I am Luc of the Street

Acceptance

Jean-Paul comes and goes. I suppose I should be thankful he shows up at all. I have to take him as he comes—when he chooses to come, that is.

I've never been very good at accepting things as they are. I learned to live aggressively on the street. Adapt—yes. Roll over? Never. Scrapping is as much a part of me as my beating heart. I push back; I hold tight; I stand firm. Any other way feels like defeat.

Jean-Paul is really testing my limits. I can't rest if he's out there on the street. No matter what else is occupying my mind at the moment, somewhere inside, I'm clenching a fist. I can't let go that I can't control what he does.

Hey, I can accept some things. Like, that it takes me an hour by car from the center of town to Montmartre, even though it should be a ten-minute ride. Or, that if I want to be around a while, I may have to start thinking about cutting down on my smokes. But don't stand there and tell me I have to accept Jean-Paul hanging around the Pigalle doing who knows what with who knows who—except, I do know what; I can fill in the blanks with my past.

Henri says if I could learn to accept events and people as they are, I'd find peace. But first, according to him, I have to accept myself. I'm not sure what he means. I'm not at odds with myself. I have no regrets about my past. I'm content. Most of the time. Isn't that the same?

Does it trouble me that my mother was murdered by a john? Sure. Do I wish I could have saved her? Yeah, but I was just a babe hiding in the next room, scared and confused. I couldn't have done anything to change it, could I have? I don't really think there was something I could have done, right? Right?

Or maybe I do. Maybe that fist inside is shaking at me. Maybe that's why acceptance is so hard.

The People

France belongs to the people. We're a republic, a body united, tous pour un, un pour tous. That is, unless you're a sixteen-year-old homeless kid. Then, you're on your own.

"The People" doesn't apply to you when you grow up outside the system. There's no net the People cast to draw the stragglers to their bosom. Stragglers are unsightly, so much debris to be swept outside the inner circle. Just ask someone who lives on the wrong side of the city's péripherique.

A child on the street is a shock to the delicate sensibilities of the People. He doesn't inspire sympathy, he creates shame. No one wants to be shamed on the way to the market.

The People looked past me. I was a defect, an ugly scar. It was a good day when I was shooed away; at least they acknowledged my existence. After a while, I started to turn on the People. If they were going to put me on the outside, I was going to hack my way back in.

Even now, after having been off the streets for two-thirds of my life, I still find it hard to bond with the People. I've never found the same oneness I had with my street brothers. I crave that. But there's something that keeps me from being one with the People, something that still separates me, like a man cut off by the ring road.

The Hard Way

"You make everything so hard," Henri said to me today. He seemed exasperated. I told him that he was being ridiculous. People don't make things hard, they just are. "No," Henri insisted. "It's a choice. And you choose the hard way."

Henri wouldn't hear any arguments; he was intent on making me see the error of my ways. "I have a perfect example," he explained. "The route you take every day from your apartment to my bar. You could very easily turn right onto the main boulevard and walk here in five minutes. But no, you go the opposite way, through the old winding streets, up hill! It's out of your way, even!" I tried to tell Henri that I liked the old streets of Montmartre; they've nurtured me all my life, like a mother. There are memories in those old streets and I like to take them in as I walk along. "That's my point, exactly," Henri said. "You choose the harder route. I think you like to struggle!"

I didn't understand why Henri was so fired up. Even if his little theory were true, why should it bother him? If I choose the hard way, it's my problem, isn't it? "It's our problem, too," Henri said. "We watch, helpless, as you walk into the fire you created then we have to soothe your wounds afterward."

Henri blew my mind with that one. I don't ask anyone to fix my life or hold my hand. If I screw up, I deal with it. What was he talking about? "We suffer with you," he said, "because we love you." Then he shook his head at me like I was a lost cause. "You're still that kid on the street, aren't you? The hard way is all you know."

