The Ancients understood the omnipotence of the underside of things.
Pasteur
Followed step by step‚ relived hour by hour‚ the story of the house that no longer exists would not by itself give a total picture of that period. Since my escape I’d been unable to shake off an immense fatigue that from time to time suddenly and at totally unexpected interludes completely knackered me‚ so overwhelmed me I was afraid of collapsing on the spot.
I consulted Cyril.
‘Sleep‚’ he prescribed. ‘No other solution. Whenever you feel the urge‚ go and lie down‚ somewhere nice and warm‚ and take a nap. But mind you don’t just fall asleep anywhere when you’re in a weak state. If you’ve found a good spot where you feel relaxed‚ it’s because you’re protected there. Try and stick to it. That’s very important.’
He’s right. At his suggestion‚ I moved the position and orientation of the bed in my room five or six times. Now that it’s at an angle by the window‚ I feel comfortable in it‚ quite safe. What Cyril said holds true to within a metre.
Cyril’s not the only one who has contributed to completing my education. Several people have taught me that there exists‚ in the underlying order of things‚ a potential for humour that corresponds to paradoxical requirements. Laughter is proper to the man? Perhaps. But the incident that provokes us to laughter‚ the comical incident‚ belongs to all creation‚ from the amoeba to the crystal. In short‚ nothing should be taken too seriously.
On receiving his call-up papers for military service‚ a fellow by the name of Borjois noticed that his first name was Alfophonse. You read that correctly: efohpeeaitchohen. He started laughing‚ and showed it to his mates‚ who cracked up‚ as well they might‚ and Alfophonse thereupon embarked on a discreet but necessary investigation. He likes to report his findings in the argot he speaks better than anyone else. For Alfophonse is a purist: he’s from Glacière‚ where traditions are not about to die out.
‘You see‚ when my old lady pupped me‚ I had three older sisters. “A boy‚ at last!” says the old man.’ (At this point‚ I’ll pass over the physiological details that would lack colourfulness in correct French.) ‘Now my uncle‚ my old lady’s bro‚ I have to tell you‚ is a pen-pusher in the local council administration. And it’s His Nibs that does the entries for the Directory‚ as you might say. So his brother-in-law goes to see him: “Hey! Gus‚” he says‚ “got some news for you! Your sis has pupped a boy! The real thing‚ complete with nuts and a joystick.” “Listen‚ Albert‚” says uncle‚ “when the same thing happens up the Prince of Wales’s neck of the woods‚ the king of England has twenty-one shots fired from a single cannon. Well‚ you and me are going to put away twenty-one shots. Down the hatch! Without a moment’s delay!” And off go the two brothers-in-law to knock back twenty-one glasses of red. No messing about! Going back to the office‚ they’re a bit unsteady on their pegs. Then uncle picks up his pen to enter me into the local Directory. “We’re not done yet‚” he says‚ “we need a name for the little blighter.” The old man racks his brains. Draws a blank. Then he says‚ “Remember granddad‚ Gus? D’you remember? Alphonse‚ he was called. D’you remember? Well‚ Alphonse is what we’ll call our lad. Like granddad!”
‘What it is to be susceptible! Next thing‚ they’re blubbering‚ and uncle’s snivelling as he writes: A.l.f.o. “Hey‚ watch what you’re doing!” says the old man‚ “Peeaitch!” “What do you mean‚ peeaitch?” “Ehelpeeaitch!” Well‚ blow me! Scratching out in the register‚ can’t be done‚ not for love nor money. ‘Gainst the law. No way can my moniker be altered. So that’s how I come to be called Alfophonse!’
Alfophonse’s name made him famous in the army‚ and then among his workmates. Eventually convinced that his name must be written on the end of his nose‚ when he finds himself with someone new‚ he laughs. As others might apologize. He has a good hearty laugh. Of an epidemically infectious nature. He’ll live a long life filled with mirth right up to the very last moment.
That blesséd Théophile! One evening he opened up and confided in me. Now I know everything about him!
Nearly twenty-five years ago the young Théophile‚ a native of Rennes‚ fresh out of school‚ demonstrated both a strong bent for classical literary studies and an irresistible leaning towards a career in the Church. His family had to reconcile themselves to letting him enter the seminary. So it was under these circumstances that he visited Paris for the first time‚ on the occasion of a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame. He took pleasure in wandering through the poorer districts near the Ile de la Cité‚ and at once responded to their ambiguous charm. A few months later‚ he returned to the capital as a theology student‚ but this time to become resident‚ close to Rue St-Jacques‚ not far from the place where another ‘scholar’ once lived: François de Montcorbier‚ whom we know as Villon.
He must have had the temperament of a missionary or preacher. For not a week went by that our young man was not seen‚ soberly dressed‚ wearing a beret‚ haunting the vicinity of Place Maubert‚ the least attractive of whose local inhabitants he knew by name‚ and was able to get them to share their woes and confide in him the most shameful details of their life. Scavengers of fag ends‚ pickpockets and tramps no longer held any secrets from the man they not unkindly called ‘Father Greenhorn’.
The time came when Théophile didn’t disdain to go into the lowest dives and mix even more closely with the down- and-outs. He showed a preference for those vagrants who‚ beneath a stinking carapace of grimy sweat‚ gave evidence of some education‚ acquired in ‘the days of wanton youth’‚ and they themselves took a certain pride in his friendship.
