Hate: A Romance by Tristan Garcia

Author:Tristan Garcia [Garcia, Tristan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571272013
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2011-02-02T18:30:00+00:00

As it turned out, he had a driver—Ali, his representative at Blason, who’d done a lot of growing up. Years before, William told me that he’d picked Ali up near the campus at Dauphine, where he’d been hustling. Honestly, I have no idea whether that was true. Leibowitz never believed it. Ali always drove without complaining. Will was his friend.

Will rented a limo, like something out of an R& B video. He thought he was a big deal. It took me a while to realize what he stood for, among young people, the ones I didn’t know, the ones Doumé could never have introduced me to, the ones who came to Paris from the provinces at sixteen or seventeen, who said, “It was amazing, I kicked the shit out of this backroom guy who told me to put on a condom. Fucking fascists.” The anti-AIDS groups were by now completely disconnected from the reality of the gay community, which had become a sprawling hydra.

Will was their idol. He’d sit in the backseat, smoking a spliff. He seemed awfully young, especially next to me. He wore a boa over his T-shirt. There was something about him. He had the aura of a true icon. Really, you had the feeling that you’d seen him in a photo. He was beautiful.

We made the rounds of the Marais bars: Thermik, Mixer, Cox, Duplex, Contrat. At each stop the ranks grew, Will nodding hello. They were just boys, really. And there was an army of them. He impressed the kids. I waited behind him. On the walls, the AIDS prevention posters, put up by Stand in the early nineties, already ten years ago, were framed like souvenirs in a museum. There was no lube, there were no condoms at the register. Will joked that Dominique’s old queens would never dare come here, now that the kids were in charge. They don’t stay out late, poor things, it’s bad for their health. The young guys, sculptural, pierced, as beautiful as high-tech Apollos, all laughed.

“There’s a G-string party at l’Arene.”

“No,” Will decided, enthroned on his bar stool.

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