Is "hard" normal for me? I don't know, maybe Henri is right. Maybe I do like to struggle. It could be that fighting through life makes me feel vital; I need to bleed to know I'm alive. But if it's true that I choose the hard way, it makes me wonder about my childhood. When I ran away from the orphanage, was I making my life harder on purpose? What if I volunteered myself for this cop's life when I was eight years old, choosing the hard life of the street in preparation because somehow I knew it would make me worth something. Who knows, maybe I'm meant to be this way; maybe my hard life is leading up to one defining moment—something important, something big. Something that requires a hard man who's not afraid to make the hard choices, take the hard way. I am that man.

The people who love me will have to forgive me the suffering it brings them. Hopefully, I can make it up to them in the end.

Il Pleut

I'm deep into my case but still no solid leads. Now the rain is here and it's supposed to last through Saturday. Damn rain washes away evidence. I hate rain for that reason. Little Luc hates the rain, too. Rain means he better find shelter quick.

I suppose I haven't told you about Little Luc. Well, you can meet him right now. He's the scrawny kid tugging at my gut and screaming in my ear—especially now that the rain and cold are starting to grip the city. Little Luc has me on edge. No matter how much I tell him we're safe, that we no longer need to scrounge for a warm place to camp out, he never seems to stop fretting. You should see him when the snow starts falling. He chews my nails right down to nothing.

Still, Little Luc is the stronger of the two of us. He fears no one. And that nose of his comes in handy. He can help me sniff out a liar, but he'll also tell me what kind of dirt is embedded in a muddy footprint, whether it's from the Bois de Vincennes or the gutter. He knows all the best hiding places and where to dig up the scum of the earth. It's Little Luc who keeps me fierce and in top form, keeps me from getting too comfortable. He knows once you get too comfortable, you lose your grip on life. You become the hunted instead of the hunter. We'll never let that happen, Little Luc and me. We'll stay sharp because we got a case to solve, rain or no.

I Don’t Know Who I Am

I was maybe four years old when my mother died. I say “maybe,” not because I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but because I don’t know exactly how old I am. That’s what comes of being an orphan.

I was born in a bordel and there was no birth certificate. In fact, the first official documentation of my existence was created on 20 April 1978—my juvenile arrest report. I don’t know my date of birth, my surname, or what kind of blood flows in me. Is it even French blood? Who knows? My father would, but who’s he? The only father I ever had was Bruno, and he told me I have cop blood in my veins.

From time to time, I try to remember my mother just to keep some bit of memory alive. But the truth is, I really don’t know what’s memory and what’s memory remembered. At times I see her as small and dark, other times, tall and fair—it’s all soft and shifting and covered over by years and years. Sometimes in the quiet of the morning, just as I’m waking, I hear her calling to me. Odd thing is, she’s calling me by another name only I can’t make it out. Or maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to be a mystery.

Not knowing who I am or how old I am—there’s a strange feeling of power in that, like I’ve escaped time and space. It’s total freedom. I could be anyone, or no one. I am only defined by what I do, not who I am. That’s how it should be, yes? Maybe it’s no accident that my life officially began the day I met Bruno. Maybe I was born for this life, a blank slate to be filled in case by case. If that's true, then maybe there will be one case that will prove to be my defining moment. The reason I was born.

Scars

Today, when I was walking around the apartment shirtless, my scarred torso caught Jean-Paul’s eye. “Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing to my belly where a bullet had to be cut out. “And that?” Another bullet from the same day, near my shoulder. “What about THAT?" Jean-Paul saved the best for last: a long, horizontal scar across my neck. I was wondering when he'd get around to asking about it. “Oh, that,” I said as casually as I could. “I just sort of ran into something.” I ran into something, alright. A wire—strung between the hands of an assassin. That was back when I was in vice. Pas grave. No big deal. I survived. Now I have a permanent reminder to watch my back.

There are other scars, too. Like the one between my shoulder blades, long since tattooed over. Three letters: B-R-I, the initials of a special unit I was once in, carved into my skin by my fellow officers. They held me down and did it to me. I thought it was some kind of sick hazing until they each showed me theirs—one guy had it on his chest, another on his arm, and so on. That’s when I knew I was in, I was accepted. Funny how they put mine where I could never see it, could even forget about it. But some scars you never forget, especially the ones you can’t see.