Little by little‚ insidiously‚ the whole neighbourhood became rooted in him; this area‚ its stones and its people‚ decided to keep him there for ever‚ even if this conspiracy of vague wishfulness‚ in human beings and things‚ had to achieve its purpose at the cost of some misfortune. Which is indeed what occurred.
Trigou was ordained and yet didn’t leave the capital. The young priest became a teacher of French and Latin in a very well-known religious establishment at Auteuil. Uneventful years passed. Théophile fulfilled his duties as teacher and educator to everyone’s satisfaction. Every Sunday during the summer months‚ he observed the Lord’s commandments by taking rest. Often he would go out of Paris‚ by himself‚ into the wooded countryside‚ and there‚ in the woodland solitude‚ cheered by birdsong‚ a modern-day Francis of Assisi‚ he would devote himself to religious texts and meditation.
One August Sunday‚ even more stiflingly hot than usual‚ the young priest went to the forest of Fontainebleau. Feeling rather weary after a long walk‚ he sat down by a big tree‚ on a mound that seemed to have been placed there specially. He dropped off to sleep for quite a while. When he woke‚ his hips felt unusually itchy. He realized he had just enough time to get to the station and catch the train. On the walk back‚ the itchiness‚ which had spread to the entire lower part of his body‚ intensified to an unbearable degree. But with no time to spare and perhaps accustomed‚ in spirit at least‚ to otherwise painful mortifications‚ it was only once inside the carriage that he investigated the cause of his itchiness.
This train was composed of old wooden carriages‚ of the kind still used on provinicial ‘slow trains’‚ with no corridors. The priest was alone in his compartment. He immediately discovered the explanation for the ‘providential’ and extremely comfortable mound he had unwisely sat on: it was a gigantic anthill. His trousers and underpants were full of insects driven to ferocity by having been displaced from their dwelling. It was high time‚ the priest decided in between stations‚ to deal with what had become a matter of urgency: he unbuttoned his cassock‚ took off his trousers and underpants‚ and began to shake them all out of the window. At one point along the route‚ the track curves. A powerful gust of wind tore the clothes from the dismayed priest’s hands. And the slow train came to a halt.
Waiting on the platform‚ heaped with wild flowers‚ singing sweetly‚ and accompanied by nuns‚ were some fifty very innocent young schoolgirls from a very Christian orphanage.
The impending danger causing him to completely lose his head‚ Théophile just had time to dive under the seat. Some of the innocent band piled into his compartment. And the train was off again!
His trepidation‚ the dust‚ the wild flowers being shaken about‚ were a torture to our poor wretched priest. He couldn’t help sneezing into one young girl’s calves‚ and she instantly screamed blue murder. Steeled with pious courage‚ the chaperon nun dared to bend down. A satanic vision met her eyes: a pair of buttocks blue with shame. She fainted and the young girls pulled the communication cord. The train stopped in open countryside while panic-stricken screams spread from carriage to carriage. Stoker‚ engine driver and conductor all came running‚ and had the greatest difficulty in dragging Théophile out from under his seat‚ more dead than alive. On the rail track‚ he was subjected to countless taunts‚ insults and jibes to which he was unable to respond‚ entirely preoccupied as he was with holding together his (much too short) shirt- tails‚ as a mischievous evening breeze contrived to set them aflutter.
The satyr‚ as he’d immediately been dubbed‚ was handed over to two employees of the Railway Company‚ who marched him off to the gate-keeper’s house at the nearest level crossing (several kilometres away).
From there a phone call was made to the police. Théophile had some difficulty in establishing his bona fides. He spent the night in a cell‚ and it was only next morning that his clothes were found scattered along the embankment. At Auteuil he came up with some sheepish excuse‚ not daring to recount his misadventure‚ and for the first time ever lied to his superiors.
Within the next few days the local press‚ alerted by the police report‚ had got hold of the story. The Seine-et-Marne Progress‚ an anticlerical rag‚ indulged in sarcastic comments‚ no less humorous than ironic‚ while the Independent‚ a self- righteous weekly‚ deplored both the incident and its rival’s lack of charitableness. That was enough for a Parisian columnist‚ Monsieur de la Fourchardière‚ to seize his opportunity and give free rein to his mordant wit. All mentioned the name of Théophile Trigou‚ in itself cause for amusement. And that was how from one day to the next this priest of ours was unceremoniously kicked out of the institution where his livelihood had been assured. Moreover‚ he was so violently traumatized by his experience‚ he never got over it.
He doesn’t talk about the life he led during those subsequent months; but he was soon back in the Maubert neighbourhood‚ and also seen round the lycées – Charlemagne‚ Henri IV and St Louis. He’s grown a beard. Dressed in a jacket stiff with dirt‚ he wears a shirt-front and wing collar‚ but practically never a shirt. For a couple of glasses of wine or a bit of small change‚ he wonderfully assists school kids and university students with their Latin versification and translations. He’s known as ‘the Doctor’ or ‘the Professor’. He accepts his fate philosophically.
