The other day some of La Mouffe’s most egregious specimens of humanity went over to La Maube and fetched up at Pignol’s. They were carrying baskets. I think they sold Pignolette‚ on the semi-black market‚ the rabbits we’ve been eating since. There was Fanfan-No-Kidding‚ Smoke-Sucker and Butterfly. Butterfly is so called because the stem of his nose runs into the abdomen of a blue bombyx that spreads its delicately veined wings across his forehead.
During a period of his life when he wasn’t making much use of his‚ what Rabelais referred to as‚ ‘quickening peg’‚ Smoke-Sucker thought it a good idea to have it decorated with delicate spiral motifs. Something of a Don Juan by nature‚ he said it was his practice to invite his partners to use this instrument in a subtle manner reminiscent of Baudelairean chibouk-smokers. Hence the nickname.
Fanfan-No-Kidding gets his moniker from the unruffled nerve with which he describes Guyana‚ the penal colony he ‘very nearly’ went to. Condemned to five years’ hard labour‚ he had his sentence commuted to detention‚ which he served on French soil. He retains a deep grudge against his overzealous defence lawyers. Fanfan is tattooed all over his lower body. From his navel to his toes‚ from his coccyx to the soles of his feet‚ is all flowers‚ weird plants‚ fantastic animals romping among playing cards‚ dice boxes‚ cryptic devices.
We bolted the door to admire at closer quarters the hidden splendours of our mates‚ who willingly displayed them.
Then‚ taking our cue from Théophile‚ ever ready to discuss problems of ‘the marginalized’‚ we conferred. Interminably.
Fanfan told us of the grinding boredom in top-security prisons‚ the stupefying effect of freezing-cold or stifling-hot cells‚ the friendships forged amid disgusting overcrowding. And the pleasure derived from outwitting ‘the screws’‚ getting hold of ink and needles by the most incredible means. And the horrible relief‚ for someone who knows he’s branded‚ of branding himself in a visible and indelible way to make him part of that vast and uncouth brotherhood of eternal reprobates.
Théophile seemed obsessed with the subject. He recalled the various images‚ figures and mottoes he had observed on the epidermis of his contemporaries. There was no stopping him as he launched into a very interesting and knowledgeable disquisition on the ‘symbolism of tattoos’.
I caught myself declaring‚ with an authoritativeness that was totally unjustified‚ how dangerous it was for any man to subject his body to such an intervention. I think I even said: ‘to such an experience’. I learned from my own lips that tattoos were not only‚ in my opinion‚ a mark of identification‚ more often than not lewd‚ but the sign of a kind of acceptance of defeat. Abandonment of the struggle against an unrelentingly hostile fate.
Fanfan agreed with me. He said‚ ‘That’s for sure. With your tattooed man‚ there’s powers at work. Just look at what goes on at the Salève.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Oh! It’s not that easy to explain. Better go and see for yourself.’
‘Where?’
‘Rue Zacharie‚ St-Séverin.’
‘Come and show me.’
I was excited. The others objected. Not now. It was nice and comfortable here. Let’s have another round. Why move to another bar?
No‚ no‚ right now. Théophile eyed me with anxiety. He gave the nod. We set off‚ Fanfan leading the way.
Rue Zacharie: they’ve renamed it after the cabaret singer Xavier Privas‚ but it’s the old name that sticks in the mind. Nothing to do with the prophet. In the seventeenth century it was Rue Sac-à-Lie. While waiting for the quality of their merchandise to be certified at the Petit-Châtelet‚ the vinegar sellers kept stored in bonded warehouses the leather bottles containing the lees – the so-called mother of vinegar. For a while‚ under St Louis‚ it was called Rue des Trois-Chandeliers. And for just a few years‚ Rue de l’Homme-Qui-Chante. But I know an Englishman‚ Dr Garret‚ who possesses an extraordinary document: he showed it to me in Sydenham‚ in 1935. It’s a map of the Sorbonne district‚ drawn up by the scholars resident at the Irish College. Rue Zacharie‚ between St Séverin and La Huchette – on the map‚ there’s no question about it – appears under the name of Witchcraft Street.
‘Rue des Maléfices. Why?’
This intrigues me‚ especially as I’ve never been able‚ since long before the war‚ to walk down that dark and narrow street on my own without a sense of painful disquiet. That feeling you get in the presence of a dear friend under the constraint of an unaccountable reserve.
I would compel this gloomy secretive street to lift a corner of its veil. I was already savouring my revenge.
