Tell me who you haunt‚ and I’ll tell you who you hate.
April 1943
It had become inevitable.
Here am I‚ the sceptical‚ disillusioned‚ cynical recusant‚ ‘the anarchist’ my mates say‚ not without some justification‚ placed under orders‚ of my own free will. A signed-up member of a – military‚ if you please – resistance unit. This certainly isn’t the result of a fit of delayed patriotism. I’ve good reason not to care two hoots about the fate and progress of the regular army‚ their backside still sore from the terrific kick in the pants they were given‚ busily congratulating each other and‚ in the Vichy zone‚ pinning medals of the now defunct Third Republic on each other’s chests.
But I just couldn’t refuse to get involved in hiding this poor parachutist who couldn’t speak a word of French and was outraged at not being able to find any American-tobacco cigarettes here. Then one thing led to another …
My ‘job’ consists of directing bombings on to German targets in the Paris region. In other words‚ to make sure there are as few civilian casualties as possible. That’s all! Whatever happens‚ my conscience will be clear. What more can one ask?
The missions I carry out leave me with a lot of free time; moreover‚ I needed some sort of ‘cover’. Every morning I’m a teacher of French and drawing for the Vocational Education Authority.
Nevertheless‚ I haven’t abandoned my beloved bohemians. But things were beginning to get a bit difficult at Pignol’s. We’ve migrated to a less perilous haven: the Trois-Mailletz‚ near St-Julien-le-Pauvre. On the corner of Rue Galande.
The ‘Oberge des Mailletz’ is by far the oldest tavern of which any record can found in the City archives. In 1292‚ Adam des Mailletz‚ inn-keeper‚ paid a tithe of 18 sous and 6 deniers. This we learn from the Tax Register of the period. At the time it was founded‚ the Trois-Mailletz was the meeting place of masons‚ who under the supervision of Jehan de Chelles‚ carved out of white stone the biblical characters destined to grace the north and south choirs of Notre-Dame. Underneath the building‚ there are two floors of superimposed cellars: the deeper ones date from the Gallo-Roman period. What remains of the instruments of torture found in the cellars of the Petit-Châtelet have been housed here‚ along with some other restored objects.
A modest bar counter‚ a long-haired patron who bizarrely manages never to be freshly shaven or downright bearded. A stove in the middle of the shabby room; simple straightforward folk‚ less drunk than at Rue de Bièvre‚ and less dirty. Just what we needed.
When she appeared‚ with that bundle in her arms‚ we had no more reason than anyone else to be there‚ Théophile‚ Séverin and I. A grey fur hat pulled down to her eyes gave her an Asiatic look.
A tatty coat‚ also grey‚ with collar and cuffs to match the hat‚ completed her outfit.
A face of indeterminate age. No chin. On careful consideration‚ a feline cast of countenance. It was only when she was there‚ with us‚ that we had the peculiar sensation that we’d actually been expecting her. We noticed her bundle was alive‚ wrapped in bits of cloth. She just stood there‚ by the door. The patron – Grospierre by name‚ a decent fellow – observed her patiently‚ from behind his thick glasses.
Finally‚ she said shyly‚ in a shrill and uncertain voice like a squeaking violin‚ ‘You wouldn’t have a drop of milk‚ by any chance?’
‘My dear woman‚ of course not!’ said Grospierre. (Milk‚ these days! Just imagine!)
She gave a sigh. Aaah! And lifted her bundle as though to raise it to her lips. There were in those gestures‚ the look in her eyes‚ and that sigh such discouragement‚ such disappointment and despair that we all felt moved and almost ashamed.
Grospierre gave a grimace of exasperation. ‘Wait a moment!’
He came back with a cup‚ and said‚ ‘Cold? Hot?’
‘It’s fine just the way it is.’
The woman’s eyes shone with contentment‚ but she’d long lost the ability to smile. She sat down‚ pulled back a corner of the cloth covering the bundle and revealed the head of a shivering kitten. Grospierre‚ like the rest of us‚ was expecting to see the face of a baby. Not at all put out‚ he just stood there and watched her.
With infinite care‚ she offered the cup to the animal‚ which greedily lapped it up. When it was finished the woman said‚ ‘Ah! Thank you!’ She hesitated‚ then added‚ ‘Can I stay here in the warmth for a while?’
