In writing, Jérémie Guez has the jerky flow of a machine gun.
Short sentences, sometimes without verb. Or without a subject.
He doesn’t waste time with fat.
It looks like that. If you let go of this column now, this book is not for you.
And that would be a shame.
Because, once accustomed, it’s the foot.
The heroine has just lost her husband, shot like a dog by killers.
He was a thug, she knew.
But didn’t care.
Only the amount of his bank account mattered to him.
The day she finds herself alone with her Gucci bags, she is in pain.
The hero is a friend of the husband. He tries to approach the widow after the funeral.
“He doesn’t know what exactly she knows about the man she just lost. […]
“We forget about the Porsche Cayenne and the holidays in the south of France but we realize the life we have chosen the day you are asked to identify a loved one in the morgue.”
He wants to push her to take her husband’s place at the head of the empire he has built.
The virtual monopoly of prostitution in Copenhagen.
It’s not nothing.
Especially not to sell it to the truthful lawyer who wants to get it back for a symbolic euro. Or almost.
He assures her that he has sworn to her husband to take care of his family if anything goes wrong.
Can she believe it?
But who to believe?
She is alone.
Lost for lost, she chooses to trust him.
For the worst.
These two will go all the way.
Revealed to the general public with Swung in the ropes (La Tengo, Prix SNCF du polar 2013), Jérémie Guez, 32, is obviously under his feet.
It’s cash, it’s trash.
It’s not lukewarm.
We like it or we don’t.
We love it.
Souls under the neon lights, Jérémie Guez, 176 pp, 15.5 euros