An indentation on either side of Rue Zacharie creates a little square where trolleys loaded with all kinds of things stand idling. Outside the charcoal store‚ the dismantled hand-cart‚ collapsed wheel to wheel‚ handshafts together‚ cart-prop dangling‚ looks like the skeleton of some Apocalyptic wader bird mounted on an axle. From all round exudes the sound of droning voices‚ Arab‚ African‚ Greek or Armenian. This wooden balcony was once painted white. There’s washing drying on it that will be stuck like eye patches over the sightless windows. A bunch of North Africans has clocked us. They want to know what these new faces are doing here. One of them steps towards us‚ a young guy. At the bidding of the Elders‚ he asks us what time it is. We shrug our shoulders without replying. As if it could be any ordinary time in such a street as this.
At the Salève‚ the stove is drawing badly. This and the stale tobacco‚ rough wine and a perpetual acrid pungency (disinfectant or vomit‚ or both) are almost intolerable. But there’s that tingling you’ve only got to register once: within two seconds it gets you at the back of your throat‚ and then immediately diffuses like a drop of oil. A sudden and surprising sweetness. Breathe in through your mouth‚ out through your nose. That’s it. You’re hooked.
Someone here is smoking hashish.
The patron looks like a higher form of rodent. Almost fit for society. Around him stews sozzled flesh. Sozzled not only with adulterated wine. But hunger‚ tiredness. And boredom. Out of a dark corner‚ three pairs of brown eyes look daggers at us. There are some wide-awake people over there. The smell of hashish comes from that direction.
The rodent stares at Théophile and me. Fanfan delivers some spiel. As the patter goes on‚ the overfed rat-face grows wary. He signals to the pair of peepers furthest away: a tall guy comes over. A Frenchman‚ very dark‚ very bitter. Neither old nor bowed. But for ever down on his luck. You can tell straight away. Introductions: Edgar Jullien. Journalist and explorer. Théophile and I give our names. Or someone else’s. You can never be too careful. A beardless and smaller-sized rat-face – a twelve-year-old version – passes for the only son of the rat-face behind the counter. ‘Go and fetch Dimitri‚’ says the pater.
The kid opens the door‚ heads off to some other factory of despair.
It would take too long to tell the whole story.
Besides‚ I’ve no right to.
Only a few years ago Edgar Jullien – let’s say that’s his name – was a very well-known journalist. A specialist on Islamic issues. A member of the Society of French Explorers. He knows North Africa well‚ but more importantly has travelled all over the Near East where he managed to pass as a Muslim for months on end. It’s easy to imagine him turbanned‚ shod in Turkish slippers‚ with a djellaba draped casually over his shoulders. He carried out some very dangerous assignments in his day. But he made the mistake of indulging from one day to the next in the most foolish‚ pointless and disarming of idle ‘precautions’. It was in Syria that the dreaded fit of aberration overcame him. He made the acquaintance of some exiled Greek monks‚ who had converted to a satanic sect and wanted to initiate him in their rites. So far‚ the whole thing sounds like some ludicrous burlesque of neurotic mystics. But‚ prompted by inertia and perhaps some other concerns that he doesn’t disclose‚ Edgar Jullien allowed his chest to be tattooed with the sect’s tutelary emblem: a bat.
Ever since then his life has been an incredible series of terrible disasters.
Dimitri B was a great pianist‚ listened to with knuckles pressed to brow in all the concert halls of Europe. Son of a White Russian‚ he applied for French citizenship‚ and in order to obtain it had to do eighteen months’ military service in the French army much later than the normal age. He chose Tunisia. He was already a heavy drinker. The rotgut‚ the raki‚ the malaria – his brain couldn’t take it. Brought up by a fanatically orthodox family in the constant and strictest observance of his liturgical ‘duties’‚ he wouldn’t rest until a huge intricate crucifix‚ like an icon‚ was tattooed on his pectorals. In contrast with the appallingly lucid Edgar Jullien‚ Dimitri now gives the impression of being a hopeless moron.
Dimitri prepares himself for what is about to happen with a litre of red. Edgar Jullien‚ with what I don’t know. Or dare not contemplate.
In the middle of the back room‚ now emptied of its dozy occupants‚ a table has been cleared. On it has been placed a glass filled with water‚ on the surface of which rat-face junior has set to float a previously greased and magnetized sewing needle.
Naked to the waist‚ with their backs to opposite walls of the room‚ the two tattooed men confront each other – they don’t so much abhor as ignore each other. They advance slowly towards the table that separates them. The improvised compass is thrown into confusion – it wavers‚ spins round‚ and the needle sinks. They did this four times.
