Occupied Paris is on its guard. Inviolate deep down to its core‚ the City has grown tense‚ surly and scornful. It has reinforced its interior borders‚ as the bulkheads of an endangered ship are closed. You no longer see between the villages of Paris that self-confident and good-natured human traffic that existed just a few months ago. I sense a resurgence and reassertion‚ growing stronger every day‚ of the age-old differences that set apart Maubert and La Montagne‚ Mouffetard and Les Gobelins. To say nothing of crossing the bridges: left bank and right bank are not two different worlds any more‚ but two different planets. Often I feel the need to get snugly settled in a corner seat‚ quiet and alone‚ with the complicit smile of some boundary-mark‚ some stone‚ on the other side of the window‚ addressed to me alone. With the pleasure of seeing‚ on this stretch of wall‚ the poster that flutters in the drama of early morning calling for my attention. It knows that I’m responding.
I make this neighbourhood my own. But bowing to social conventions is now a thing of the past. I literally turn my back on one fellow‚ said to be likeable and of irreproachable behaviour‚ who offers me his plump paw. But I’ve no objection to being surrounded‚ like some precious stone embedded in rock‚ by a bunch of sweet-natured winos. There’s Gérard the painter‚ who has a trichological obsession. On the first of every month he gets his hair dressed like that of a musketeer. By the second week he looks like a Russian peasant. There’s Séverin the anarchist‚ who deserted for the sake of a girl. And there’s Théophile Trigou. In order to attend mass at St Séverin every morning without being seen‚ this Breton resorts to the same cunning as the rest of us do in pretending to be unaware of his harmless subterfuge. Théophile is a first-rate Latinist‚ to which we owe some terrific evenings now and again. The four of us form ‘the Smart Gang’. That’s the name Pignolette gave us. She’s fond of us and so she looks after us.
Yesterday we descended on the Vieux-Chêne‚ run by the Captain. A genuine ex-merchant marine officer.
Sunset’s the best time to take a stroll down Mouffetard‚ the ancient Via Mons Cetardus. The buildings along it are only two or three stories high. Many are crowned with conical dovecotes. Nowhere in Paris is the connection‚ the obscure kinship‚ between houses very close to each other more perceptible to the pedestrian than in this street.
Close in age‚ not location. If one of them should show signs of decrepitude‚ if its face should sag‚ or it should lose a tooth‚ as it were‚ a bit of cornicing‚ within hours its sibling a hundred metres away‚ but designed according to the same plans and built by the same men‚ will also feel it’s on its last legs.
The houses vibrate in sympathy like the chords of a viola d’amore. Like cheddite charges giving each other the signal to explode simultaneously.
The Vieux-Chêne was the scene of bloody brawls between arch thugs. By turns a place of refuge‚ conspiracy‚ crime‚ it was frequently closed down by the police.
I was planning on a session of sweet silent thought‚ with a pipe to smoke and memories ready to be summoned.
It was not to be. Silence‚ like madness‚ is only comparative. We felt embarrassed‚ almost intimidated‚ my companions and I‚ by the absence of the usual screen that guaranteed our isolation: that cacophony of belching‚ gurgling‚ stomach- rumbling‚ incoherent ranting‚ singing‚ belly-aching‚ swearing‚ drunken snoring – all this was missing.
The local dossers and tramps were there as usual. But silent‚ anxious‚ watchful – fearfully so‚ it seemed – as they gazed at a spare lean man dressed in black‚ and disgustingly dirty. Leaning forward with his elbows on the table‚ huge-eyed with pouches that sagged down his face‚ he sat staring at a newly lighted candle standing some distance in front of him.
The Captain signalled to us – shh – and went creeping out to bolt the door.
The minutes seeped away like wine from a barrel.
The dossers’ eyes went from the candle to the man‚ from the man to the candle. This carried on for a while‚ a very long while. When the candle had burned two-thirds of the way down‚ the flame lengthened‚ sputtered‚ turned blue and flickered drunkenly‚ like the delinquent dawn of a bad day. Then I knew who the man was. I’d encountered him before.