Like the ones carved into JP's screwed up little mind. I have those, too. We’re screwed up together. I guess that’s why we found each other, why we stick together. You might think the street did that to us, but the truth is, we were scarred long before we ran away to the streets, at least on the inside. The physical scars come later when you try to avenge the mental ones.

Betrayed

I spent the first part of my life on the outside of society and as hard as it is for me to relate to people on the whole, one-on-one is even harder. When I finally decide to call one “friend,” it’s a big deal. From my friends I expect what I give: loyalty and honesty. C’est compliqué ça?  It seems to be for some people.

Listen, I know we French have supposedly elevated deception to high art, maybe from centuries of being occupied. We’re charmers, beguilers; we tell you what you want to hear—and we’ll say anything to get you into bed. True. Okay. But me, I’m more of a straight-shooter. If I like you, I tell you. If I don’t—well, let's just say you'll know to walk on the other side of the street when you see me.

I say what I mean and do what I promise. Surely I learned that on the street. Charm is useful in proper society but on the street, intent is what makes people bend to your will. The sharp point of intent. Still, that I am transparent in my intentions and feelings is considered a weakness by many of my peers. I understand that. One should never reveal all. But I am not a weak man and no one should mistake my honesty as an invitation to screw me over.

I have been betrayed exactly five times in my life, each one like a little slit in my soul that still bleeds. One of the first times was by my closest friend on the street who left me without a word. Another time, by a boy in the academy who would not stand by me when I was being humiliated. Betrayal happens in many ways but always comes in the form of a trusted friend, and always takes me by surprise. You'd think I would have learned by now—a guy like me, from the hard streets. You'd think I'd keep my intent sharpened and unsheathed.

This recent betrayal might be considered a little thing. Some might even wonder why I bother to upset myself over it. And to the French way of thinking, I’m the one who is the ass because I let my guard down; I trusted my secrets to another. Maybe that’s true; maybe it’s my mistake, but it’s still your problem. I’ll make it your problem. Because if you find yourself lucky enough to be taken into my confidence, if I decide to share a secret, you better guard that secret as though your life depended on it—because it just might. If you dare to look me in the face and promise to keep mum, you better keep mum.

Betrayal is unforgivable. On this point I am unwavering. I can take a lot of abuse before I lash out, but betrayal gets you right on my list. And once you’re there, you stay there for good, no matter how much you beg and grovel. No mercy for Judases.

You know who you are. I trusted you and let you in close. I won’t make that mistake again. If I were you, I’d move out of town. You’re on my list.

Le Roi de Montmartre

I heard it again today. King of Montmartre. They’ve been calling me that for years now. I guess I’ve earned it—I've lived here long enough—and it’s meant with love I suppose, but it’s a little heavy to carry around.

Still, if a man like me were to have a kingdom, I suppose Montmartre is a suitable enough place. It’s not fancy, just a little hill village, really. Perched high above the city, it feels different from the rest of Paris. The air is different; the people are different. More real. We Montmartrois are like a tribe and we're fiercely devoted to our rebel village. Anytime you find people talking over too many glasses of wine, you're bound to hear the word, "secession."

You live in Montmartre because you love it, because you want to be a part of something that’s more than a place—it’s a feeling, a belief. You have to take Montmartre as it is, good and bad. It takes grit and determination to live here, in dilapidated buildings propped up on steep streets—some so steep, they’re stairs. It can be unforgiving, especially in winter. And except for a small area that’s been tarted up for the tourists, the 18th district is mostly pretty raw, especially north of Rue Ordener and east of Boulevard Barbès. I should know; I’ve lived here all my life and know every inch of every stinking gutter, so excuse me if I don’t quite get the quaint paintings they sell to the tourists in Place du Tertre. My Montmartre may not be pretty but it has heart, and I love it like a mother. It’s the only mother I’ve ever really had.

I admit that I spend most of my free time within the boundaries of my neighborhood. You could argue that I have the entire city of Paris to play in—and I do from time to time—but Montmartre is in my blood, it tugs hard when I’m away and draws me home. I suppose I don’t feel at rest anywhere but in the bosom of my mother. I am Montmartre and it is me. I guess that’s why they call me king.