‘Apparently on some stormy evenings‚’ says the patron‚ ‘the water’s even bubbled a bit.’
I’d very much like to ‘conclude’ something from this experiment. Or that it should raise a question in my mind‚ and a commitment to get to the bottom of the matter‚ to investigate‚ to come up with an outline of the beginning of an answer‚ however ill-defined or trite it might be … But no. I’m here to see‚ hear‚ observe – to experience. Let others explain.
It’s splendid how much at home we feel at Pignol’s. A tacit complicity at every moment prevails among the regulars here. A process of self-selection operates: starving crooks‚ thirsty whores‚ witless grasses working for low-grade cops‚ middle- class types a bit too willing to conform (leaving aside the pound of blackmarket meat and the camembert without ration tickets) – all feel too ill at ease here. They’ve only got to stay away. Along with anyone else who doesn’t meet the requirements of this establishment: first and foremost‚ to keep your trap shut. The war? Past history. The Krauts? Don’t know any. Russia? Change at Réaumur. The police? There was a time when they were needed for directing the traffic. At Pignol’s‚ silence constitutes the most important‚ most difficult and lengthiest induction ordeal.
After that‚ it’s a matter of imponderables. It works according to the rule of three: the people who don’t get along with the people that I get along with are people I can’t get along with. Syllogisms‚ of course. Now clear out!
Oh‚ goodness gracious! Don’t be shocked by my vocabulary. It’s not an affectation. To use any other words would be to play false with these people for whom I’ve too great a regard. And to play false with you too‚ in so far as you’ll assume I have ‘all the time in the world’‚ or else conclude the opposite. Understand?
So the most unlikely solidarity has grown up between characters who normally would heartily despise each other. My‚ what a crowd!
There’s Pepe the Pansy. Beyond belief. A poof like you wouldn’t have thought possible. He has the audacity to solicit at the entrance to the hotel opposite. On crutches‚ toothless‚ outrageously made up‚ he sometimes wears a filthy wig and a skirt‚ with his single trouser leg and his wooden leg with the naked end of his stump showing‚ extending below it. This human detritus claims to be an hermaphrodite. Before‚ he lived in a brothel in Le Havre‚ where he was called Miss Mexico. Now he fleeces the Jerries‚ especially the young SS who turn up one by one‚ not very proud of themselves – the street is out of bounds to them. He’d be thrown out anywhere else. Here he’s tolerated. Why‚ I’ll be wondering for the rest of my life. And to my own surprise that I don’t instinctively recoil in disgust at his presence somewhat appals me.
There’s Léopoldie the West Indian. A tart‚ a fine girl who’s stopped turning tricks for the duration of the war. The green of the German uniform‚ she says‚ doesn’t suit her complexion. So she sells flowers‚ mostly to us‚ whenever possible.
There’s Bizinque. With a face that’s all cheekbone. A conk like a carbuncle. For a mouth‚ an orifice like a hen’s arsehole (an ostrich hen). And big‚ red-rimmed‚ flat eyes‚ reminiscent of a bream. He’s a junk dealer‚ but makes real finds – he’d find you a gramophone in the desert. There’s also Riton the Pimp‚ who’s latched on to Catherine because of her small annuity. One day‚ when he was drunk and couldn’t buy any more booze because he was skint‚ Riton gave Catherine’s kids a terrible thrashing. And while the kids were bawling their heads off‚ the neighbours didn’t hear Riton removing the door that opened on to the landing. He chopped it up as firewood and sold it straight away to Constant‚ the charcoal seller on Rue de Seine.
The rest of the gang aren’t worth mentioning. But every one of them’s got a story.
I catch myself writing ‘not worth mentioning’. According to what criteria? No reason whatever to feel superior.
No‚ I know what it is. I’m nice to them‚ I seem harmless‚ and I’ve no desire to lecture them the way Théophile does. So they all want to tell me their story. They crave acceptance‚ an excuse for their often abominable behaviour‚ a hint of commiseration. Théophile listens to them. He’s something of a saint. But I don’t always have the patience. But here come the guys from the place opposite that my down-and-outs rub shoulders with. Géga‚ purveyor of all things. A wholesale ragman these days. A crooked smile‚ brimmed hat‚ pipe and patter. Sheer Balzac. Heart of gold. But he ought to shut up. There’s Monsieur Moniaud‚ presently history teacher in a private school‚ ousted from the senior position he held in the Aliens Bureau at the Tour Pointue on account of his insufficiently pro-Nazi sentiments. There’s Papa Bonnechose‚ qualified barrister and drunkard‚ dyspeptic and stunted‚ accompanied by two or three old wags and many a time by Henri Vergnolle‚ a tall guy with big fat lips‚ architect and socialist but out of the game for the time being‚ for the sole reason there’s only one game in town‚ that of the Wehrheim.