The first soft drink‚ Théophile bought for her. She remained sitting there for a long time in silence. She gazed round fearfully‚ looking everywhere‚ especially into dark corners. She left only when she felt completely reassured.
She returned the next day‚ then the following days. She always carried a cat in her arms‚ but never the same one. Sometimes she was also laden with a heavy shopping bag full of things she didn’t show anyone.
We learned that her name was Mina‚ that she begged‚ or worked if the opportunity arose‚ that she took in stray cats and shared her home with them‚ in a wooden shed at Gentilly from which she was soon to be evicted.
She was terribly upset about this‚ primarily because of the animals she cared for and fed‚ to which she devoted her time and her life.
I don’t know which one of us was the first to nickname her ‘Mina the Cat’. But it was impossible‚ yes‚ impossible‚ to think of her in any other way.
At the Trois-Mailletz‚ the regulars ended up adopting Mina as the symbol of the profound indifference of everyday-life to what most preoccupied the rest of the world. People spoke in veiled terms of the difficulties of the German advance in Russia‚ of what was going on in Greece‚ in North Africa and here of course. They harped on about repressive measures likely to be introduced‚ on rationing to be feared‚ on the validation of the next fortnight’s bread vouchers.
And then Mina would come in‚ cradling a ‘nursling’: and no one was worried about anything else any more but the cat’s health‚ the circumstances in which it had been found. And every day all of us would keep aside some scraps of food.
One day we were awaiting Mina with a kind of gleeful impatience. Séverin had found an attic to live in‚ at Dumont’s place‚ on Rue Maître-Albert‚ where‚ if she introduced them discreetly‚ one by one‚ she could accommodate her lodgers.
With a few soap boxes‚ a bit of sawdust‚ and some bleach – which could be gathered together easily enough – all the requirements of relative hygiene and temporary refuge could be met. Two skylights opened on to the roof‚ to which the animals would have easy access‚ and where they could caterwaul at the moon to their heart’s content.
In the event of any objection from Dumont‚ who sheltered – and hid – a good many men on the run‚ we undertook to square things with him.
The main thing was that Mina should move in.
At last she turned up. She sat down as usual. We broke the good news to her. But she seemed not to give it as much attention as we were entitled to expect.
This time more than ever before‚ her charge of the day alone claimed her care and solicitude. It was a dreadful little mog‚ a mangy one-eyed ginger tom. And vicious‚ stupidly vicious‚ because it scratched its benefactress when she tried to get it to drink. We advised her to leave to its own fate this ugly and ungrateful beast – dangerous too‚ for it looked diseased‚ and was likely to infect its fellow felines. Advice‚ exhortations were of no use. Mina stubbornly replied that she would devote herself to this animal more than any other‚ firstly because it spurned her‚ and also because it was sick and disfigured‚ and therefore the most unfortunate.
There was nothing left to say.
The next day Mina moved to Rue Maître-Albert. We helped her transport her personal belongings‚ her cats‚ and a few carefully wrapped cardboard boxes – what they contained we made no attempt to find out.
Bizinque gave us a hand and lent his trolley.
That same evening‚ worn out‚ having taken care of her animals‚ Mina was able to lie down on a bed made of bundles of newspapers covered with a ‘mattress’. The mattress was an oilcloth folded in two‚ sewn up into a bag stuffed with sawdust.
We really thought we’d done a great deal to put Mina’s mind at rest by finding that place for her. Alas! It was from that day her troubles began.
And once again‚ we weren’t to blame.
That ghastly little ginger creature was the cause of it all. Mina persisted in coddling and cherishing the beast‚ which was undoubtedly afflicted with some dangerous disease we weren’t able to identify. Peevish and insinuating‚ its voice was an amazing‚ disturbing‚ raucous snarl.
Mina decided to consult the black vet (the one who’d tried to save the dog at Rue de Bièvre).
Again‚ Doctor N was circumspect. This is what he said: ‘There’s more to that cat than meets the eye.’ Nevertheless‚ he cured it. With a shinier coat and a more robust appearance‚ apparently totally recovered‚ the beast didn’t seem any more grateful to Mina for her patient devotion. Once it was back on its feet again (or rather‚ its paws) – only its missing eye couldn’t be replaced – it escaped through the skylight and disappeared over the rooftops without so much as a goodbye.