The Dead of August

Henri reminded me that he was taking off for the seaside with his wife and kids, and that Girard’s Bar Tabac will be shut until the end of the month. I was not happy about it. I hate August when all of Paris goes on vacation. Life stops. What about those who have to stay behind? What happens to us? How are we supposed to live?

August to me is like a kind of death. When I was on the street, August was the worst time. Everything slowed down and the usual human activity that sustained us gutter rats would dwindle to nothing. Like Lagache’s Grocerette—a place I frequented with my sticky fingers—would close for the whole month. We lived on the food I used to swipe from that old guy, but no shop meant no food. It would get worse and worse as the month wore on and we would be forced to move further down into the city—into the 8th and the Champs-Elysées—where there were at least some tourists. The problem was, that area was also crawling with cops. And unlike the cops in Montmartre who knew us and would often look the other way, these guys loved to round us up in their little wagons. You had to be really desperate and hungry to take chances in that neighborhood, and by the end of August, we were.

Salvation only came with the rentrée in September, when everyone returned to Paris for the new school year. Our lives would improve immediately. Girard’s Bar Tabac would open up again and Henri’s papa would feed me regular. The hunger of August would be gone at last.

Yeah, I suppose I know why I hate August. All these years later, a part of me still feels the dread, the abandonment. Still feels hungry.

I Drank Too Much Yesterday

I was still drunk when I woke up. I guess Henri was right. But he was the one pouring the whisky.

In Henri’s defense, he says it’s impossible to tell when I’m drunk, so it’s often too late by the time he realizes. I don’t get sloppy; I just get melancholy, or “dark” as he says. “You need to go home now,” he said last night. “You’re getting dark.” He looked worried. Thing is, he looked worried for himself. It's strange, but sometimes I feel Henri is a little afraid of me. I don’t know why he should be. Doesn’t he know how much I love him, my best friend since 25 years? I would never hurt him. No matter how “dark” I get.

I’m not sure why people fear me, but I see it from time to time in their eyes. I don’t know what it is in me that inspires fear—I’m a quiet guy, I don’t rant or wave my fists around. I don’t strut through the streets like I own them. Still, I do sense their fear. I can smell it like a dog. Sometimes it’s a good thing; it gets me respect from the scum I have to deal with every day in my job. It was especially useful when I was in vice. And of course, when I lived on the street. Fear keeps people at a distance.

But what about Henri? My colleagues? My lovers? Jean-Paul? Does it keep them at a distance? Maybe that's why JP keeps running off. Why I sleep alone. Still, I can't control the darkness inside. I suppose that’s why I drink too much.

Jesus Saves

Today I saw this scrawled on a wall near my home. JESUS SAVES. I was with Jean-Paul at the time and he insisted I take a picture with my phone. He was laughing hysterically—not at the scrawled message, but at my question: “Jesus saves what?” He was dumbfounded that I didn’t understand. Between chuckles he blurted out, “Your soul, you heathen!” Those words went right into me and tugged hard.

Heathen.

He used to call me that, the boy I lived with on the street, my best friend. He was a Catholic; his mother took him to church all the time before he ran away. He knew so much about religion—saints, God, angels and like that—and would teach me about the statues and engravings in the cemetery where we often camped out. I remember how he loved hiding out in the old churches of Montmartre, but I didn't understand why. Unlike him, I never had any religion in my life, never learned about God in a formal way. He used to laugh at me, like JP did, and call me a poor heathen orphan boy.

Heathen. I hadn't heard it since those days, not until JP said it today. It was like being pulled straight back into the past.

Am I a heathen? I suppose so. But anyway, we French aren’t the most religious people, as a whole. Knowledge is our religion—philosophy, science and like that. I’m definitely much more cerebral than spiritual. But above all, I’m physical. If I can’t see it or touch it or smell it, I don’t bother about it. I don’t pray or wish or hope—I take action. I’ve always known that you have to make your own way in life. Just live, that's all. And if you’re lucky, like I was, a real-life angel will come and save you.

God? I'm not sure there is one. Well, except maybe Zinédine Zidane.