Here‚ in a few words‚ you’ve said all you need to say. People stand by each other‚ but they don’t talk. It’s remarkable. I’ve investigated the extraordinary history of these walls. I think I’m the only person who knows that it’s the stones‚ the stones alone that set the tone here.
There’s news regarding Rue de Bièvre. Henri Vergnolle has kept in touch with his old cronies. It was he who told us.
In Lugny (Saône-et-Loire)‚ a twenty-seven-year-old vine- grower has just been told by lawyers that he’s the sole heir of his uncle – Old Hubert – who basically left him a ‘hotel located in Paris‚ close to the Boulevard St-Michel’. To take possession of it‚ some fairly considerable debts would have to be discharged. But according to the letter‚ of which I have a copy before my eyes‚ ‘something could be worked out’.
There’s open speculation (purely conjectural) on how things will develop. We’re wondering whether the young man will try to sell his ‘property’ (!) or decide to apply from the Unoccupied Zone for authorization to come and run the place ‘in person’.
Everyone’s chortling in anticipation of the look on his face. I’m not at all happy about it. Vergnolle too is laughing derisively. I’ve taken a liking to him since this evening.
What’s going on? Théophile Trigou has long puzzled and exasperated me. He earns his living‚ and not badly at that‚ offering his services as a Latinist‚ at La Source and D’Harcourt‚ to wealthy numbskulls studying for a degree‚ struggling with their textual analyses of Cicero‚ or with a tough translation. In response to a tactless question he once said to me‚ ‘What do you expect? This lousy neighbourhood gave me the come- on. I couldn’t resist.’ So what? Me too. I’m now so jealous of ‘my’ buildings that‚ filled with a sort of elemental anxiety‚ I go off on my own and examine them one by one to try and determine which will be the first to dash my hopes. It’s mostly Rue de Bièvre that I haunt‚ after midnight‚ between patrols‚ and I’ve got my eye in particular on Old Hubert’s house‚ now completely taken over by tramps. I can’t bear the idea that some outsider‚ some stranger‚ from far away‚ should have more rights to this crumbling edifice than I do. If that someone shows up‚ I want to be the first to meet him‚ fully prepared. Depending on what he looks like‚ it’ll be up to me whether he’s forever blacklisted‚ or immediately becomes one of the lads. Accepted straight off‚ if I so decide.
A little twinge woke me. I’d been forewarned: the intruder was due to arrive in these parts at about seven thirty. He would come over the Seine‚ cross ‘my’ frontier. I hastily dressed and raced over to Rue de Bièvre. I spotted him from a distance‚ pretending to be taking a casual stroll in the acid morning light. All those well-laid plans are scuppered: there are two of them‚ he and his wife. I wasn’t expecting that.
They were each carrying a small suitcase: they must have walked from the station‚ and put their trunks in left luggage. Tramps laden with their bags emerged like moles out of dark warrens. The dancing light played over their etched faces‚ transformed the bearded men into prophets. Children began squealing. Vexed eiderdowns unwillingly put out to air at open windows wept feathers. The man‚ with a sheet of paper in his hand‚ located number 1A. He gave a start. His wife was surveying the embankment‚ the rooftops‚ looking down her nose at the tramps who passed close by‚ already reeling drunkenly. The couple walked up the street to Place Maubert‚ then retraced their steps. The man consulted Madame Cooked-Vegetables-to-Take-Away‚ who was sweeping sawdust out of her shop into the gutter. There was no denying the fact: this was the place. The man’s distress‚ the woman’s indifference – none of this could escape my attention. We agreed‚ Séverin and Théophile and I‚ to keep a close eye on developments‚ and apply ourselves to finding out‚ very soon‚ what measure of satisfaction or concern these two newcomers to our domain would bring us.
I happen to have gazed at length on two surrealist paintings: one depicts a sewing machine standing on a work table; the other‚ a bull charging into a grand piano.
Wrested from their familiar world‚ the Valentin couple suggested to me the same sense of dramatic absurdity.