At the same time as what happened at Rue de Bièvre‚ another house in Paris disappeared. It was in the newspapers. A gentleman from Lille – in the prohibited zone – who owns a building in Paris‚ on Rue Labrouste‚ put his property up for sale. It was an old dilapidated town house‚ long abandoned by its inhabitants.
A vet in the southern zone decided to buy the building‚ with the intention of setting up a dog clinic there once the war was over. A Paris notary conducted the transaction without stirring from his office. But when some sort of quantity surveyor or valuation expert turned up to visit the premises‚ there was no building.
It was gone. No sign of it. Vanished into thin air. A wasteland where kids come to play ball and piss in the rubble. An action’s been brought for ‘disappearance of building’. And the newspapers have relaxed reporting restrictions in order to publish the story in exhaustive detail‚ along with huge photos with nothing to see in them‚ featuring a house that’s no longer there. Even the cabaret singers have latched on to it and are having a field day. Meanwhile‚ Bizinque is crowing. He now spends his evenings cutting out and filing the articles that relate his exploit.
It’s been common knowledge here for the past four months: Bizinque‚ and he alone‚ is the roof-scalper‚ tap-remover‚ gas- pipe scavenger responsible. He then methodically attacked the woodwork and structural frame of the building. He’s never made any secret of it‚ and he’s treated us to a good few drinks. Architect Vergnolle doesn’t think anyone will get on to him about this. So much the better.
Yesterday Bizinque turned up with a pretty strange fellow I vaguely knew: it was Monsieur Casquette.
Monsieur Casquette is an undertaker’s assistant. Despite his twenty-four years’ good and faithful service‚ he’s not a funeral director. His military medal‚ his liking for ‘a job well done’ might have won him faster promotion. But he is doubly handicapped: in his‚ let us say‚ average intelligence‚ and his physical appearance. Short and stocky‚ Monsieur Casquette has an incredibly big flat head.
In the 1920s he had to get his regulation headgear made to measure. This departure from normal practice entailed countless waivers and signatures at different levels. In the Municipal Bulletin the initials of a senior city bureaucrat‚ later minister‚ ratified the administration’s authority‚ delegated by an official vote‚ to equip our man with a custom-made ‘casquette’‚ or peaked cap. The nickname stuck and even he has been known to forget his real name.
Having always remained an ordinary undertaker’s assistant‚ Monsieur Casquette practises his craft in the 5th arrondissement. He carries out the most loathsome tasks with a natural simplicity. Until recently‚ he was in the habit of playing cards in the evening‚ in Rue Monge‚ with some quiet friends.
But Monsieur Casquette is by nature quick to take offence. On one occasion‚ one of his fellow card-players cheated by way of a joke. Monsieur Casquette took it very badly: after a rather lively exchange of words‚ he threw down his hand and walked off‚ cursing. ‘Go on‚ make fun of me while you can. I shall bury all three of you!’
The next day no one gave it another thought. But the undertaker’s three mates‚ all elderly gents‚ passed away in record time‚ and the very distressing task of having to bury them fell to their friend. The regulars at the little café were crass enough to remind him of his words‚ and to suggest perfidiously that he had the ‘evil eye’.
In fact‚ over the course of last winter‚ he laid to rest so many people of his acquaintance‚ those around him are upset. Everyone now avoids any mention in his presence of the sick or the very weak and old. It’s even whispered that Monsieur Casquette‚ who is actually a very decent man‚ is the unwitting and unwilling instrument of fate‚ and that he’s the vehicle of sinister forces. People are cowardly in the face of the unknown. The undertaker’s oldest friends have ended up shunning him: he’s surrounded by such an atmosphere of wariness‚ of fearful silence‚ that he’s becoming neurotic and has started drinking.
The Irish drew up their own map of Old Paris. The one that Dr Garrett showed me. I’d like to do likewise and compile a very specialized map‚ of ‘streets of legend’ – which are not necessarily the oldest. There are in a few small areas of the city places where a sense of eternity pervades everything that happens. The simple folk that populate them are the last people to realize what kind of timelessness they represent. Some of them constitute what can only be described as a sheer phenomenon of survival.
At Pignol’s‚ for instance‚ there are evenings when we experience what I call the ‘magic’ hour. This word‚ for me‚ is fraught with meaning: I use it rarely. I’m wary of it. But I know why I’ve written it here.
In general it comes the day after a grim day‚ on which one of us has received bad news: the death of a distant loved one‚ or the arrest of a friend. Here‚ we share our sorrows as if by osmosis. We all suffer intensely‚ dutifully‚ as if to relieve the person principally concerned. And we only speak of the unhappy event to try and attenuate‚ assuage‚ avert what might arise from it. Our silences are filled with suppressed anger. But every time‚ something unexpected happens to restore the atmosphere‚ by shifting‚ rearranging our way of thinking. Often the conversation‚ desultory at first‚ revolves round a mythical figure‚ a curious character‚ a semi-phantom everyone claims to have met though I still don’t know whether he exists in the same way as you and I‚ or whether he’s part of the suggestive fantasy that envelops ‘the Village’ and sometimes takes possession of it by unhinging the minds of all its night- birds‚ simultaneously. We’re talking about the Old Man Who Appears After Midnight.