For four days Mina was inconsolable. And then …
And then there was a new development. Just like every other evening‚ Mina was spending a few minutes at the bar in Dumont’s on her way home to rejoin her menagerie. A cement-worker came in.
A cement-worker: at least‚ that’s what he said. He was looking for somewhere to stay in the neighbourhood. He had ginger hair and only one eye.
Ginger and one-eyed.
His name was Goupil.
Goupil – the old word for a fox. Just as ‘Bièvre’ is the old word for a beaver.
It would take pages of digression to try and pin down‚ to define the nature of the immediate rapport that was established between Mina and the ginger-haired man.
Anyhow‚ that same evening‚ among the cats and bundles Goupil shared Mina’s supper and her wretched pallet. It was simply inconceivable to us that a person like Mina‚ so different from any normal human being that we regarded her almost as an asexual creature‚ might be capable of any romantic attachment‚ even a platonic one.
But there was the evidence‚ clear and indisputable‚ and the astonishment it generated in us diverted our curiosity and partly destroyed the interest we took in world events.
From the very earliest days of their relationship Goupil proved violent and hard to please. He seemed to regard Mina much more as his prey than his slave. He worked irregularly‚ as an unskilled labourer: he said he didn’t really care whether he was employed by a company that might have been requisitioned by the occupying forces. As for Mina‚ she footed most of the expenses of this unlikely household. Nearly every day‚ laden as usual with more or less voluminous packages‚ she would head for the banks of the Seine‚ and indefatigably make her way to where the line of booksellers’ stalls ended. Often she would haggle with these people‚ most of whom were some sort of second-hand dealers. We quickly learned what she was up to: she was ‘bargain-hunting’. That’s to say‚ she would seek out certain objects‚ to buy and then of course sell. All of which had something in common: they were representations solely of cats. In the shape of little figurines‚ pots‚ knife handles‚ unidentifiable tools. There were cats in bronze‚ porcelain‚ alabaster‚ wood‚ everything you could wish for. We found out a little later that she in turn would pass on these finds‚ of some curiosity or else of little value‚ to a wealthy collector. This was a person who‚ before the war‚ used to attend the theosophists’ meetings at the Salle Adyar. The art dealers on Rue de Jacob know him well. They call him ‘the Cat Man’. But the guy doesn’t like people talking about him.
This small trade seemed to bear fruit: Mina lived more comfortably‚ no longer begged‚ was no longer short of money. She could afford to feed her animals – who’d colonized the roof‚ now cleared of pigeons – and above all‚ look after ‘her man’. This went on for the few weeks that Goupil had a bit of pocket money‚ gleaned here and there by grudgingly working for it. But as soon as he ran out of funds Goupil had no qualms about snaffling Mina’s savings. He went and squandered these paltry assets in the local bistrots‚ having made his woman sell every last object she possessed.
Mina could only counter his appalling behaviour with dispiriting resignation. In vain we tried to persuade her to part company with this dreadful fellow. She would shake her head sadly‚ gaze at us in a peculiar way and say in a dull voice‚ ‘So‚ you still don’t get it?’ These words pained us.
Then we couldn’t help remembering the cat that had disappeared‚ the one-eyed ginger‚ like Goupil. The disquieting mystery surrounding this affair and governing this coincidence inhibited our desire to discuss it with each other. Trigou avoided Goupil like the plague: he wouldn’t pass in front of his house‚ or follow in his wake. He couldn’t bear hearing about him. Any evidence of the man’s existence inspired him with a morbid horror.
Séverin watched Goupil from afar‚ made inquiries about what he was up to‚ solely in the interests of finding out to what extent Mina was going to be persecuted or not.
As for myself‚ I made a determined effort to overcome my aversion and approach him‚ sound him out‚ gain his confidence. I’d already rubbed shoulders with so many monsters. Waste of effort. Waste of time. Waste of money‚ because in the world of La Maube where everything turns to liquid‚ the only possible approach consisted of buying him endless drinks. He would down them without demur‚ other than to make some offensive remark about me once my back was turned. My folly and persistence were beyond his comprehension. Nothing was to be got out of him. The weather? He didn’t care. The war‚ the Germans? ‘They’re not going to get me for compulsory labour.’ That’s all he was worried about. To other questions‚ he would reply with grunts‚ grimaces‚ sometimes an evil smile.