Valentin isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He serves this unkempt‚ scruffy crowd with such bad grace that the tramps have soon written him off as ‘a fat-head’. The clientele will probably desert him‚ go and tipple elsewhere? Not a bit of it. These people are like bedbugs: when they’ve made up their minds to infest a place‚ there and nowhere else‚ the owner of the premises has to capitulate willy-nilly and let them take over. This is what happens to Valentin. He eventually resigns himself to getting down here by four thirty to prepare the dreadful dishwater he serves.
Sullen-faced‚ he scarcely responds to his customers who‚ completely plastered from as early as eight to ten in the morning‚ tell him their tales of woe.
All the same‚ he had to behave more sociably when it became necessary to establish categories: those that work – the rag-pickers – to whom some credit could be allowed‚ or even a little money loaned‚ without too much risk; and those that not only don’t do a stroke‚ but make it a point of honour.
Paulette dolls herself up in her room‚ comes down late and goes off to do her shopping after a vague good morning addressed to anyone in the room. A reproachful silence‚ a kind of irritated disapproval greets her every time: no one’s entitled at a time like this‚ least of all round La Maubert‚ to go flaunting such casual displays of attractiveness and even elegance. Because she sure knows how to dress‚ that woman‚ she’s bursting with youthful vitality‚ and when she walks up the street‚ without putting on any of that hip-swinging typical of tarts‚ eyes follow her‚ sidelong glances full of desire‚ jealousy and regret.
She and Valentin talk to each other very little‚ at work at least. After a lunch prepared with care but dispatched in ten minutes‚ Valentin puts on his raincoat and goes out for a walk. On his own‚ he strolls for an hour or two‚ sometimes three‚ along the banks of the Seine‚ which he follows up to Austerlitz and beyond. He doesn’t drop in anywhere‚ or talk to anyone. A loner.
That’s the moment we pick‚ the rest of the gang and I‚ to go and pay court‚ as they say – in other words‚ to try and win over Paulette – that’s all. We now know that‚ behind that pretty face cast in shadow by her light chestnut hair‚ that slightly ill- defined countenance‚ that vexing little forehead‚ there lurks a dangerous feather-brain‚ fey and romantic. We’ve found out the key facts about her past life or as much of it as concerns us: studies too soon interrupted for her liking‚ married off – her parents wanted her ‘comfortably settled’ – to a boy she didn’t love. Once upon a time‚ back home before the war‚ a Gypsy woman foretold a long journey ahead of her. Paulette declares with a false laugh that she doesn’t know which she regrets most: the journey she hasn’t made or the few coins the fanciful fortune-teller cost her.
Not another word about her married life‚ but it’s easy to see that the time she spends with Valentin is kept to the minimum.
In a joint‚ now closed‚ near Place de la Contrescarpe‚ Fréhel sings for her friends. You have go down a long corridor and knock four times – three hard raps‚ and then a more tentative one – to get the heavy low door to open up.
She stands there‚ a big ravaged brute of a woman‚ in her black costermonger’s apron‚ clasping over her belly her two uselessly swollen hands. She sings ‘Chanson Tendre’ and ‘La Vielle Maison’ in a voice like a cheese-grater‚ its musicality now lost. Unobtrusive‚ ecstatic‚ La Lune accompanies her on the harmonica. La Lune the tramp‚ and doing so well‚ La Lune the weirdo‚ La Lune the extraordinary musician‚ of such feeling … There are those that take their time coming back from the pisser‚ having stepped out for a shoulder-heaving crying jag‚ their hooters and peepers buried in purple-checked snot-rags. Talk about tough guys.
Fréhel is shacked up with a girlfriend over by Montmartre. But for tonight we’ve found her a room nearby. We’re keeping her over here. We take them all for a drink at the Vieux-Chêne‚ her‚ La Lune and the guy that has the room for her.
As coincidences go‚ this is some coincidence. Gathered round the stove at the Vieux-Chêne‚ having a chinwag‚ are all of La Mouffe’s very finest. There’s La Puce. Just out of jail. He’d nicked the priest’s ceremonial vestments from the sacristy of St Médard. Retired officer Cyclops‚ one-eyed as his name suggests‚ listens to a wizened skeleton‚ a real swank‚ snuggly wrapped in a long cloak‚ holding forth. Next to the skeleton is seated a very old man with a goatee beard and glasses.