In this most deceptive and secret corner of the capital‚ many are the bars where the night life‚ though far from noisy‚ is in full swing between midnight and five in the morning‚ during the hours of curfew. Apart from the gang of bohemians of whom I am in some sense the key player and prime mover‚ it’s mostly the dustbin-rakers and wholesale rag-and-bone men who keep these unsociable hours‚ all shutters closed‚ all doors bolted‚ whistle wet and ears pricked. Then‚ tradition has it – unfortunately‚ I’ve so far been unable to check the foundations of this tradition – that when an argument which cannot be resolved sets at loggerheads people of opposing views‚ whether it’s over military operations‚ black market transactions‚ or the buying price of non-ferrous metals‚ the Old Man turns up‚ without anyone having seen him enter. Huddled in a dark corner‚ seated with his tall walking- stick beside him‚ he chips in and with a few words confounds the cocksure or the wrong-headed.
The Old Man doesn’t appear to all and sundry. In any case‚ no one’s ever seen him until after midnight‚ and only in these parts: at Pignol’s‚ Quatre-Fesses‚ Trois-Mailletz‚ Dumont’s. He takes a mischievous pleasure in making his entrance or exit when people’s attention is focused elsewhere. He reveals his presence with a little laugh‚ a kind of chuckle‚ or else he says something – a simple truth – that’s spot on‚ and comes just at the right moment‚ leaving nothing more to be said. Often when there’s a quarrel to settle‚ questions are put to him‚ but he only answers when both parties are present. And his word is regarded as final. ‘God’s Honest Truth‚’ say the old women – Salagnac‚ Georgette‚ Thérèse …
The old fellow’s a good man. It was he who patched things up between Edouard and Bébert‚ the two junk dealers who fell out over some story about fencing stolen goods of which neither one of them was guilty. It was he who reconciled the Graillot couple‚ despite the slanderous lies that had been told about Graillot’s wife. He saw to it that at the critical moment little Bibiche was kept away because of mumps‚ and diagnosed Solange’s daughter Zouzou’s scarlet fever.
I get to hear all this from Pignolette‚ who appears to have a strange reverence for the Old Man. Her voice changes when she talks about him. It seems to quiver slightly. I don’t know what to reply or what to think. I’m living in an unreal world.
Fourteen metres and a hundred and thirty kilos. These are the records held at the Café Guignard‚ on the corner of Rue Dante‚ by the bar counter and the patron respectively. This colossus has the huge beaky-nosed head of some strange creature. It’s impossible not to think of the grotesques on the Pont-Neuf. His bushy brown eyebrows especially lend his face a strength that’s both solid and nervy‚ though somewhat belied by his flabby cheeks.
I’m not particularly fond of squalor‚ and I don’t believe it was the stale smell of sweat‚ warm sour drinks‚ and fetid urine that drew me there that sweltering afternoon. Monsieur Casquette was having a quiet tipple. I offered to buy him a drink. He seemed pleased to see me. Perhaps relieved. Everyone was gathered in one part of the room‚ over on the right. A collective hysteria‚ a vile brutish laughter had taken possession of this human scum‚ their shoulders and behinds all heaving in unison. Emanating from this convulsive coagulation of bodies could be heard in snatches the sound of an argument: two shrill voices trading abuse in the most lurid language that it would be pointless and inappropriate to record here.
I overcame my sickened indifference and went over‚ followed by Monsieur Casquette‚ to view ‘the spectacle’. It was well worth it.
A fair-haired man stood slightly bent forwards with his hands resting on the backs of two chairs. His trousers were rolled up above his knees. The said knees were tattooed. Two faces‚ two caricatures deliberately made to look alike. On the right‚ a grim-featured moustached man with dark eyebrows. On the left‚ a rosy-cheeked woman‚ with very long eyelashes‚ heavily made-up eyes‚ and full lips. The man clenched his muscles‚ played his tendons; his knee-caps danced‚ and all his contractions imparted strange life to the two warring faces. For the knees spoke to each other in tortured French‚ interpersed with Mediterrean pidgin and unidentifiable words‚ vile expressions: the man adopted different voices‚ and the scene was of such black comedy that it made me feel a kind of anguish. Monsieur Casquette watched without turning a hair. Admittedly‚ he’s seen a lot worse.
Tiring‚ the man stopped for a breather‚ while the baying crowd took the opportunity to relax for a moment. The man downed in quick succession four glasses of alcohol‚ to which he was generously treated by his audience. He was getting ready to resume his performance; but then the couple came in. About fifty years old‚ penurious‚ weary and scruffy. Yet not actually tramps. He was laden with a bundle‚ one of those rolled-up pieces of black cloth of the kind that painters or some day-labourers carry. The woman was dragging a suitcase. Their features were marked with dejection‚ as well as immense lassitude.
Meeting the gaze of the man with the knees‚ they froze. Petrified. For a second‚ there was total silence. The most befuddled‚ the most obtuse of the tramps present must have felt a shock. The laughter of the half-drunken women changed in tone and colour. No one dared breathe. Three pairs of eyes confronted each other. They came from another universe‚ where hatred‚ hatred alone‚ serves as the source of energy.
It was the man with the knees who made the first move: he readjusted his clothing‚ headed for the door‚ and was caught in sunshine. The couple‚ very slowly‚ went up to the counter. They ordered rum and exchanged a few fleeting words in a language I didn’t understand.
