Free Total Chaos by Jean-Claude Izzo, Howard Curtis

once. Leila was smoking. I’d put on a Calvin Russel tape that I liked a lot. It was good to drive to. If I could, I’d have crossed the whole of Europe rather than take the turnoff that led to Aix. Russel was singing
Rockin’ the Republicans
. Leila, still without speaking, stopped the tape before
Baby I Love You
.
    She put in another tape that I didn’t know. Arab music. An oud solo. The music she had dreamed of for this night with me. The sound of the oud spread through the car like an aroma. The peaceful aroma of an oasis. Dates, dried figs, almonds. I risked a look at her. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs. She was beautiful, beautiful for me. Yes, I desired her.
    â€œYou shouldn’t have done it,” she said just before she got out.
    â€œShouldn’t have done what?”
    â€œLet me fall in love with you.”
    She slammed the car door. Not violently. But there was sadness in the action, and the anger that goes with sadness. That was a year ago. We hadn’t seen each other since. She hadn’t called. I’d brooded over her absence. Two weeks ago, I’d received her master’s thesis in the mail, and a card with just four words: “For you. So long.”
    â€œI’m going to find her, Mouloud. Don’t worry.”
    I gave him my nicest smile. The smile of the good cop you can trust. I remembered something Leila had said, talking about her brothers. “When it’s late, and one of them hasn’t come home, we get worried. Anything can happen in this place.” Now it was my turn to be worried.
    Rachid was alone in front of Block C12, sitting on a skateboard. He stood up when he saw me come out of the building, picked up his skateboard, and vanished into the lobby. I supposed he was telling me to go fuck myself and my mother. But I didn’t care. When I got to my car in the parking lot, I saw it didn’t have a single new scratch.

3. I N WHICH THE MOST HONORABLE THING A SURVIVOR CAN DO IS SURVIVE
    A heat haze enveloped Marseilles. I was driving along the highway, with the windows down. I’d put on a B. B. King tape. Full volume. Nothing but the music. I didn’t want to think. Not yet. All I wanted was to empty my head, to dispel the thoughts that were flooding in. I was on my way back from Aix and my worst fears had been confirmed. Leila really had disappeared.
    I’d wandered through the empty faculty looking for the administration offices. I needed to know if Leila had gained her master’s before I went to the residence. The answer was yes. With distinction. It was after that that she’d disappeared. Her old red Fiat Panda was still in the parking lot. I’d glanced inside, but nothing had been left lying around. Either it had broken down—which I hadn’t checked—and she’d taken the bus, or someone had come to pick her up.
    The super, a pudgy little man, his cap pulled down tight on his head, opened the door to Leila’s room for me. He remembered seeing her come in, but not go out again. He himself had left around six in the evening.
    â€œShe hasn’t done anything wrong, has she?”
    â€œNo, no. She’s disappeared.”
    â€œShit,” he said, scratching his head. “She’s a nice girl. Polite. Not like some of the French girls.”
    â€œShe is French.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant, monsieur.”
    He fell silent. I’d upset him. He stood by the door while I checked out the room. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. I just wanted to make sure Leila hadn’t suddenly decided to fly off to Acapulco for a change of scenery. The bed had been made. Above the sink, a toothbrush, toothpaste, beauty products. In the closet, her things, neatly arranged. A bag of dirty washing. On a table, sheets of paper, notepads, and books.
    The book I was looking for was here.
Harbor Bar
by Louis Brauquier. A first edition, from 1926, on pure laid Lafuma,