Just after the last war‚ I spent some of my childhood (the summer months‚ for several years in a row) at E‚ a small town in the Eure-et-Loir. I had some playmates‚ who were entranced by all the things the ‘big boys’ got up to‚ that’s to say‚ boys three or four years their senior. These ‘big boys’ affected to despise us. They never joined in our games‚ but they were happy to capture the admiring attention of an easily impressed gaggle of kids. The most conceited‚ big-mouthed show-off‚ and sometimes the meanest of these older boys‚ was called Honoré.
We hated him as much as we loved his father: Master Thibaudat‚ as he was known. This good-hearted fellow – I can still see his blue peaked cap‚ his Viking moustache‚ and the reflection on his face of his smithy’s furnace – repaired agricultural machinery. He was also captain of the town’s fire brigade. This was no small distinction. Every Sunday morning he’d gather together his helmeted and plumed subordinates for fire drill. He’d get them lined up in rows outside the town hall‚ and direct operations in his manly voice with a thick Beauce accent.
‘Pompe à cul! Déboïautéi!
‘Mettez-vous en rangs su l’trottouèr comm’ dimanche dargniéi!
‘Hé là-bas: gare les fumelles … on va fout’un coup d’pompe …’
[Drop the hose reel! Let it run!
Line up on the pavement like last Sunday!
Hey‚ watch out there‚ lasses … we’re going to give it burst …]
The rest‚ I found out later.
For there was something else: Master Thibaudat was ‘marcou’. In other words‚ he’d inherited from his ancestors the secret‚ passed down from father to son‚ of mastering fire.
Thibaudat had the ability to extinguish a blazing hayrick‚ to isolate a burning barn‚ the strategic genius to contain a forest fire. But more importantly‚ he was a healer. Mild burns disappeared at once; the rest never withstood him more than a few hours. In very serious cases‚ he would be sent to the hospital. There he would pass his hands over the agonized patient who would be screaming and in danger of suffocating. At the same time he would recite in an undertone set phrases known only to himself. The pain would cease immediately. And flesh and skin would regenerate with a speed that astounded numerous doctors. From Maintenon to Chartres‚ and even as far afield as Mans‚ Thibaudat is still remembered by many people.
The day came when Master Thibaudat sensed that his powers were failing. He feared that he no longer had the vital energy he needed to be able to do his job. His only son‚ Honoré‚ was a now grown man: for his eighteenth birthday he’d been given a new bicycle and a pair of long trousers. His third pair.
Under solemn oath to hold his tongue‚ Honoré was initiated into the family secret and in turn became ‘marcou’.
Honoré got more and more above himself. He’d stuck with the same bunch of friends because‚ being better dressed than they were‚ and with plenty of money in his pocket‚ he more easily cut a dash at the country dances‚ especially at a time when the day-labourers‚ not satisfied with the sluts they were fobbed off with in the bordellos – ‘Good enough for peasants! Incapable of screwing without the rest of the gang in tow‚ and drunk as skunks!’ – were happily treating themselves to young housemaids‚ getting them pregnant or giving them a dose of the clap‚ without a by-your-leave or thank-you and no time to call mother.
Honoré at least had some style and manners. And the means to compensate his partners for the loss of half-a-day’s pay. And to find modest sheets to lie between‚ under a feather counterpane that with two kicks and a pelvic thrust was soon sent flying in the direction of the ceramic-edged chamber-pot with the blue enamel lid.
‘Now‚ what was it your father told you‚ Honoré? What do you have to say to draw the heat? Is it a prayer or a spell? Go on‚ tell me‚ Honoré …’
Forgetting his oath‚ Honoré spilled the beans on several occasions. He’d already exercised the power passed on to him‚ on some not very serious injuries. The patients had been cured: less rapidly‚ however‚ than if they’d been treated by the father. But allowances had to be made. Honoré would eventually get the hang of it.
The hat shop in Rambouillet had prospered. In the workshop‚ twenty women in front of twenty sewing machines turned out twenty snoods of woven straw‚ dreadful things for imprisoning chignons. Two girls from the area round E found themselves working side by side. One of them boasted of her experience – and enjoyment – of the seductive charms of the handsome Honoré. Her neighbour‚ stung to jealousy‚ claimed to be equally knowledgeable on this subject. There was no way they could start tearing each other’s hair out. But the girls were obdurate. At a loss for insults‚ vying to have the last word‚ they hurled at each other those phrases that were not to be uttered‚ the phrases unwisely divulged by Honoré. And once let loose‚ those words were soon all over town.