‘Let’s go‚’ said Monsieur Casquette‚ ‘there’s a sense of doom here.’
That evening we were at the Quatre-Fesses. A joint so called [Quatre-Fesses meaning Four-Buttocks] because run by two women past their prime‚ who‚ disappointed at having found only incomplete satisfaction with their very many male partners‚ now have ‘an arrangement’ between themselves. To which we have no objection of course.
I’d brought along Monsieur Casquette‚ to take his mind off things‚ and asked Cyril to join us. I just couldn’t get over that scene with the man and the tattooed knees‚ and above all the couple that came in. It was really bothering me. I wanted some explanation. I told Cyril the whole story. He showed little surprise. After I described what I’d recently witnessed‚ Cyril nodded his head and murmured‚ ‘Poor wretch. I think it would have been better if you’d been somewhere else‚ Monsieur Casquette.’
The undertaker’s assistant bristled. ‘But what happened’s got nothing to do with me. Besides‚ there was no harm done.’
Cyril pondered‚ and weighing his words said‚ ‘Nothing to do with you. Of course‚ you’re utterly convinced it has nothing to do with you. And as for what will happen next‚ obviously you know nothing about it‚ it’s a complete mystery to you‚ and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it‚ is that not so‚ Monsieur Casquette?’
The undertaker’s eyes widened‚ as if he’d been addressed in Hebrew.
Quietly I asked Cyril‚ ‘Who’s the poor wretch you were feeling sorry for just now?’
‘Why‚ Vladimir‚ of course. You know‚ the …’ He pointed to his knees.
‘You know him?’
‘I’ll say! Only too well!’
In 1919‚ the young Ukrainian lieutenant Vladimir Illine‚ who had fought in the Balkans alongside the Allied troops‚ found himself in Marseilles penniless and unemployed. He had gone AWOL from his unit‚ which was stationed in Corfu and about to be repatriated. Vladimir’s legal position was as delicate as that of his finances. On the other hand‚ the prospect of returning to a country too flat and too monotonous for his liking – solely topographically speaking – was of limited appeal to a spirit hungry for adventure‚ not averse to a touch of the exotic‚ and decidedly attached to the people of Western Europe. Trying to make his way to Paris on an empty stomach and‚ in order to avoid being expelled across some as yet ill-defined border‚ ending up with the job of digging out bodies from the Argonne trenches or working as slave labour in the war-devastated regions was of not much greater appeal. He had no choice. So it was that he went to the Fort St-Jean and soon found himself under the protection of the red-and-green flag of the 2nd Battalion of the Nth Infantry Regiment of the Foreign Legion‚ where Cyril‚ who then went by the name of Petrovich‚ was quartermaster sergeant.
Vladimir signed up for five years. He adapted without too much difficulty to the extremely strict discipline of his new unit. And when the regiment sailed for Africa‚ Vladimir had forged some firm friendships. Moreover‚ being highly thought of by his direct superiors brought many benefits‚ in particular greater freedom in his comings and goings‚ the truth being that the judiciously conceded right to roam some three hundred metres is often a good deal more precious than the right to go round the world with a leash round your neck.
At Sidi-bel-Abbès‚ Vladimir sealed a pact of ‘blood brotherhood’ with one of his companions. A very young Bulgarian he’d already singled out in Marseilles and whom he particularly liked‚ not because of his ‘derring-do’ but because he was a guy you could count on‚ his word and all. Actually ‘the Bul’ had quite a funny story. As an irregular fighting with the Serbian komitajis‚ he fell into the hands of the 175th French Infantry (at this point in Cyril’s story‚ my ears prick up)‚ at Monastir‚ that’s right‚ Monastir. And had it not been for the fact he was little more than a child …
At this point I burst in. ‘They’d have killed him‚ for sure. But listen‚ Cyril‚ I’m going to tell you what happened next. The 175th adopted him. They treated him like a mascot. The kid became a batman for a while.’
‘Yeah‚’ says Cyril‚ a little subdued‚ looking far more dismayed than amazed.
‘Well‚ that officer he was batman to was my uncle! And the guy you’re talking about ended the war as a cook’s assistant.’
‘Yes‚ yes‚ that’s right.’
‘Now‚ listen to this‚ that cook was my father. I’ve been hearing this story‚ at home‚ since 1920 or ’21. Your Bulgarian returned to France with the Dardanelles expeditionary batallion. In Marseilles he joined up. His name’s come back to me now. Boris … Boris Kazalik.’
‘Absolutely right‚ of course‚’ said Cyril‚ almost at a loss for words. ‘But how come you’re so well informed?’
‘It’s no big deal. My father and my uncle were together out East. It’s only natural I should know the story. I think it’s quite amusing. No cause for concern.’
‘Ah‚ but there is cause for concern‚’ said someone.
And that made everyone jump. It was the Old Man.
It was just gone midnight. Olga‚ the effective boss‚ had locked the shutters from the outside. Now she was pulling down blinds to seal the windows from the inside. She to whom buttocks three and four belonged was at the till‚ checking the day’s takings.
The Old Man. We hadn’t noticed or sensed his presence. He was stroking his beard in his shadowy corner‚ pleased with the bit of a stir he’d caused. What struck me most was that once the first moment’s excitement had passed‚ no one seemed particularly surprised.
