The morning in Marseille was not a dawn of light, but a slow transition from black to a dull, bruising gray. The mistral winds whipped through the tight streets of the banlieues, with the salty sea air and the cadence of the shipyard cranes ringing in the distance. Adélard strode confidently alongside Leon, his hand wrapped tightly around Leon's. From an outside perspective, Adélard seemed to exude confidence, purpose. Yet, beneath his tattered jacket, Adélard's heart beat wildly. Seventeen was too young to be a father, but as he felt Leon's small frame shivering beside him, he knew that was exactly what he had become.
"Where are we headed brother?" Leon whispered, his small voice lost in the din of a passing scooter.
"To the Grotte Bleue," Adélard replied. He scanned the surrounding doorway entrances, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps Mother completed her last shift and someone at the Grotte Bleue saw which direction she headed."
A dimly lit entranceway marked by a faded neon sign beckoned them towards the pub. Although still quite early in the day, the stench of stale cigarette smoke and fermenting yeast wafted into the cool morning air. Once inside, however, they were enveloped within a cloud of stagnant air. Only a handful of patrons from the previous evening lingered at tables, their faces just as battered as their furniture.
Adélard pushed open the creaky door and the dingy bell above it rang out in a shrill, metallic tone. He sensed Leon lean slightly closer into his side, the boy's eyes wide with wonder as he absorbed the grime-smudged mirrors and the worn woman polishing glasses behind the counter.
"We're closed," she growled without ever glancing upward.
"I'm looking for Adélaïde," Adélard stated firmly, his voice reduced in volume and infused with a steely resolve that caused the woman to momentarily pause. "She didn't come home."
Finally, she raised her gaze. It softened ever so briefly when it fell upon Leon, then hardened again when it refocused upon Adélard. "You're her boy...the one who plays soccer."
Adélard did not nod. In such neighborhoods as theirs, being recognized often came with both benefits and drawbacks. "And where is she?"
The woman shrugged, tossed aside the rag she had used to clean the glass, and gestured vaguely towards the exit. "She left several hours ago...around midnight. She appeared nervous, kept glancing at her watch. She mentioned having a meeting in proximity to the Vieux-Port."
"A meeting? Who would she meet?"
The woman shook her head. "Your mother does not identify individuals...she simply pursues opportunities. She mentioned that perhaps Old Sam may know the details of the next phase of the job."
Adélard felt a void develop in his chest. The Vieux-Port was essentially a graveyard for dreams – a place beyond the reach of French law.
"Let's go," Adélard muttered while turning to leave.
Their journey to Old Sam's tailor shop led them further into the labyrinthine streets of Marseilles. During this time, they passed underfoot many others who were also traversing their path. The 1990s were transforming France; a passing automobile radio broadcasted aggressive Marseille hip-hop rhythms – lyrics concerning struggles and cement cages that they referred to as homes. For Leon, these sounds represented nothing more than noise; yet for Adélard, they provided a sonic backdrop for their existence.
Old Sam's shop existed as an impossibly small building wedged between a bakery and a pawnshop. Within its walls, warmth radiated outward; the smells of hot irons and wool emanating from Sam's work area filled the air. Until Adélard cleared his throat, Sam continued working at his sewing machine with no indication of awareness of their presence.
"Adélard," Sam rasped softly, squinting downward through his thick eyeglasses. "You're early for the mending."
"Mom...she was here yesterday," Adélard interrupted curtly. "What 'job' was she referring to with regard to Hector at the lower docks?"
Sam halted his needle motion. His gaze shifted from Adélard to Leon and back to Adélard; then it became grave. "She was desperate boy...her debt was piling high...food and rent costs—she said she found a means to settle those accounts. A man named Hector at the lower dock offered her employment in delivering goods."
"Hector?" Adélard's grip on Leon's hand tightened intensely; he recognized this name. Hector was a bottom dweller...a man who worked for the shadows that controlled the lower dock operations.
"She shouldn't have gone," Sam whispered softly.
He referenced the docks; a location where their father died; an area of twisted metal and deep water. Seven years prior, they deliberately avoided this section of town as if it possessed a deadly curse.
"Thanks Sam," Adélard stated flatly.
Upon stepping away from the shop and back into the streets, Adélard realized the world tilted precariously off-balance. The docks were a location that represented fear and death for Adélard.
"Are mom at docks?" Leon questioned timidly.
Adélard cast his gaze towards the horizon where massive silhouettes of cargo ships towered above him like ancient dinosaurs. He recalled laughter by his deceased father...he recalled how once he vowed to take Adélard to a real soccer game at the Stade Velodrome Stadium. Those memories now comprised nothing more than remnants and painful reminders on his family's soul.
"We'll find her,Leon," Adélard lied convincingly yet for the first time, his words tasted like ashes.
"Keep your head up, stay close to me...don't stare at anyone else...just focus on keeping your eyes on that ball."
"I don't have the ball, Adélard," Leon whispered softly.
Adélard directed his gaze downward upon his younger brother; an emotion that Adélard had never previously exhibited materialized in his expression — an anger or hatred that he couldn't recognize.
"Well then...imagine you do...Imagine you are on that field...keep your head up...never allow them to see you shaking in fear."
With this commandment etched deeply into their minds, they began their arduous walk toward the docks. This journey illustrated a dramatic transformation; as they approached the industrial ruins of Marseilles harbor district, they entered areas far removed from their residential ghettos. The enormous crates of various shapes and sizes stretched upwards toward them resembling colossal blocks constructed by a giant's hands. The atmosphere changed dramatically as well; it grew increasingly polluted with heavy oils fumes.
As they drew nearer to the lower dock wharf, a group of five men leaned against a rusty container stack watching them intently with hungry interest. Their gazes lingered upon Adélard's robust figure and Leon's fragile size.
Spitting upon the pavement in disgust, one of them spoke in harsh tones: "Got lost little lambs?"
Adélard didn't break stride; he moved forward with an organized aggression similar to that employed by an attacking midfielder breaking past an opponent's defense line. His eyes remained focused upon a large warehouse located at the far end of the pier.
"I heard my mother, Adélaïde, came here for a job," Adélard said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous vibration that made the air feel heavy. "I need to speak with Hector. Now."
The man with scars laughed — a dry, rattling laughter; yet, there wasn't enough movement in his eyes to convey joy. "You know Hector," the man said, "He's a very busy man. He don't have time for every lost soul who shows up on the dock looking for mom".
Adélard did not react. Instead, he moved half a step forward. His lean body tensed as if a coil had been tightened inside. "I'm not just anyone", Adélard said. "She works for him. And she hasn't shown up since yesterday." His voice increased, cutting through the thick fog of the dock. "So you're going to have to decide whether you want me to move out of your way, or find out what kind of lamb I am."
Leon looked at the back of Adélard's head. His small heart was pounding furiously in his chest. The big brother who had tousled his hair, told him he would get a match tomorrow had disappeared. In front of him stood a young man, only seventeen-years-old, and willing to give up his future to receive one question. When Leon saw the scarred man smile even wider as he went toward the item at his waist, and then when he realized with a frightening jolt of fear that this was no longer a stroll but an escalating fight — they were standing right next to the fire, and Adélard was getting ready to jump into it.