“Yes.” Paul tried to smile. His father wasn’t making things easy for him. “Don’t you want to know what’s become of me?”
Preston made no attempt to hide his embarrassment. “Listen. I barely knew your mother. I never knew you. I don’t see how that’s the basis of anything.”
“I don’t know. Maybe we could get to know each other a bit.”
“I have work to do,” Preston retorted. “I don’t have time now. Some other time maybe.” He made as if to leave.
“You’re my father,” Paul insisted. “I just wanted us to—”
“Don’t waste your time,” Preston cut in. “You’re just going to have to get this into your head: I don’t need a son.” His words were like knives. “Sorry, boy.”
Todd Preston shook his hand in what seemed like a very final goodbye, and ran to join his friends, who were waiting down the street.
Rain was falling on the sidewalk. His eyes soaked with tears, Paul stood there motionless.
“Who was that?” he heard from the corner of the street.
“That? Oh, nobody.”
With a shrug of the shoulders, his father urged the others to continue on their way. The workers soon disappeared, leaving the sidewalk empty under the indifferent drizzle.
Paul stood for a moment outside the entrance to the site, gazing in front of him, his hands in his pockets. His father hadn’t wanted to talk to him, let alone get to know him. Paul wasn’t even worth a cup of coffee, wasn’t worth a dollar. He wasn’t worth anything.
A gust of wind swept the dirty street, as if telling him to sort his life out.
Paul spent the afternoon smoking and drinking in bars on the outskirts of town, at least those that were prepared to serve him alcohol. He soon felt woozy, but he would drink until he didn’t have a dollar left in his pocket, until he forgot that bastard even existed, forget he himself existed. The barflies would come up to him and tell him to fuck off out of here, and he would send them packing. He wanted to hurt them, and hurt himself at the same time. That must have become obvious, because a milky-white pakeha who must have weighed over two hundred soon grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Hey, you little brat! Hasn’t anyone ever given you a spanking?”
“No. Are you going to try, you piece of shit?”
Paul was already quite muscular, but he was no match for a brute like that. Especially as he didn’t strike first: the man landed him a straight punch to the face, which sent him flying against the wall. Paul picked himself up, swaying with anger, and charged in like a rugby forward. He didn’t care about getting hit, blows weren’t what hurt him. He tried to hit the man, who parried his wild blows then landed him another punch. Paul fell flat on his face, and the other customers laughed derisively.
The barman stepped in. “That’s enough, mate!” he said, holding him by the arms. “Now get out of here.”
The barman was actually trying to spare him, but Paul didn’t understand that either. He was drunk, and he was sad. He was trying to punish himself for something he hadn’t done, but the world had left him powerless, condemned to be a mongrel that everyone ignored.
Night was falling over the neighborhood by the time they threw him out. There was a taste of blood and despair in his mouth. Paul got on his bicycle, his companion in misery, and, cursing the whole world in order not to cry, rode back to Red Hill. The bicycle zigzagged on the asphalt. Twelve beers. This had turned out quite some reunion . . .
Paul was riding along the avenue, his head fall of resentment, when he saw the crowd that had formed behind the bus stop. He braked. A short distance away, on the waste ground, some of the local boys were manhandling a girl, calling her a little whore, egged on by a fair number of girls, including the Douglas sisters. The object of this derision glared back at them. It was Hana.
She was trying to defend herself, but it was obvious she was terrified. One of the sisters spat in her face.
Paul left his bike where it was.
Clearly, the idol had been knocked off her pedestal. Hana was crawling in the mud now—it was the end of winter, and there was mud everywhere—crawling like an earthworm, filthy and bleeding. A hand grabbed her by the shoulder and sent her flying.
“Fuck off, bitch!”
There were six boys, all local. Dooley and his gang. Hana tried to protect herself, but a volley of stones rained down on her. “Fuck off, bitch!” The girls happily joined in. Paul stood in the middle of the hate-filled little crowd, his ears humming with expletives. Hana retreated, scared stiff, covered in filth. Some stones ricocheted off her shoes, others hit their target or fell in the mire. The voices were getting louder and louder, like those of a pack of hunting dogs, while Hana thrashed around, blood running down her face like tears.
“What’s going on?” he asked one of the Douglas sisters.
“That whore got off with my guy!” she hissed. “And my sister’s!”
At these words, Paul felt sick. All at once, the waste ground started revolving, he was dizzy, his heart was pounding, he could hardly breathe, there was a lump in his throat, he was catching fire, his circuits were roasting, and behind him the voices kept crying, “Fuck off, bitch!”
His head empty of everything except scarlet bubbles, Paul grabbed a stone from the ground and threw it with all his might. Bang! In the hip!
Hana made one last, strange contortion and then ran off, all mud and spittle, pursued by the stones that kept raining down even after she was out of reach . . .
Bang! Bang!
A fist knocked at the door of the room. Osborne was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Hana’s shadow was crouching in the corners.
“Paul!” the voice behind the door was crying. “Paul Osborne!”
He remained motionless on his fleecy cloud. A familiar smell hovered in the air. The bottle of rum was lying open on its side, forming a pool on the coffee table. The culprit, Globule, was sitting on the table, staring at the man on the bed.
“It’s me!” the voice insisted. “Tom!”
It was ten in the morning and, in spite of the painkillers, his nose hurt. Reluctantly, Osborne got up, put on one of his pairs of black pants and opened the door, butterflies fluttering in front of his eyes.
Culhane didn’t look much fresher than he did. “Sorry to wake you but . . . ” He frowned. “What happened to your nose?”