The child that had fallen on to the fire in the hearth was brought before Honoré‚ who with the laying-on of his hands began to murmur. A quarter of an hour later the child was dead.
Then the rumours gained substance. And people grabbed their pitchforks‚ their flails and some their guns. The ‘marcou’ had become ‘malahou’‚ in other words‚ forsworn‚ a traitor to his word‚ a traitor to everyone.
It required the energetic protection of the police to allow Honoré to get on his bike and reach the very distant station of Gazeran‚ where the Paris train stopped.
Old Thibaudat died shortly afterwards – broken-hearted‚ so they say. Banished from that region for ever‚ Honoré got on the wrong side of the law. He spent his military service doing time with one of the Africa Disciplinary Battalions.
The extinguished wick was still smoking‚ through distraction – amazement‚ perhaps.
The dossers began to talk among themselves‚ suspecting one another of being the one that had blown out the candle without anyone noticing. The man in black seemed at once crushed and relieved. I don’t know why I was so cruel.
‘Honoré Thibaudat?’
His lined face became even more gaunt. The same terrified bewilderment‚ the same overwhelming distress I’d witnessed in Cyril. But this lasted much longer. With great difficulty he formed the words‚ ‘What … what do want?’
‘Nothing. Are you the son of the fireman at E? We used to know each other.’
‘So … so what? What do you want of me?’
‘Nothing‚ I tell you‚ nothing at all. Let me buy you a drink.’
‘He only drinks lemonade‚’ said our host.
Honoré seemed unable to breathe. ‘Yes … yes … with lots of ice‚’ he said.
In three large glassfuls‚ three single draughts‚ he’d emptied his bottle of lemonade. He looked at me. This time with the eyes of a beaten dog.
‘So … you know the story?’
We still had twenty minutes before the curfew. Honoré and I walked back up La Mouffe side by side. He pointed to a basement window. ‘I sleep there‚ in the cellar. It’s cooler. Since back then‚ especially since Africa‚ I have this burning sensation. Here.’ He ran a trembling hand over his larynx. ‘Nothing I can do to relieve it. Tried everything‚ including injections. Afterwards‚ it comes back‚ worse than ever. Sometimes I can even extinguish live embers. But that takes it out of me. I’m already an old man.’
It was true. At forty years of age‚ he looked seventy.
He yelled‚ he bellowed‚ ‘What must I do? What must I do?’
And I left him there in the dark‚ sobbing in repentance for the secret he’d betrayed.
December
It’s really very‚ very cold. People are hungry. Rations are inadequate. Nothing to line your stomach. The tramps‚ who for years have been part of the landscape‚ are dying like flies. Only the strongest survive. For those that deign to stir themselves there’s no lack of work – luckily. They have only to be on the street by five in the morning (any earlier is prohibited) and start going through the dustbins. Never has the price of paper‚ fabric and scrap metal been so high. And it’s still soaring. The master rag-pickers – wholesale rag-traders – are beginning to build up real fortunes. The tramps couldn’t care less. They’ll earn just enough to stuff their faces with no matter what‚ no matter how‚ no matter where – and to fill their stomachs with enough plonk to keep them in a drunken stupor till the next time they waken. That’s all they ask.
Yesterday Old Hubert was found dead‚ frozen stiff‚ behind the bar. The rats had started in on the exposed softer parts: the neck‚ the cheeks and the fat of his palms. We’d seen it coming for a long time. No one was surprised. You can still make out on the front of his shop: Coffee – Wines – Liqueurs – Hotel with Every Comfort. Every comfort? What a joke!
