. “This better be some good shit,” you add, fooling no one, yet not caring.
First gulp is not as harsh as you expected, and before you know it, you sip three more. It’s a mistake. Sure, the brew is sweet at first, but it lingers in your throat with the heat of vomit and iridescent coal. By the time you choke, you don’t feel the fire beneath your bare feet anymore. There’s only the tall, golden grass underneath your neck and the dark void full of stars over you. The firmament glows pink and purple and of colours found solely on the retinae of sleeping children.
Comes the fear, with the fiery bite of an impending death, of becoming tar. There exist only three barrels of this ambrosia. The adults, they consume everything as if it were infinite. You cannot pursue this idea as the ground swallows you.
~~~
Of course, the grown-ups were the first to notice the Chernob wine only exists in limited quantities. Yet every single one of them acquired a bottle, although the Old Paul isn’t there to make any more. The adults, they consume it like there’s no tomorrow. In a sense, they’re right in doing so. There is a bottle in every liquor cabinet. Relatives toast with it wildly on Sunday family picnics. Thinking about it, there might even be some at the local pub. Their twins can also be found at the Albatros.
L’Albatros is sort of sacred ground since it’s the sole night club in the forest wasteland that surrounds Valenton. Getting through its unwelcoming doors is a rite of passage to almost anyone, yourself included.
On this Saturday, you’ve lied to your parents, stating you would be sleeping at Sylvie’s. Truth is, her folks are off to some relative’s wedding that Sylvie managed to dodge. You both spend the day trying on outfits.
Sylvie settles on a yellow tube miniskirt, which makes her appear thinner than she really is. You’re somehow jealous, hence you choose a black shirt, see-through enough that everyone can make out your bra, with a blazer over top, a knee-length skirt with a chessboard motif, and red Doc Martens. Sylvie may fuck around but Marcel will not see anyone other than you.
The boys arrive a tad later than expected. Sylvie and you cannot hide your sigh of relief. You both exhale, and with a “Jinx” you burst out laughing. During the drive, you should be worried about the ID card problem but everyone knows the Albatros’s boss is lenient when it comes to girls … hrm, women.
Night is lukewarm and the tape player blasts Téléphone’s “Ça (c’est vraiment toi).” Marcel is driving and Jacques had slid midway through into the backseat. You do not like his knee touching yours, so you step over the gearshift to sit beside Marcel. In your boyfriend’s eyes, you think you see amazement. Maybe you’re sexier than you thought, or maybe he just likes to picture you as reckless.
Marcel accelerates when Balavoine’s “Quand on arrive en ville” hits the speakers. In the back seat, Jacques is yelling that boys who wear makeup are gays. Sylvie is trying to shut him up with a kiss. Marcel tells his friend that he’s a fucking idiot. You love him, right here, right then, as you put your security belt on.
Unconsciously, you stare at the night sky beyond the passenger window. Marcel, Marcel is speeding up furiously to pass some shitty car. At least according to him. This is when you catch a glimpse of the interior of said vehicle. From your viewpoint, seems someone has stuffed the entirety of the interior with raw meat and you think to yourself, Ain’t no surprises he drives this slow. How’s this guy even able to see through that shit?
A hand appears through the malevolent flesh. It stems from the veiny mass and presses its four digits upon the driver’s window. The muscle tissue appears to be breathing as one single living organism. You cannot really distinguish but get the feeling because of those pulsating blue arteries.
“What the fuck,” you whisper as the head of a woman appears behind the hand. Unnaturally close to it. She licks the cold glass while looking straight at you before her eyes roll into her skull. At least this is what you think happens, for Marcel finally gets up enough speed to pass the meat wagon.
Your boyfriend is roaring as hard as his engine.
~~~
Parking lot of the Albatros is full and Marcel has to circle a fair bit before he finds a spot on a patch of grass to the side of the darkened road. Outside the vehicle, you can hear the “thump thump” of the bass. It sends shivers into your stomach as Marcel takes hold of your hand. Your every step on the gravel sounds weirdly out of sync with whatever is playing inside the building. Yet your boyfriend smiles proudly while Jacques, up ahead, greedily grips a beautiful Sylvie.
