Free Eyes Full of Empty by Jérémie Guez Page A

partitions. There are twenty or so people, beers in hand, having conversations. Eve says her hellos; I hang back and give them a little wave, a kind of collective greeting. They all look at me, intrigued. She tells them something, but I can’t hear it, and at once they all relax. I think the most observant have guessed from my milk-chocolate dome that I’m not a regular around here. Eve comes back toward me.
    â€œLet’s get something to drink.”
    We enter the living room through wide-open sliding glass doors. The music’s turned all the way up. I follow her to the kitchen, dodging en route a young girl wiggling around by her lonesome. Towering over the bar are stockpiled bottles and plastic cups. As Eve pours herself vodka, I ask, “What’d you tell the people outside?”
    â€œAbout you? That you were my dealer. Like you asked. What are you having?”
    â€œI’ll have a Jack.”
    She pours, pointing a finger at the soda bottles on the table. “What with? Coke?”
    â€œStraight up,” I say, taking the cup from her hand.
    We toast. I take a gulp, eyes riveted on the living room, which has become an improvised dance floor where cute girls in short dresses are swaying their hips. Eve asks me if I like what I see.
    I smile. “Between friends? I’m too old for that.”
    â€œBut do you like it, Idir?” This little girl already knows everything about the sexual hang-ups of men in general—and I’m no exception.
    â€œYeah, they’re pretty.”
    Just then, a boy comes up and starts talking to Eve. Tall, skinny guy, poorly shaven, with a lock of hair falling over his eyes. He seems happy to see her. She feels obliged to introduce us.
    â€œHugo, our host. Idir, a friend.”
    â€œPleasure,” he says.
    He seems sincere. Eve must’ve filled him in. I don’t feel like having the two of them underfoot all night just because I’m playing pharmacist.
    â€œCan I offer you a line?”
    Eve and the skinny douchebag break out in huge smiles, a display of affection I’m not used to, at least not when it’s directed at me. Tarik, you lucky bastard, people must love you .
    Hugo drags us upstairs. We go into his room; there’s a poster for Pierrot le fou on his wall. Damn, what is it with all these kids and Godard? I turn my back on him, let them snort their shit while staring at Belmondo, his face painted blue. Hugo gets up and declares it’s good stuff. He asks if I can score some more easy. I toss him the bag, which he catches midflight, and then I leave the room before I’m overwhelmed by the desire to punch him. I go downstairs to mingle with the other guests. I figure hanging around the bar is a good way of making sure I talk to everyone. So I pour myself another Jack Daniel’s and settle in by the bottles, watching the girls dance, like some sad old loser.
    A guy who looks like a high school football player straight out of some American TV show bumps into me. He’s already pretty tipsy and has to steady himself on the bar for a moment to stay upright. I take no notice. He grabs a beer, uncaps it with his lighter, and takes a long swallow. When he goes by me again, I can’t help myself: I stick my foot out. He trips over it and all six feet of him hit the floor. The beer he just grabbed goes rolling away, pouring out its contents. Quick as he went down, he’s back on his feet, eyes wide and alert, as if the fall sobered him up. Furious, he points a finger at me, and shouts, “Fuck you do that for?”
    I look at him evenly and, without raising my voice, say, “I didn’t do anything, man. You’re the one who’s drunk and can’t stand up straight.”
    He pulls his fist back, but his friends pop up out of nowhere and surround him. They move him away, trying to calm him down. Never punch the drug dealer. He’s still struggling and shouting insults at me, wild with