Many times had I been given a description of his appearance: very small‚ heavily bearded‚ long-haired‚ with a brown hooded cloak and long stick‚ very beautiful large hands‚ short misshapen legs trussed up in laces from his ankles to his knees‚ a quavering voice and a demeanour at once kindly and roguish. To tell the truth‚ I didn’t believe in his existence. I don’t know whether‚ right then‚ I was disappointed or delighted. Perhaps both. Perhaps it would have suited me better to concede that a well-established‚ widely-accepted – and admittedly quaint – legend had gained substance in people’s minds. And to identify a key symptom in these people: that of the non-acquired memory of an occurrence that may or may not belong to the realms of fantasy – there’s no way of knowing. For the very first time I had the privilege of experiencing an extraordinary event that was extraneous to me‚ and the much awaited‚ much desired thrill‚ shock‚ awe didn’t ensue. My independent organs‚ those whose reflexes I couldn’t control‚ that ruled me‚ that masterminded my sheer terror under dive-bombing Stukas‚ just accepted it. The old Eyes‚ Ears‚ Nerves‚ Balls were as laid-back and unfazed as any of my mates who were also present: Edouard‚ Bucaille‚ old Monsieur Casquette‚ and even Cyril. Everyone regarded it as completely normal. The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight‚ and everything uncanny he represents‚ is just not hooey. Let’s face it. And yet … There was no way he could have come in: either through the door from the corridor‚ or the cellar door‚ because they were right under our eyes more or less the whole time. Or from the street‚ as Olga had locked up at eleven o’clock. There’s no basement window. Could he have been hiding in a corner before we arrived? What an absurd idea! Totally daft. Anyway‚ that’s the score.
The Old Man didn’t speak straight away. He quietly let Cyril finish telling the story of the knees.
At Bel-Abbès and elsewhere‚ legionnaires Boris and Vladimir offered their comrades the most heartening example of pure‚ practical and devoted friendship. One of them had only to reveal a desire for something and it became the other’s immediate and imperative duty to obtain it. The hard school of life in the desert: road-building in the burning heat beneath the frenzied lash of sands whipped up by an apocalyptic wind‚ an ordeal from which the body only recovers in order to overcome the freezing-cold nights; the manifold elements they’d chosen to brave‚ with no illusions as to their treacherous hostility‚ fully aware of what they were letting themselves in for – our two lads successfully surmounted all this‚ month by month growing stronger‚ winning ever greater victory over themselves. And becoming ever more close. The exceptionally strong friendship between them being of the kind ‘granted’ rather than sought.
Cyril knew everything. He was the only possible confidant for the two blood brothers‚ because he wasn’t jealous and was incapable of harbouring any suspicions of so-called ‘irregularities’‚ for the sole reason that nothing irregular was going on other than what has just been related.
The batallion was redeployed. It’s a dreadful assertion to make that once the war is over‚ the lesson learned‚ the conclusion drawn lies anywhere but in the verdict ‘slaughter’. The dead are very quickly forgotten. But it’s extraordinary – and a good thing too – how we’re bested by them in this respect.
What counts‚ are migrations. The batallion was redeployed. The words ‘thousands’ or ‘millions’ of dead‚ and the word ‘defeat’ and the word ‘victory’ have long since become meaningless‚ and count for nothing one way or another. The batallion was redeployed. War is an unbelievable upheaval‚ a monster far beyond the grotesque or the contrary‚ much more coherent‚ aesthetic‚ logical‚ necessary than some of the appendages stuck on our fountains‚ a monster that swallows its own slaver‚ throwing up scum cast far and wide. It was with the scum that the batallion was to get embroiled.
From south of Oran to south of Algiers‚ the Ksour mountains‚ Djebel Amour and the Ouled Nail mountains were at that time being explored by motley crews that pompously called themselves ‘expeditions’‚ even ‘scientific missions’.
Acting on behalf of certain captains of industry dismayed by the general armistice in Europe‚ which had come too swiftly for their liking‚ groups of so-called technicians‚ in reality pure adventurers‚ scoured what they believed to be still virgin territory‚ in search of some trace of mineral deposits (coal‚ metal or whatever)‚ or any kind of commercial opportunity suitable for profitably investing – and above all concealing – immense capital assets now lying idle and very soon to be frozen before their eventual seizure.
This duly occurred‚ to the advantage of other captains of industry … (which takes us back to beginning of the preceding paragraph).
The leading lights of African‚ European and Levantine speculation drove round in motor cars‚ developing plans as grandiose as they were vague‚ and trying to live the high life wherever possible. Hundreds of small nomadic businesses‚ an entire corporation‚ mushroomed around these conquistadores of sand and road metal. Not the least significant of all these modest but lucrative activities was the sale of cold drinks of a more or less alcoholic nature‚ tobacco‚ and hashish‚ not to mention particular favours granted to the most generous of these gentlemen. This is what Consuelo Quaglia realized.