‘Right back there is where the rostrum was‚’ explains the skeleton‚ rolling his rs. ‘When I sang‚ I used to wear a scarf or a cap; sometimes a bat’ d’Af’ képi. It was Georges Darien‚ the guy that wrote Contre Biribi‚ who first brought him here. He used to turn up with guys I didn’t know‚ sometimes with floozies. Just before the war‚ he treated me to dinner in Montparnasse. There were some incredible characters. And filthy dirty. It was a long time afterwards that someone showed me his memoirs. He wrote that he admired me‚ that I had a gift as a real “singer of the people”. Well‚ after all‚ knowing what he came to be‚ that actually counts for something‚ especially now.’
The skeleton in question is called Montehus. He’s talking about a fellow named Vladimir Illitch Lenin‚ who‚ in his day‚ also enjoyed some renown.
I got up to shake hands with the bearded Gypsy who was sitting in a corner‚ having a bite to eat in silence. Got to keep up your contacts.
This man intrigues me. He’s tall‚ not old‚ shows no signs of being a wino‚ with distinguished angular features that confer a certain nobility on his dark face framed with a thick black shiny beard. His sunken eyes are very far-searching. A clear gaze. His long thin hands have preserved an astonishing delicacy for one of his profession – rag-picker‚ like the others. One detail: in his pierced left ear is a tiny gold ring. I saw one like it attached to the ear lobe of a Russian singer‚ a former Cossak.
I always have on me something to draw with. After offering him a drink‚ I wanted to knock off a quick portrait of the Gypsy in red chalk. Five minutes is a long time. He posed patiently.
As I was about to leave with the rest of the gang‚ the Gypsy comes up to me‚ almost formally – and gives me permission to keep for myself his likeness.
I made this tactless reply: ‘But I’m not asking for any favours‚ I’d happily pay you for posing for me‚ or do you another portrait‚ if it were of any use to you.’
He insisted‚ almost angrily‚ ‘I only get paid for the work I do. Here I drink. And I’m telling you‚ it’s just as well for you that you have my permission.’
I had no alternative but to order another two glasses. La Lune was slumped on the table‚ snoring. The sound of the Gypsy’s voice‚ his barely detectible accent‚ the metallic precision of his words are engraved on my memory.
I know that the Germans have begun to round up the Romanies‚ even those that are settled. I vowed that‚ if I came across the fellow again‚ I’d warn him of the danger – give him advice or help‚ if wanted. Today we ran into each other in the market on Rue des Carmes. I led Blackbeard off to Rue de Bièvre. On the way I told him about my fears for his safety. He stopped dead and looked me in the eye. ‘Gypsy? Why that rather anything else? I didn’t select the words used round here. As for the Germans‚ if you knew how much grief I gave them‚ the cops and all the others.’
‘You’re no grass‚ though?’
At that‚ he laughed heartily and patted me on the shoulder.
‘Anyway‚ the fact you wanted to help me out makes me happy‚’ he said.
At Paulette’s‚ he called her ‘Madame’ and not ‘la patronne’‚ and ordered tea. No one had ever seen the like of it. He insisted on paying his round. Phenomenal. I don’t know what prompted me to mention my trip to Prague. Not only did he know Prague‚ but also Hungary‚ Romania‚ Galati and the mouths of the Danube. With a real gift for words‚ he was able to describe the people to be found there‚ their customs‚ occupations‚ the colour of their clothes‚ the shape of their houses.
Contrary to her usual practice‚ Paulette didn’t retreat behind her counter. She sat with us‚ put the shawl she was knitting down on the table and listened with pleasure to what Blackbeard was saying. Why did she have to go and tell her story of the Gypsy woman‚ the ‘long journey’‚ and the few coins?
The Gypsy gave that characteristic smile of his. It was as if this was just what he’d been waiting for.
‘Let’s see if she was telling the truth.’ And at the same time he placed in front of the young woman a strange deck of cards‚ decorated with images unknown in these parts. ‘Cut.’
Under Blackbeard’s guidance Paulette had to lay the cards out in a circle‚ cover them‚ turn them over‚ repeat the process‚ build up little piles.
‘That’s it.’
The Gypsy seemed to be concentrating‚ and deliberately disposed not to speak frivolously – when Valentin came bursting in. The cards were still lying on the oilcloth-covered table.
In her sudden exasperation Paulette’s face expressed disappointment‚ weariness and resentment of an unforgiving kind.
Valentin instantly realized what was going on. He turned pale. I’d never seen him like that before.
‘Go on! Get out of here!’
The sturdy Gypsy gathered up his cards and without haste very calmly got to his feet.
‘Excuse me! I know how to behave‚ and I’m not doing any harm!’
Valentin was foaming.
‘Beat it! Scram!’
‘All right‚ if that’s the way you want it‚’ said the Gypsy sullenly.
