I’m very pleased to say that‚ since my enrolment in the fighting forces‚ extraordinary good luck has protected my companions and me. We’re not any of us ‘spies’ exactly. We’re all quite incapable of that. I run a mapping and transmission centre. The others are radio operators‚ liaison agents‚ coders – all technicians. Not double-dealers. With our makeshift means‚ we daily defy detection by German direction finders. Danger lurks all around. I can always smell it. I am then extremely self-possessed: all senses keyed‚ capable of any miracle‚ ‘supercharged’.
I’ve learned that‚ just as a war between men is not a human- scale phenomenon‚ danger that assumes a human form and a human quality is much more related to time and place than to its extremely unwitting vehicles.
Yesterday‚ at Quarteron’s‚ in Rue de la Montagne‚ I made a complete fool of myself and aroused suspicion. I must learn to curb my friendly impulses when they are rather too spontaneous.
I was taking round this young Pole‚ who arrived from London the day before yesterday‚ and has been entrusted to my care. He has a radio transmitter. On Tuesday‚ two Wellingtons piloted by compatriots of his will come and photograph the Brétigny airbase‚ which I ‘monitor’. He will guide the mission by radio telephone from the ground at Marolles-en-Hurepoix. He speaks very little French‚ very good German‚ not bad English. I’ve provided him with an air- raid warden’s identity card – this has become child’s play for me: his name is now Watsek‚ he’s an engineer working for the Jerries on the Belgian border. We’re all set. But between now and then he has to make contact with the ‘wireless group’ of my network‚ and take part in a broadcast from Paris. The risks are enormous‚ and I think it’s stupid to put this boy in danger almost needlessly. But those are our orders.
I can’t help being extremely worried about him. So I wanted to take him on what I call the ‘salutary tour’ whose twists and turns are familiar to me. A stop here‚ another there‚ and elsewhere if necessary: he will‚ without knowing it‚ be infused with hopefully protective energies that will also rid him of all kinds of burdensome‚ paralysing and‚ if one’s not careful‚ possibly fatal handicaps. It’s his pointless death I’m afraid of. I daren’t say‚ I have this feeling about it. It’s high time to take the matter in hand.
Gérard‚ the bearded painter‚ was with us. These days he looks devilishly unkempt.
Evidently on edge‚ old Quarteron was rummaging through a pile of bills. He kept glancing apprehensively at a stout fellow sitting at a table‚ doing some calculations‚ with a bottle of bubbly to hand and three empty glasses. Two officious- looking individuals‚ their hands in their pockets‚ raincoats flipped behind‚ hats tipped back‚ were nervously pacing up and down. Quarteron seemed pleased to see us. However‚ he said‚ ‘Sidonie came by this morning. She says hello.’ Which clearly meant‚ ‘Watch out. I don’t know these geezers‚ or not very well. Better be careful.’
I gave him a reassuring wink. Of the three blokes‚ I knew two of them: Joseph Brizou and Tricksy-Pierrot. Gangsters‚ the worst kind of ruffians‚ but no squealers‚ not at any price.
The stout fellow looked up‚ saw Gérard’s beard‚ and said‚ ‘They’ve got class‚ these guys!’ I was offended. I take the most infinite pains so that my dress and appearance attract no attention‚ wherever I might be. My Pole‚ in his narrow-shouldered coat‚ has the harmless appearance of a fast-growing schoolboy. But I didn’t say a word.
‘Not so bad‚’ said Brizou.
‘How are you doing?’ I replied in time-honoured fashion: it’s our little joke.
Brizou set up three more glasses and filled them up with what was left of the bubbly in the gold-topped bottle. Tricksy-Pierrot relaxed‚ came over and shook hands. But he had other things on his mind. Abruptly he turned to the big fellow.
‘Have you worked this one out? You know what the risks are? You know what the score is?’
Unfazed‚ the other guy says‚ ‘You just keep on dancin’. I’m an old hand at this game.’
This tickled me. I burst out laughing and the tension eased. Quarteron took me aside for a moment to tell me that Keep-on-Dancin’ was a very dangerous crook (why should I care?)‚ that every police organization was after him‚ and it was all very well this whole gang being good clients‚ but as long as they were here‚ he‚ Quarteron felt nervous‚ and he didn’t mind admitting it.