Round about Christmas‚ we had a bad spell. For various reasons‚ Séverin and Théophile were on the wrong side of the law.
I didn’t yet have a steady job‚ and instead of the payment I was expecting in the form of bank notes‚ the London end of my network had sent me a cheque negotiable in Algiers!
So far‚ we’d helped Mina as much as was humanly possible: and yet we knew that Goupil was the first to benefit from what we so willingly denied ourselves.
The latest from London was the extraordinarily rapid delivery of one thousand (yes‚ one thousand) blank ration cards‚ admirably copied from the sample I’d sent. But whereas the paper used here is rubbish‚ the documents they parachuted in are printed on wonderful glossy Bristol board. No comment.
Unable to drink his fill any more‚ idle and brazen-faced‚ Goupil turned violent. He would beat up Mina whenever she came home with no money‚ or very little. And to our distress‚ there was nothing we could do about it. The period of physical abuse – which Mina endured without protest – was followed by one of calculated cruelty. One evening‚ not only deprived of his fill of sour red wine‚ Goupil felt ravenously hungry. Dumont had read him the riot act and threatened to throw him out if he continued to give Mina a hard time. Goupil kept his mouth shut. Without a word‚ he went upstairs‚ grabbed one of the cats – the sweetest‚ most trusting – put it an old bag that he weighted with a heavy stone. And then went and threw it in the Seine.
On learning this dreadful news‚ Mina displayed such distress‚ such despairing anger that Goupil flew into a terrible fit of insane fury. Mina had to be dragged out of the brute’s clutches and sent into hiding‚ over in the Glacière district‚ with a rascally but charitable scrap merchant.
Goupil then began to terrorize everybody. No one dreamt of calling the police. We just put up with the maniac‚ everyone hoping the inescapable end of the tragedy would come swiftly.
This went on for two weeks. Goupil would return at dusk‚ fed up with looking for Mina‚ and drown a cat‚ sometimes two. He ate the last of them and sold their pelts.
One lunchtime‚ when Mina unwisely visited Les Halles and was searching through the heaps of rubbish‚ Goupil ran into her. He beat her up and dragged her back home half unconscious. He locked her in with the aid of a padlock and went prowling up and down the street for hours‚ without ever letting the entrance to the building out of his sight.
He returned home very late.
A little after the curfew started‚ the noise of a terrible argument woke the neighbourhood. A ruthless battle had begun between Goupil and Mina. Fearfully‚ people gazed up at the roof from their windows.
The disturbance ended with a long drawn-out howl.
Old Tacoine‚ who lives opposite‚ said he caught sight of a yellow creature – he couldn’t swear to its being a big cat – escaping through the skylights.
In the morning‚ Dumont‚ accompanied by Séverin and myself‚ broke open the door. Amid the incredible clutter of smashed boxes‚ tattered rags‚ rubbish of every kind‚ we found neither Goupil nor Mina.
Just a stiff grey she-cat that had been hanged from the window frame.
In its contracted claws‚ there were tufts of red hair.
I carefully gathered up these hairs. I handed some of them over to my childhood friend B‚ a local furrier. On first inspection‚ he told me‚ ‘It’s fox hair.’
I met him the day before yesterday. ‘By the way‚ that tuft of hair – it was pulled out of an untanned skin. In my opinion‚ it came from a living creature.’
I’ve tried several times to relate this story. Some sort of reluctance‚ some unconscious but irresistible rule of silence made me transpose it and recast it as a story of the Middle Ages. Nor can I say what prompts me to write it down now‚ without rereading it. That would be too painful.
I nearly forgot: I told all this to Doctor N‚ the black vet who knows about such things‚ the one who said of the vicious tom‚ ‘There’s more to that cat than meets the eye.’
The kindness of that man‚ especially towards animals‚ is legendary. He fixed his eyes on me with an expression at once wary and regretful. Thowing his door wide open‚ he said‚ ‘Just mind your own business.’