You think it may be a song by Wham! But it dies before you even get close to the doorman. The bald guy seems to have seen more fights than nights of sleep. He nods before sidestepping to let the bunch of you in. You wonder for an instant whether he’s looking at you behind those glasses, or at Sylvie. Maybe neither.
As you descend the stairs, the atmosphere smells of sweat and dust and fake smoke. This reminds you of the fairground. Truth is, you never knew the Albatros was an underground club. A realisation which brings up a mental image of your mother stating: “This a sex club, just like every other sex club is all!” Yeah, Mom. Sure.
Music has grown way louder before you reach the main room. Place is packed as “Burning Heart” blares through every speaker there is. Less people than you would have thought are swaying on the dance floor, yet you put this on the song that’s currently playing.
Next to you, Sylvie is stepping in rhythm, trying to make sure her skirt doesn’t ride up too high. She is yelling in a language she never spoke. Your laughter is muted by the loud music, before you join her chorus.
By the time the boys return, drinks in both hands—and let’s be honest, you didn’t notice they were gone—Billy Ocean’s voice fills the club. Jacques has some moves if you are to be fair. Even while holding two glasses of alcohol, the homophobic prick can dance. Marcel suffers from the comparison. There is a childish unease in your boyfriend’s every step which melts your heart. You grab a glass from him and drink it, bottoms up.
“This was mine,” Marcel says, shyly.
“Can you believe they got some Chernob’ wine in there, too?” Jacques yells, while dancing.
“I think some already drank it.” Sylvie laughs while pointing at what appears to be a mass of sleeping people on some velvet couch in the back. You cannot shake the feeling their eyes are wide open, yet you do not check twice.
“Maybe we’ll end ours with some, too,” Jacques continues, grabbing his girlfriend’s butt.
“Sure,” she says before kissing him.
“They’re gross,” Marcel says, apologetically.
“They’re not,” you say, grabbing his chin before pressing your lips to his.
There is some pride that goes with kissing the most beautiful boy in the room. This is how you feel, both proud and free. Eyes closed, you try to direct your boyfriend’s pelvis as Balavoine’s “Sauver l’amour” comes up. Rhythm is simpler.
“Qu’est-ce qui pourrait sauver l’amour?” you unconsciously sing, midway through your kiss.
“You,” Marcel, answers, breathless.
Words can maybe describe the feeling of pressing against the crotch of the boy you like and feeling him react, but you’re not one to possess those. Instead, you tuck your head under his chin, taking it all in. The fabric—plastic—of his clothes, the scent of his sweat beneath his perfume, the dusty smell all around. The damp warmth. Then comes “Tes yeux noirs.” You don’t force Marcel to speed up. You don’t have to look up to feel his awkwardness.
“I’d like another drink,” you finally say.
Marcel reddens, embarrassed, and you reach into your purse and withdraw a handful of bills. “Take some for you too,” you say, handing him the money. You smile. It’s the first drink you ever bought.
Madonna comes on and once again you’re yelling alongside Sylvie. No doubt, some predatory eyes are set upon you, seemingly single girls. Preys.
“I wanna suck him so much,” Sylvie screams over the music.
You try to process the sentence before bursting out laughing.
“Ain’t nothing funny,” your friend says, annoyed.
“No, there ain’t, and I hope for his sake you succeed, my dear,” you get out before bursting again into laughter.
You do not notice Sylvie leaving your side. Maybe because you’re having fun or thanks to the liquor. Boys have disappeared, too. If you were to try and remember, you would admit their drunken palaver had faded in the background noise until it was no more.
You’re sweaty and you stick and stink. Everyone is. Everyone does.
Deciphering your surroundings is like peering through wormholes. The world has gotten darker, hasn’t it? More people—dancers?—all around. Their flesh melts into one single enormous entity under the tungsten spotlights.
You do not care. Not about them nor the sweat that is now collecting in the back of your bra. You laugh maniacally.