Born at the turn of the century in Navarre‚ she came across the border at Hendaye in 1917 and so eloquent were her youthful charms that she continued her advance unchecked until she won her first brilliant and decisive campaign at Bordeaux‚ within the purlieus of Place Mériadeck. A few run- ins with the vice squad‚ her unshakeable determination to decline the ‘services’ of her successive ‘protectors’‚ or would- be candidates for that role‚ forced her to discover another vocation‚ that of inveterate traveller. Her beauty‚ extreme avarice‚ total scorn for everything but her own musky brown- skinned self worked wonders. She’d only just come of age when she fetched up at Aïn-Sefra‚ alone‚ with the intention of settling there‚ equipped with a residence permit‚ trading licence‚ liquor licence and a considerable sum of pesetas‚ francs and dollars in her pocket. When the batallion was billeted close to the town‚ Consuelo’s bar had already become the favourite rendezvous for the entire European population of any means.
Meanwhile‚ Vladimir and Boris had won their NCO stripes. Cyril had become a sergeant-major. One night all three of them ended up at Consuelo’s. There was some brawl – Cyril can’t remember why‚ if indeed he ever knew – between civilians and soldiers; then after the civilians had been evicted‚ between Algerian soldiers and the legionnaires. The latter carried the day‚ and Consuelo noticed Cyril’s face‚ Vladimir’s shoulders and the elegance of the young Bulgarian. Cyril tells me what happened:
‘That bitch. I was the first of the three of us to screw her. I’d have been better off if she’d kept me begging for it. Fabulous body though. But it was as if her head was separated from her crotch by miles‚ or centuries‚ or miles of centuries. When you’d spilled your seed‚ she had a way of pushing you back by the shoulders and looking at you‚ so blankly and contemptuously at the same time‚ that all you could do was to pack up your tackle and go and get yourself completely plastered‚ to provide some acceptable reason for your self-disgust. That was the end of it for me. But Vladimir got hooked. Where I saw the deepest‚ most utter and foul cynicism‚ he discerned decency‚ so he said. I was from Kiev‚ and he from Kharkov‚ but he was the more Russian by far! Befuddled‚ beguiled‚ bewitched! That made the girl happy. Maybe not so much that he screwed her: or perhaps she held it against him that he made her body react in ways she’d decided not to allow herself any more. It meant she wasn’t in control. It was out of revenge that she enslaved him‚ to the point where she’d only have to lift her little finger and he’d do the most bloody stupid things. Inviting his own death or damnation. Occasionally she’d sleep with young Boris‚ but less seriously‚ just to upset the other one. It left Vladimir tormented‚ devoured with jealousy.
‘So one day‚ mortified with shame‚ he made up his mind to speak to his mate. He unburdened himself. His Bulgarian pal was flabbergasted. A guy like Vladimir‚ so crazy for such a whore! But he did what was asked of him: he swore he’d leave her alone. For all he cared …
‘But then Vladimir started making plans. Civvie Street beckoned: only thirteen months to go. And at the end of it‚ a French identity card‚ and his final pay-off‚ a small fortune. By lucky coincidence‚ Consuelo was fed up with Africa. She’d wait for him. They’d head off together‚ each with their own nest-egg‚ to the South of France‚ or the Balearic Islands. There they’d build themselves a house with a little hotel. And they’d take life easy. OK‚ she said. He could already visualize it: and one night he didn’t show up for retreat‚ carried on dozing in his girl’s arms.
‘That night they woke us at five o’clock‚ and in no time at all we were on the road‚ force marching to El Goléa. Vladimir didn’t catch up with us until a week later. War-time rules still applied. At least for us. There was no such thing as absence without leave‚ only desertion. Vladimir was reduced to the ranks. He was court-martialled in Bel-Abbès: six months’ jail‚ six months’ extra service. And the long-awaited day of general discharge‚ he couldn’t even shake hands with his ‘blood brother’‚ Boris‚ who was on his way to Oran. But evidently the other guy was hooked. He arranges to extend his stay in Africa. He makes a trip to Aïn-Sefra where the girl’s quietly languishing‚ he gets her to sell up and the two of them sail to Marseilles. They had the nerve to send a postcard to Vladimir‚ to wish him luck. They shouldn’t have done that. Vladimir went ballistic. Even more because of his friend’s betrayal than for having lost the girl.
‘Now there was no stopping him: bad behaviour‚ unauthorized absences‚ brawls at every opportunity. He copped a couple more months in jail‚ which he served in Algiers. While he was inside‚ he had his knees tattooed with portraits of Boris and the girl‚ by a guy who had known them. He said‚ “As long as my knees are together‚ the two of them won’t part. But as long as my knees keep giving each other hell‚ I don’t see their life being a happy one.” Ever since then he’s been entertaining friends with his little party trick. He’s become more normal: he even tried to re-enlist‚ but given his bad record and his health – apparently he contracted TB – he was rejected. I’m the one that helped him out when he first showed up here. He works as a packer for one of the junk dealers.’
Monsieur Casquette had been listening to all this‚ and now he seemed to understand. He turned to the Old Man‚ who was gazing at him with all his roguishness.
‘Knowing you‚ you’ll be burying at least one or two of the three‚’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
This didn’t please Monsieur Casquette. ‘Now‚ don’t say things like that.’
I took a shot in the dark.
‘Of the three? You mean that couple – they were the other two?’
The Old Man shrugged his shoulders.
‘What do you think? Of course they were! All we can do now is to wait and see. You can congratulate yourself on having done a good job there. Still‚ it’s not your fault.’
