Read Total Chaos for Free Online

basin. It glided behind the cathedral of La Major. The setting sun gave the gray, grime-incrusted stone a degree of warmth. At such times, La Major, with its Byzantine curves, looked almost beautiful. Afterwards, it reverted to being what it had always been: a pompous piece of Second Empire crap. I watched the ferry move slowly past the Sainte-Marie sea wall and head for the open sea. For tourists who’d spent a day, maybe a night, in transit in Marseilles, it was the start of the crossing. By tomorrow morning, they’d be on the Île de Beauté. They’d remember a few things about Marseilles. The Vieux Port. Notre Dame de la Garde, which dominates it. The Corniche, maybe. And the Pharo Palace, which they could see now to their left.
    Marseilles isn’t a city for tourists. There’s nothing to see. Its beauty can’t be photographed. It can only be shared. It’s a place where you have to take sides, be passionately for or against. Only then can you see what there is to see. And you realize, too late, that you’re in the middle of a tragedy. An ancient tragedy in which the hero is death. In Marseilles, even to lose you have to know how to fight.
    The ferry was now just a dark patch in the setting sun. I was too much of a cop to take things at face value. There was a lot I couldn’t figure out. Who’d put Ugo on to Zucca so quickly? Had Zucca really ordered the hit on Manu? Why? And why hadn’t Auch collared Ugo last night? Or this morning? And where was Lole at the time?
    Lole. Like Manu and Ugo, I hadn’t noticed her growing up, becoming a woman. Then, like them, I’d fallen in love with her. But I had no claims on her. I wasn’t from the Panier. I was born there, but when I was two years old, my parents moved to the Capelette, a wop neighborhood. The most you could hope for—and it was a lot—was to be good friends with Lole. Where I’d really been lucky was in being friends with Manu and Ugo.
    At that time, I still had family in the neighborhood, on Rue des Cordelles. Three cousins: two boys and a girl. The girl’s name was Angèle. Gélou, we called her. She was grown up. Almost seventeen. She often came to our house. She helped my mother, who was already bedridden most of the time. Afterwards, I had to walk her home. It wasn’t really dangerous in those days, but Gélou didn’t like to go home on her own. And I liked to walk with her. She was beautiful, and I felt proud when she gave me her arm. The problem started when we reached the Accoules. I didn’t like to go into the neighborhood. It was dirty, and it stank. I felt ashamed. Most of all, I was scared stiff. Not when I was with her, but when I walked back alone. Gélou knew that, and it amused her. I didn’t dare ask my brothers to walk back with me. I’d set off at a near run, eyes down. There were often boys my age at the corner of Rue du Panier and Rue des Muettes. I’d hear them laughing as I passed. Sometimes they whistled at me, as if I was a girl.
    One evening, at the end of summer, Gélou and I were coming up Rue des Petits-Moulins. Arm in arm, like lovers. Her breast brushed the back of my hand. It drove me wild. I was happy. Then I saw them, the two of them. I’d already passed them several times. I guessed we were the same age. Fourteen. They were coming toward us, smiling maliciously. Gélou tightened her grip on my arm, and I felt the warmth of her breast on my hand.
    They stepped aside as we passed. The taller one on Gélou’s side, the shorter one on my side. He shoved me with his shoulder, and laughed uproariously. I let go of Gélou’s arm.
    â€œHey! Spic!”
    He turned in surprise. I punched him in the stomach, and he bent double. Then I pulled him back up with a left full in the face. An uncle of mine had taught me a bit of boxing, but I was fighting for the first time. The boy was on the ground now, trying to get his