This is when the first hand touches you. Without thinking you shush it away like a pet. You dislike the feeling it leaves upon your skin. Stuck to your epidermis.
Something hovers over your butt cheeks. You don’t have the time to smack it away, as someone, more reckless, has grabbed your left tit.
You scream and turn away from the shapeless monster. The music muffles your cries. On your goosebump-riddled skin you still feel the place where the boy—it must be a boy—had sunk his fingers forcefully. To try and restrain you.
For but a slight second you feel ashamed when you should not. You scan the dancing flesh shadows around you, but their faces melt into one another.
You want Sylvie. You want Marcel. You want your mom.
You’re kneeling now, still screaming, and you begin to worry you’ll go deaf. With your hands covering your ears, all you perceive is a colossal BAM BAM of the bass trying to embed itself into your head, into your brain.
Hands flutter above you like so many bats. You lose balance and end up on your knees. The floor is sticky and covered in paper cups. Your horizon is blinded by this weird dance macabre of trembling legs. You fear a stampede.
Through this peculiar forest of spasming skin, you think you see Sophie. She’s in the back with the frozen sleepers—and their open eyes. You think she’s giving head to a smiling Marcel while he French kisses a guy. Both of their chests are bare.
This is what you think you see before the shadows grow stronger. Denser.
Hands, they still flutter all around. Nocturnal animals.
Air is fresh outside. Cold even. Doorman has disappeared and the entryway hangs ajar, creaking in the wind. On your right, some guys are dragging a drunk girl to the rear of the building. You don’t notice you are crying.
Somebody grabs you from behind and you scream and you turn and you throw at least two punches. It’s Marcel.
“Wow, where are you going?”
“Home.”
Your boyfriend looks to his left, then to his right. This is how you see there’s lipstick on his neck. It could be yours.
“By yourself?” He pauses. “On foot?”
Still crying, you fall to your knees. Tiny rocks make crunching noises as they pierce your skin.
“Listen, listen, am gon’ take you home.”
You do not care that his zipper is half open. You just want to get as far away from this sex club as fast as possible.
~~~
There is an unfathomable sadness in a mother’s scream when she believes she has lost her only child. Primal, wailing echoes found only on the red floors of deserts that humans have never crossed.
Through the headache, you can almost make out your mom’s heavy steps approaching your room, the door opening violently and slamming into the wall. Belt lashes. The howling stops. You still haven’t opened your eyes.
Through the pain, you realise your mom did not expect you to be here. In the warm darkness of your bed, you feel her weight falling on you. Emeline Beaumont holds you for what feels like an hour, crying. And all you’re thinking is she is much stronger than usual, that she reeks of alcohol. Old Paul’s moonshine.
In her cold kitchenette, on the small radio which follows her every move, your mom had learned that the Albatros caught fire this very night. For but an instant, she believed she had lost you. Trying to process the news of the fire, you don’t see, don’t recognize your mother’s goodness.
You spring out of bed and your mother’s embrace with the velocity of a beaten dog. Still in yesterday’s clothes, you run through the empty streets of Valenton. You have forgotten your headache. Almost at Sylvie’s, reality isn’t shaking anymore.
Marcel is sitting on the lone step leading to the house. He jumps as soon as he sees you. You remember the strength of his arms. You remember screaming with all your might. Inside the abode, cries erupt. They echo your mother’s.
These would not stop.
~~~
Sun is dipping into the horizon of trees, slashing pink, gold, and purple brushes across the fluffy grey clouds. You cannot tell if they are real, or the effects of the Chernob’ wine bottle sitting between you and Marcel. Somewhere in your back is the merge where the firmament once again turns blue. You do not care. A boom box is popping off some of Téléphone’s most notorious songs. Shame they disbanded. Shame you’re thinking about this.
“They say they can’t really identify the bodies,” Marcel abruptly says.
On the dry grass surface of the soccer field, his hand is creeping towards you. You stare at his clumsy movement for way too long before grabbing his crab-like appendage.
“You think they were still there when it caught fire, uh?” you ask.