When I rejoined the others‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ gave me a sidelong glance. ‘Now you’ve been briefed. You know what the score is‚ right?’ Quarteron looked uncomfortable and bent down to pick something up off the floor. I burst out laughing again and ordered a bottle.
Keep-on-Dancin’ gave me a slap on the left shoulder that made me stagger. And we exchanged one of those bone- crunching handshakes that take their toll on your finger joints.
Well‚ he sure made me sit up and listen‚ that guy! The others couldn’t keep up with us. They went to bed. I gave my key to Watsek. He slept in my bed‚ tanked up with schnapps. At six o’clock in the morning‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ and I end up at the bottom end of La Mouffe‚ near Les Gobelins‚ sitting in front of two bottles of nicely chilled white and a steaming lobster‚ just out of the pot‚ that was still alive half-an-hour ago. These days‚ it’s almost a crime. It’s offensive to the other fellows in the bar. Who aren’t complaining. Keep-on-Dancin’ told the bartender‚ everyone that comes in gets a drink on him.
All night and all morning‚ we talked about him and Paris‚ Paris and him. They’re inseparable. To be more accurate‚ there’s a certain Paris and a certain aspect of him that are inseparable.
I’ve seen it before‚ and it’s always amazed me: when men who’ve met by chance realize in the course of their conversation that they both have the same mistress and‚ instead of adopting the dignified‚ cold and constipated attitude appropriate to such a situation‚ laugh heartily and shower often liquid attentions on each other‚ whispering into each other’s ear‚ swopping risqué confidences and getting emotional. Well‚ it was just like that with Keep-on-Dancin’ and me‚ with regard to our city. Not an ounce of jealousy between us. We complement each other. Men are so isolated‚ prisoners of their own wretched selves‚ that they can be unbelievably sociable.
Leaving Quarteron’s‚ he sniffed the fresh air from La Montagne‚ listened to the tentative strains of an accordion that unknown hands tried their skill upon behind an open window somewhere in a block of darkness. And then he breathed in deeply‚ and said something very commonplace: ‘Ah! Dear old Paris! There’s nothing like it.’
He dragged me off to Rue Descartes. Perhaps out of professional idiosyncracy‚ I took it into my head to relate‚ for his sole benefit – and what a first-class audience! – the history‚ the anecdotal history mostly‚ of the already hushed streets we wandered. Walking past the Quatre-Sergents café-tabac awakened memories in him. ‘I know that lot well‚’ he said. ‘You might say those four guys were mates of mine: Goubin‚ Pommier‚ Raoulx‚ Bories. When I was a kid‚ the patron would point out a big old table in which they’d supposedly engraved their names with a knife that was hanging on the wall‚ alongside a handgun dating from the same period. There was also a colour picture in which the four of them held their glasses raised‚ with the sea and the sun in the background‚ and even on the sun they’d stuck a red cap.’
‘Yes‚ but that’s not the only establishment in Paris operating under the aegis of the four sergeants from La Rochelle: there’s another one on Boulevard Beaumarchais.’
‘Sure. And the other?’ (He was expecting to catch me out.)
‘The other? Good Lord‚ yes! Rue Mouffetard‚ Olivier’s …’
‘Olivier’s‚ that’s right.’
‘The carved and painted tavern sign used to hang outside. But they did well to move it inside and mount it on the wall …’
‘Yes‚ and do you know why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why they moved the sign inside.’
‘Because of the rain?’
‘Like hell! It’s because it serves a purpose. A purpose that you don’t even suspect. It’s closed now‚ but we’ll go there in the morning‚ as soon as it opens. I’ll tell you about it when we get there.’
I’d passed this hovel in Rue Thouin a hundred times‚ never dreaming there was a clandestine canteen in the backyard where you could eat your fill of excellent charcuterie smuggled in from Brittany. Keep-on-Dancin’ is a valued customer here; they call him Monsieur Edouard. He spends lavishly. We regaled ourselves. And Keep-on-Dancin’‚ who was in expansive mood by then‚ was determined to describe to me his harrowing youth.
‘It wasn’t really my fault. I was a strapping lad‚ and unruly‚ and I’d had a succession of “fathers” – five or six of them. They’d thrash me‚ but I could never conform‚ never be told what to do. When I was seventeen‚ a lousy NCO deserter shacked up with my whore of a mother.’
‘Don’t say that. You can’t‚ you mustn’t say such a thing. Even if you think it. Even if it’s true.’