Outside on the pavement he turned and gave his new enemy a smile that was just as strange but different. I tried to get Valentin to listen to reason.
‘Look‚ about that guy‚ I’m the one that …’
‘Fine‚ fine‚ let’s change the subject.’
His hands‚ his neck‚ his jaws were trembling.
The Gypsy came by Pignol’s very late. He was in no mood for talking. We could only extract these disturbing words from him:
‘That friend of yours‚ he should never have done that. Never. If he only knew.’
Obviously Valentin’s behaviour still rankles. It’s really got to him.
Sévérin and I left‚ feeling preoccupied‚ rather worried.
Well! He’s got some nerve‚ that Gypsy. He showed up at Rue de Bièvre at dawn. He asked for a black coffee. Valentin threw him out straight away. The rag-pickers there at the time‚ who scarcely knew who Blackbeard was – the people of La Maube and La Mouffe are fraternal enemies – made it clear that one of these days there could be trouble. Valentin cut short his constitutional‚ on the Pont de la Tournelle. A few days ago he picked up a starving dog. A beauceron. Today the animal was tied up behind the counter‚ with a generous helping of mash. Paulette sewed in silence‚ sulking. She’s plotting God knows what revenge. It’s blatantly obviously. I daredn’t say anything to her but the tritest things. Valentin‚ who wanted to ease the tension‚ shared some weak joke with me. He gave a forced laugh. His red wine’s turning sour.
Little by little‚ the Gypsy has changed his stamping ground. He’s drawn closer to the embankment. According to his ‘colleagues’‚ he works immensely hard and ‘salvages’ an astonishing quantity of old papers‚ rags and metal. He drinks less than the others. No one knows where he dosses. Not far away‚ that’s for sure; because every morning he comes up Rue de Bièvre‚ and to Valentin’s exasperation stops in front of his window and stares at him with that famous smile at the corners of his mouth‚ ever more full of teasing menace.
This morning Blackbeard couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He made so bold as to try and enter the café. Valentin‚ who’d just been waiting for an excuse‚ set his dog on him. With one bound‚ the beauceron – it’s a ferocious beast – leapt over the counter. With its fangs bared‚ it looked as if it was going to attack Blackbeard. But it stopped dead. The smiling Gypsy held it in check. Two fingers of his right hand parted in a V and pointed at the hound halted it in its tracks. Then the Gypsy made some gravelly utterances. And the dog began to tremble. It backed off‚ showing its teeth‚ and once it thought it was beyond reach of some unspecified danger‚ known only to itself‚ it fled and ran to cower against its master’s legs. The Gypsy didn’t push things any further. He ambled off.
Now the dog trembles incessantly. It won’t eat anything. It has to be dragged out. It keeps escaping and comes straight back. Its fur’s falling out in handfuls. Valentin decided to wrap it up in a blanket and carry the whining creature in his arms to the vet near by. This specialist‚ Doctor N‚ a black man‚ is well known for his intuitive expertise‚ which never fails. He nodded at Valentin’s story. He spoke of ‘sorcery’ with the air of a man who knows what he’s talking about.
He gives the bald skeletal creature two injections a day. Without holding out much hope for it. He wants this to be known.
It’s all over. The dog has been put down.
Throughout the dog’s ‘treatment’‚ the Gypsy didn’t reappear in Rue de Bièvre. The nights finally grew shorter‚ the weather milder‚ and Valentin more and more gloomy. He nursed a brooding anger. We were all dreading the day when …
And then it happened.
The Gypsy came in quietly while Valentin had his back turned‚ as he was arranging his bottles. I was in the back of the room‚ at the end of the counter.
Valentin fell into a frightful fit of fury. He shouted insults left hanging in the air. ‘Son of a … Sodding …’ He ended up brandishing a heavy stick.
Blackbeard – still with that exasperating smile – levelled both hands this time‚ his fingers set in two horizontal Vs. And again he spoke.
Yes‚ it was a force‚ a real force that emanated in successive waves from the hands of this demonic man and immobilized Valentin‚ now suddenly as limp as a rag.
Blackbeard put one hand behind him‚ opened the door and backed out‚ taking his time. His nasty smile deepened.
Overwhelmed with unconquerable lethargy‚ Valentin had to retire to bed. He wasn’t seen again for several days. Blackbeard took advantage of his absence to come by in the afternoons and lay out his deck of cards in front of Paulette. We never found out whatever it was he told her – she wouldn’t let anyone come near. ‘It’s my own business‚’ she said.