Edouard and Bucaille are the best of friends‚ but you wouldn’t know it‚ because they spend the whole time bickering. They’re both wholesale rag dealers‚ and they’re perpetually at loggerheads over the price of the merchandise. Seeing the Old Man was there‚ and rightly or wrongly he has the reputation of knowing everything‚ they tried to enlist him to settle the dispute between them. The Old Man was dismissive.
‘Not tonight. Your rags‚ paper‚ scrap metal – this is no time to be talking about such things.’
Olga had made some very strong coffee‚ real black market coffee. We were savouring it‚ making the most of it‚ thanking her. Her partner had come to drink at our table. Passing behind her‚ Olga fondly held her by the shoulders and tried discreetly to kiss the back of her neck‚ as a man might have done. But Edouard noticed what she was up to.
‘Hey‚ there‚ lezzies! Don’t mind us!’
‘We’re not bothered‚’ said Cyril‚ laughing.
And the Old Man began to chortle. ‘There are some scales in which all this weighs very little.’
We were momentarily distracted by a noise outside‚ where normally there wouldn’t have been anyone about yet. It took us a few minutes to realize that the Old Man had disappeared‚ vanished into thin air‚ leaving behind his empty cup.
Fernand has a law degree and is currently a police inspector‚ which is no sinecure for people like him. For he’s there‚ he says – and he proves it – ‘for the right reason’: to get his man; and he’s resigned to being cordially detested by those for whom‚ without their realizing it‚ he does the most incredible favours. I know from experience. We’re friends. This morning Fernand came looking for me. ‘You’ll be interested in this. Come and see. It’s just round the corner. And if you don’t have any‚ borrow some eau-de-Cologne from your next-door neighbour. Bring at least two handkerchiefs.’
Number 6‚ Impasse Maubert is familiar territory to me‚ having recently investigated its history. It was there that three hundred years ago the Marquis de Ste-Croix‚ the lover of Brinvilliers‚ set up his laboratory‚ and it was there that he was found dead among his retorts‚ in circumstances still disputed by historians.
The stench is overpowering. In his room on the top floor‚ lying on his bed fully dressed‚ Vladimir looks hideous. His throat is slit from ear to ear. His whole body is convulsed. His hands clutch the mattress. His knees are drawn up to his chin.
‘So?’
‘So‚ nothing. I’m just the local cop. I’m only entitled to make the initial report. The murderer wasn’t looking for anything‚ didn’t take anything. This was under the pillow.’
He shows me a bundle of banknotes. He says‚ ‘I’m waiting for the guys from the Crime Squad. The stink in here is really overpowering. Go and treat yourself to a glass of rum down at Pagès. I’ll be with you in a minute. I want to ask you a question‚ for my own information.’
At Pagès‚ all he asked me was if I thought Vladimir’s murder had anything to do with the Germans’ being here. I said no‚ I didn’t think so.
‘If you want me to forget you’re a cop‚ after all‚ then don’t grill me‚ even if it’s just for your own information.’
He didn’t persist.
Vladimir had been dead for several days‚ and it was because of the smell that the neighbours had broken open the door. The building‚ which was already squalid‚ was in danger of becoming uninhabitable. By late afternoon Monsieur Casquette was there‚ together with two assistants‚ to do the necessary. No question of taking the body out in a coffin. Impossible to lie him flat in order to get him inside the pine box. He remained curled up. The undertakers pulled and tugged‚ one holding him by the feet‚ the other by his armpits. They’d made a kind of cowl for themselves‚ with cloths soaked in a special solution.
Then Monsieur Casquette took a decision. He grabbed a hammer intended for this purpose‚ and shattered the body’s elbows and knees – the knees! – and then wrapped the corpse‚ now like a disjointed puppet‚ in a shroud. So narrow was the staircase‚ they’d already had difficulty getting the coffin up there. It was the firemen that lent them ropes. They lowered the coffin out of the window‚ with two hundred onlookers who’d gathered to watch‚ delighted by this unannounced attraction.
‘That sure is a rotten job you’ve got‚ Monsieur Casquette.’
‘Someone’s got to do it. After being at it for nearly twenty years‚ you don’t give too much thought to what you’re doing any more.’
‘By the way‚ when you smashed his knees‚ did you give any thought to the tattoos under the cloth of his trousers that you were blithely destroying?’
‘Hmm! No. It’s only just now that you remind me of that detail.’
12 September
I ran into Fernand.
‘Any news about the stiff at Impasse Maubert?’
‘Yes. The Crime Squad didn’t take long to identify the assassin: a Bulgarian‚ a former legionnaire with whom your rag-picker had some falling-out in the past. But he was never brought to trial.’
‘Oh?’
‘The guy and his wife reckoned they’d soon be picked up in Paris. They went trekking round the outskirts. They were drinkers. One night‚ over towards the St-Denis plain‚ they bunked down at the foot of a disused lime kiln that was in the process of being demolished. No one could have suspected they were lying there. In the early morning‚ they were both hit‚ more or less simultaneously‚ by huge blocks of rubble that smashed their faces and crushed their skulls. They were taken to Lariboisière; but they must have snuffed it instantly.’
I related this to Monsieur Casquette. He asked me to help him compose a letter. He wanted to quit his job with the undertakers for health reasons.