Rue de Bièvre‚ number 1A‚ right by the river. Two and a half storeys – in other words‚ you’d have to be a dwarf or amputated at the knees to able to stand upright under the sloping roof. From the outside it looks at least as respectable as the other hovels in the street. But just go up to the first floor‚ and you know the score. The walls are caving in or bulging with damp. The landings are pitted with holes – pot-holes. The resident population is made up of (or breaks down into) five households‚ three unsanctioned by marriage‚ with a total of twenty-one children between the ages of two and ten‚ not to mention the babes-in-arms. All the fathers share a physical resemblance: they’re midgets. Not one of them even as tall as one metre sixty. Nowhere near it. And there’s another defining characteristic they have in common: they’ve done absolutely nothing for many‚ many years. Just a matter of bad luck! All of them skilled workers of one kind or another‚ but so highly skilled‚ and as ill luck would have it so inappropriately skilled‚ that any job that might be available never matches their skill. It’s a near thing every time. Which means unemployment‚ welfare‚ child allowance‚ assistance for this‚ benefits for that‚ social‚ unsocial‚ antisocial …
A man can get by pretty well on this‚ and keep his whistle wet. But paying the rent‚ that’s another story. Wait till the landlord starts moaning before you give him something to keep him off your back. It wasn’t in old Hubert’s nature to give anyone a hard time. He’d already been served notice to carry out urgent health and safety repairs to his building. And with what millions? Forget it! With the Huns here‚ and everyone hard up‚ this was no time to be hoping for so much as a brass farthing. So what? Evict them? Unthinkable! Old Hubert simply decided to ignore the existence of the hotel. He condemned his own bedroom on the first floor as unfit for habitation‚ and started living in the bar.
For the past three months he’d been dossing down behind the counter. During the day he served plonk‚ in the morning ‘coffee’ – a dark foul brew – accompanied with more or less adulterated spirits. This gave him enough to live on‚ until that winter dawn when‚ finding the door closed‚ the tramps discovered Hubert dead‚ in perishing cold weather‚ surrounded by empty wines bottles‚ tins of food and dirty dishes.
Not a pretty sight was the late Hubert‚ scowling and grimacing‚ with his spittle frozen‚ sprawled out on his pile of refuse. Alas‚ I’ve seen all too many corpses and could have spared myself this spectacle.
Théophile Trigou was there too. No more motivated by morbid curiosity than I was. He snatched Tutur’s pipe from his mouth and threw La Voltige’s cap on the ground. And because One-Eyed Ida‚ either drunk already or still drunk‚ was bawling her head off and making a nuisance of herself‚ he literally booted her out.
After that‚ he gave the three or four guys there a job to do – he knows how to take charge. They hadn’t worked so hard for a long time. Bottles in one corner‚ rags in another. Rubbish‚ out into the gutter‚ then down the drain. A quick sweep‚ and a going over with the floor cloth as well.
He got the body laid out on a not too wobbly table covered with brand new pieces of sacking.
The end result was an almost shocking semblance of decency.
Théophile stood there motionless beside the dead man. I realized he was praying. La Voltige‚ the spurious tough guy‚ took a while to twig. He sniggered. Someone said‚ ‘Don’t be stupid!’ He wiped the grin off his face and adopted a serious expression.
Everyone scarpered when the cops arrived.
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me‚ ‘Forty-two years I’ve had this place. I’d really like to go back home‚ but I ain’t got the energy since my old girl died. And I can’t sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I’d be curious to know what’s in that third cellar of mine.’
The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains‚ the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow.
The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert‚ Gérard the painter‚ two regulars and myself. Old Marteau‚ the local builder‚ was upstairs with his gear‚ ready to repair the damage. We made a hole.
Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously- faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end‚ an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it‚ plunging downwards. In short‚ it was a kind of drain-trap.
That’s all. Nothing else. Disappointed‚ we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No‚ an alcove‚ with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it’s easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert‚ ‘It’s of no interest …’ and kept this treasure for myself.
I gazed at it for hours on end‚ in private. So my deductions‚ my hunches were not mistaken: the Bièvre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic‚ which the blacks of Central Africa practise today‚ was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bièvre‚ so rich in tannin‚ had protected the wood from rotting‚ actually hardened‚ almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved‚ probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart‚ the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them‚ corroded with rust‚ broke off at the wood’s surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull‚ like a salt cellar‚ had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted‚ fixed in place with wax‚ of which there were still some vestiges. I’ve kept quiet about my find. I’m biding my time.