“I mean, even on foot, they’d be back by now. Oh,” Marcel says when he realises your question was rhetorical. There is a troubled quality in the trenches of his eyes. As he gets closer, you smile. The warmth of his stern body against your left flank? Feels good. No, feels great. You close your eyes, tucking your head under his chin.
“I wonder if he suffered. I don’t—” your boyfriend begins, while you feel his Adam’s apple going up and down. Tears are obvious despite the lack of visual contact.
You kiss his chin. A leap of faith. You reach under his shirt, feel his belly getting tense and try your best to remove the fabric. As you expose your breasts to the dying sun, Marcel stares at you, bewildered. You kiss him once again. You can tell the contact of your tits against his chest is working. You reach for his trousers. Ten seconds pass and you have to admit you will not be able to get the damn zipper down while French kissing. This makes you both laugh with unease.
Marcel smells good and you know right now, right then, is the moment to stop it all. Just burrow yourself under his arms. Instead, you take off your chessboard skirt. Marcel wriggles on the soil, trying to get free from his jeans. You’re out of the skirt and make sure to have him look at you while you take off your bra. The slight drop of your tits, the slight drop of his jaw.
You have to help him shake off the pants because for whatever the reason he can’t do it on his own.
Blades of grass hurt you a bit as you lie on your back and Marcel appears as a looming sexy cloud over the Mariana Trench blue backdrop of the sky.
His mouth instantly goes for your nipple and it feels weird, prickly, before he kisses you all the way up to your chin, to your lips. He pauses.
“You … you sure?” Apologising in advance.
Between your legs, you can feel the throbbing heat of his penis as he is standing close. You do not answer, instead taking him by the neck, pulling him closer.
It does not hurt as much as Sylvie intimated.
You bite Marcel’s shoulder as he begins to thrust and moan. You try to be in the moment. Slightly afraid that you do not feel as good as he does.
“Turn … turn around,” a sweaty Marcel orders.
You comply as best you can, wondering how you can do so while keeping his shaft inside you. You act, it is cold, then Marcel is back again.
Your boyfriend grunts more this way and you cannot be sure, yet it seems he is growing bigger.
“You … you fucking like it, uh?” he asks angrily, as a tingling sensation takes hold of your legs, your butt.
You smile, close your eyes, enjoy the hundreds of shards currently creeping on your skin. You feel your boyfriend’s hand go up and down your back before reaching underneath you, towards your tits, which are now pressed against the grass. It doesn’t hurt anymore.
He spreads your feet with his own. Sweaty, liquid over you. It feels as though you’re melting into one another. You take in his every thrust as they send chills across your neurons. In the creeping, near-darkness, Marcel appears to grow smaller, or maybe you are growing up. You cannot tell. You do not feel his kisses anymore as you both turn Earth’s molten core.
You swallow him through your vagina while having your first orgasm.
~~~
Waking up, you remember wondering where Marcel went as you attempt to recoup your breath, belly pressed upon the ground. Butt naked in the middle of the soccer field.
It’s the tepid quality of the night that forces you to get up. By the time you’re on your feet, you have already noticed Marcel’s clothes strewn haphazardly on the grass. There is also this weird bulge between your legs.
You freeze, thinking some insect crept up in there while you were sleeping. It gets real when you decide the dangling bulk can only be a tick. You don’t want to touch it. Yet you have to check.
Standing awkwardly, you spread your legs and bend. The testicles hanging from your perineum appear weird, even upside down.
~~~
The fear, walking home. The shame. You wonder if this is some sort of STD, one you didn’t pay attention to. You are hooking on every possible explanation, assaulting yourself for being stupid not to know. You want to cry. You feel sick.
You’re a disease.
At home, Mom’s waiting for you. She is all tall and straight and dark as a bird of prey on a crooked fence. She does not get up from the couch when you enter, just pans her head towards you. For but an instant, you think she might be smiling. You think of possessed people in somber asylums. Her face is stern and full of concern.
“You coming home late,” she says, facing the blank TV screen.