Taking Leave (of My Senses)

I just had two days leave. It was the Bastille Day weekend so I should have been pleased that I didn't have to do patrol, but the timing is bad; I just started my new position. My chief insisted I take it. Said I looked tired. Maybe they just wanted time to reconsider my promotion.

I don’t know, maybe I was tired. I slept straight through the night, which is unlike me, so yeah, I suppose I was. It was a heavy sleep filled with tedious dreams. In one, I was trying to get to my new department but kept losing my way over and over. It grinded on endlessly, and I woke up wanting to scream.

So I got in my car and drove.

I don’t know where I was going but I just headed south—through the city, then out of the city, then out of the area. I got on the Autoroute du Soleil and kept on driving. It was like a crazy itch. Get me out! Out of what or where exactly, I don’t know, but I kept on. I drove nearly three hours then somewhere near Beaune, I finally stopped myself. Where was I going anyway?

Back in Paris, my insides quiet again, it's clear now where I was headed: Marseille.

Marseille was the place I ran last time I was at a crossroads. That was a long time ago; I was maybe 25. It was a bad time, much worse than now. There was an ambush on my squad, but I don’t want to talk about that now. The point is, I got three weeks mandatory leave. My mentor, Bruno, arranged a place in Marseille through a friend, said the sea would do me good. I had never seen the sea before; never been out of Paris. I didn’t want to go, in fact. It felt strange, like I was being shunned. The mandatory leave, maybe.

I was miserable at first, but then I met a guy—a tattoo artist named Emile—and everything changed. He was a wild spirit like me and we fell into an immediate friendship. I have happy memories of those weeks, and a tattoo across my back as a permanent memento. It took four straight days for Emile to complete it—that needle digging in over and over. I didn’t mind the pain; it was physical and focused, and I could wrap myself around it, work out the deeper pain in my heart. After the tattoo was finished, I felt myself healed. I was all torn up inside and Emile sewed me back together with that needle.

I don’t know why I’m writing about this now, or why I needed Marseille again after all these years. Do I feel torn up? I don’t know. I don’t feel like myself, that much I know. Maybe I need to feel the needle again. The pain. Just so I know I’m still me. I’m still Luc de la Rue.

Henri Says I Smoke Too Much

My friend Henri says I smoke too much. His dad just died from lung cancer, so now Henri is on my case. It's a little hypocritical when you figure he owns a bar tabac. He keeps me in Gitanes and whisky, my two vices. I love him for that.

I miss Henri's dad, too. Papa Girard. Especially now, because I could use his advice. He was a great guy. When I was a kid on the street, he used to feed me for free at the bar tabac. Imagine? A filthy gutter rat like I was? Let me sit as long as I liked and treated me like a human being. Asked me questions like he cared. Called me, "son." He was a great, great man. His son is the same and he's my best friend for nearly 25 years. He loves me in spite of my many flaws. That's real unconditional love, believe me.

I probably spend way too much time at Henri's bar, but it's like my other home. Henri is as good as my brother. When you're an orphan you learn to borrow family. Like Jean-Paul. He's not my real son, sure, but I love him just the same and we need each other. Since he's been gone I suppose I have been drinking and smoking too much. Between Jean-Paul's latest disappearance and the political games playing out at work, all I got is my hangout and my little vices. And so what? Henri says it's dangerous for me to be idle with whisky in my belly, but somehow he keeps pouring, and stocking up on my brand of cigarettes.

Je Suis Flic

I am a cop. I work in La Brigade Criminelle in Paris. "La Crim' " we call it sometimes, or "La BC." There's a picture of our building at the top of this blog, in fact. The celebrated 36 Quai des Orfèvres. We're part of the DRPJ, the regional direction of the judiciary police, which means I'm not the guy who checks your passport at the airport, I'm the one they call if you end up mysteriously dead. I love what I do. I love solving the puzzle more than anything else and I'm good at it. I have an impressive case record. No matter what they're saying about me now, they can't take that from me.

It's not true about the evidence. I don't tamper with it. It's a shit charge. That's what I wanted to say here today. I'm a good cop, one of the best. You don't need to mess with evidence when you have skill. I'm innocent. That's all.