Valentin has returned to his counter. He’s unrecognizable. Emaciated‚ pasty-faced‚ he stares dull-eyed at his clients. You often have to repeat your order. He’s acquired nervous ticks. He scratches between his fingers. Paulette watches this without seeming to be very much affected by it.
Valentin is turning into a monkey. He starts scratching at his armpits‚ then his groin‚ then all over. This disgusts the clients‚ though they’re far from fastidious and accustomed to some pretty insalubrious behaviour. It’s only curiosity that brings people to see him. At the same time his mind wanders. He’s incapable of finishing a sentence. Usually a man of so few words‚ he launches into bombastic speeches and after a few words‚ dries up.
His hands and his neck are nothing but open wounds‚ with suppurating scabs here and there. We made him go to Hôtel- Dieu. He was sent straight off to St-Louis. No one’s able to give a definite diagnosis of the type of leprosy that’s eating away at his skin. The agony – it’s like being flayed alive – is driving him berserk.
Paulette wasn’t opening the bar now until the afternoon‚ and refused to serve clients she didn’t like. Meanwhile‚ a ceiling in the hotel partly collapsed‚ and the fire brigade had to prop it up.
We only saw the Dutchman twice. He was solidly built‚ and looked young despite his grey hair. Pullover‚ loose garments of dark blue heavy woollen cloth. Sailor’s cap. He claimed to be the owner of a barge moored not far from here‚ and we wondered how‚ with most of the canals blocked‚ he’d managed to get inside the city walls.
Whenever he was around‚ Paulette had eyes only for him. Apparently one day he invited her to visit his barge. Paulette turfed out the few regulars in the bar at the time‚ locked up and posted the key through the letterbox. They headed off together in the direction of the Seine. None of us has ever set eyes on them again.
So the hotel was left to itself‚ Paulette’s room pillaged‚ the bar ransacked. At night the tramps‚ who’d forced their way in through the back door‚ would come down the corridor and invade the bar‚ where they slept all piled on top of each other.
There was another‚ much more serious cave-in. The city authorities got involved: immediate evacuation of the building was ordered. The police had to be called in to evict a whole gaggle of tramps‚ moaning and shouting‚ dragging their brats and bundles away with them. The doors and windows were bricked up.
Meanwhile‚ an architect came‚ assessed the damage and took samples of the building material. We hear that the walls of the house are infected with a real disease: a kind of ‘mushroom’ gets inside them‚ and eats away at them‚ right to heart. The stones crumble like blown plaster. And what’s more‚ the ‘disease’ is apparently contagious‚ and a threat to other buildings.
The whole lot has to be demolished‚ and very soon.
Every morning the Gypsy passes by‚ and stops in front of the house‚ just for a little while.
It was a team of French workers that started the job. From the upper storey they set up a kind of shoot made of planks‚ and shored up the front walls. They began taking down the roof‚ or what was left of it. But all this is thirsty work‚ and every quarter of an hour these lads would go off for a drink‚ at this bar or that: the Vieux-Palais‚ Chez Dumont‚ Chez Bébert. The owners of these different establishments‚ the regulars too‚ didn’t fail to tell the whole story of the Gypsy‚ the sick hairless dog‚ the now leprous and crazed Valentin‚ Paulette’s elopement. A professional demolition worker doesn’t much like stories that prey on his mind.
Work had scarcely begun on the second storey when these six fellows – including the foreman – also began to feel peculiar pricklings in their hands‚ armpits‚ groins.
They all‚ simultaneously‚ found actionable grounds for breaking the contract they had with the public works’ contractor. And the site remained abandoned: no one wanted to take a pickaxe to those jinxed walls.
The spring rains turned the staircases into cascades‚ the ceilings into waterfalls. The house was in danger of collapsing into the street at any moment.
I don’t know how the Germans got to hear about it‚ but it was a team of Poles‚ conscripted from the mines in the North‚ and brought on site by truck‚ with a couple of armed German soldiers on guard‚ who razed it to ground in two days.
The rubble was removed as it came down.
Today it’s all tidied up‚ the ground properly levelled. The Gypsy comes by every morning at about eleven o’clock‚ loaded with bags. Deliberately‚ he settles himself on a crate in the middle of the plot‚ and sorts out the ‘goods’ he’s collected‚ to be passed on to the master ragmen: scraps of wool‚ rags of other textiles‚ paper‚ metal‚ old bones‚ refuse of all sorts.
At last the smile that Blackbeard has is the one for happy days. He’s on conquered soil.