“Uh, huh …”
“You’re not gonna ask me where your daddy is?”
“Where is he?”
“You were with the lil’ Marcel, am I right?” she asks, standing up and turning towards you.
You do not answer. She draws near. When she’s close enough, she closes her eyes for but one instant and inhales sharply.
“You did it with him, am I right?” she asks, pressing on every syllable.
“Did whut?”
“Don’t force me to search between your legs, my daughter. For I know what am gon’ find and I don’t like it.”
Your new testicles, they shrink under the fear. A slithering feeling that this alien sack of skin, between your legs, tightens against gravity. You feel wet, ashamed, clumsy.
“It’s Old Paul’s liquor, Cynthia. It turned us all into monstresses,” your mom continues. Her bad breath holds you captive.
“The men … they disappear and leave us with their things.”
Emeline Beaumont, she falls to her knees and cries, holding her head. She does not howl as hard as she had that morning. You feel pity for her. Still, you do not like having anyone’s head so close to your crotch. You pull on the fabric of your skirt.
~~~
There exist two rules here in Valenton. First, you do not have sex. Like ever. Marie Grangé once tried with an outsider and he melted just like all the others, leaving her with a second pair of balls. Grapevine has it, Marianne Segouin possesses a whole chandelier of them, but you’re not one to spread rumours.
To be fair, you miss having sex. Every woman does, but to this day, you remain unsure of your willingness to kill for the uncertain pleasure of a probable orgasm. Some women in town, they say there’s a pleasure to be had in sucking off some truck drivers down by the highway. But theirs is a dangerous hobby, for heterosexual males aren’t keen on finding testicles on their potential mates. This often ends in violence. Sometimes in death. Ask Louison, if you ever find her body.
The other rule of Valenton is you kill the babies. See, your gonads? They still function, pumping your uterus full of sperm every month or so. Gets you one baby, or two, any given year. Fucking ordeal. And it’ll remain like this until you hit menopause. This is why the women voted and opted to abandon the babies in the mountains.
Try hiking over the harsh rocks on any given side and the forest echoes of dying babies. It’s a surreal thing to hear a mountain cry. Stay long enough, and the wailings extinguish, one by one. The other women deal with your babies, for it’s impossible for you to do so. At first, customs made you throw the babes in some unnamed hole. It slowly filled with tiny bones which broke under the teeth of small mammals. But Christie climbed up there one day and rescued her progeny, so another way had to be found.
Things now function better, at least you had thought so. Until you had your first twins. It’s easy lying to a bunch of women you’ve known all your life. Sort of like poker. If you never lie, nobody notices when you finally do. You named your babies at first, but eventually you stopped. You hand over one baby.
You hide the girl in the cellar, name her Eva.
You did not think this through.
~~~
You sit on the stairs leading to the basement. They creak under your weight. Place is dark. Place is wet. You do not like it there but if you were to show your only child to the other women, they would kill her. Sometimes, carrying the water and the food, you wonder if it would not be the better option.
Eva used to cry a lot. So, you gave her siblings, brothers mostly. You never thought she would absorb them. Yet, this is what happened. And then came her own progeny. It prevents you from sleeping some nights.
Every evening, coming back from the bullet factory, you put a glass of water and a bowl of soup two steps away from your daughter. This forces her to exercise. You do not like watching her move. Not since she lost her legs, her arms. You remember when she was just a torso with those two appendages extending from her. She used to scare you. Some insectoid marine predator made of flesh. And gonads. Thank god, she lost her arms. Now, she really just resembles a caterpillar.
A phallic creature covered in veiny beads and sweat and dirt. But she’s your daughter nonetheless.
Eva used to wail, and you covered her pain with soothing music tracks. Indochine, mostly. She liked this. Before her mouth disappeared under the excess flesh, she often hummed their tunes in a clumsy fashion you found endearing. Nowadays, you still put on the music, but it’s habit. The joyful songs turn even more depressing, you think, as your daughter wriggles to get to her soup.
You turn and ascend the stairs while “3ème sexe” echoes off every wall.