The table must have been solid‚ he would have split it otherwise. He shouted‚ ‘It’s true‚ true‚ true. And I’m entitled to badmouth her‚ because here‚ here‚ that’s precisely the one thing you can’t do and that’s bullshit.’
‘Now‚ just calm down.’
‘I couldn’t stand the bastard. And most of the time‚ it was yours truly who was the breadwinner. So one day I decided I’d had enough. The bozo tried to throw his weight around. I was in a foul mood. With a single punch‚ just one‚ with this fist here’ (he gazed at his huge hand as if it didn’t belong to him)‚ ‘I clocked him‚ right on his temple. He fell badly. Died of concussion. I ended up in reformatory on Belle-Ile. I was with guys who had nothing left to lose‚ guys with eyes that burned too bright … You get the picture?’
‘Yeah‚ I get the picture.’
‘After that‚ there was no going back. Maybe I could have taken advantage of the 1939 war to straighten myself out: but I was in prison. And now I’m as tough as they come. I’m a hard man in my line of work‚ but basically there isn’t a more miserable wretch than myself. Understand?’
‘Of course I do. I really wish I could help you‚ and it’s quite possible that one day I might be able to. Anyway‚ there’s something I find reassuring about you.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve taken in everything you’ve told me‚ I understand your predicament and I deplore it‚ but try as I might I don’t feel the slightest hint of what’s called pity. I think that’s just as well.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
His thoughts ran on.
‘It’s all down to Paris. You see‚ it’s because of Paris‚ the city without its inhabitants‚ that I’m not serving life. I’m really lucky that Paris has a soft spot for me.’
‘I’d like you to explain what you mean. I’d also like to know why here more than anywhere else you can say what you like but you can’t bullshit.’
‘Madame Rita‚ you wouldn’t have a street guide?’
‘But of course‚ Monsieur Edouard.’
‘I’m pinching it from you. Here‚ buy yourself another one in the morning.’
He handed her a bundle of small bank notes.
He tore out the folded pages – one for each arrondissement – and began to lay them out on two adjoining tables.
He marked with his pen reference points corresponding to central squares‚ crossroads. And rapidly‚ confidently‚ he drew two‚ more or less straight‚ parallel lines: one on either side of the Seine. And two lines running across them. Finally‚ an irregular curve that clearly traced the route of the old city wall‚ dating from the thirteenth century. ‘That’s the circuit. Within that circuit‚ everything’s deadly serious‚’ he said.
This was getting fascinating.
I said‚ ‘Go on.’
He took his time.
‘You know the Vieux-Chéne‚ of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘And how much do you know about it?’
‘A fair amount. The old washhouse … Casque d’Or‚ Leca and Manda‚ the brawls …’
‘What else?’
‘Periodically‚ it’s as if fire starts to run in people’s veins: knifings over the merest trifle‚ even murders …’
He chose his words for effect.
‘Listen. Every seven years: a pitched battle or bloodletting‚ and not just some pin prick‚ it’s got to be serious‚ the blood has to flow. And every eleven years – it’s a fact‚ there’s evidence to prove it – murder‚ with loss of life. There has to be at least one death. It’s the street‚ the place that dictates it. You know the Port-Salut?’
‘With the railing‚ Rue des Fossés-St-Jacques? Sure.’
‘What happened there during the Revolution?’
‘Save your breath. It’s been a breeding ground for conspiracies since the year dot.’
‘And is it any different now?’
‘I don’t want to know.’ (Honest to goodness!)
‘Fine. What about this place?’
He shows me on the map. It’s near the Seine. I laughed.
‘Oh‚ my! It’s an old bistrot that functions as a bit of a brothel on the side‚ just for the odd customer‚ so word doesn’t get round too much.’
‘Since when?’
‘Are you kidding? Since the days of St Louis‚ at least.
‘Dames au corps gent‚ folles de leur corps
Vont au Val d’Amour pour chercher fortune.’
[Fair wanton ladies go to Val d’Amour
In search of fortune’s favour.]
‘That figures. So listen to this. Do know what La Mouffetard was before?’
‘Before what?’
‘Before all of this. Before there were any houses.’
‘The Via Mons Cetardus‚ a graveyard where the Romans who occupied the City allowed Christians to be buried. In fact‚ even today‚ from time to time a sarcophagus turns up. It was the Aliscans of Paris.’
‘Right. The Christians at that time … they were sort of outcasts?’
‘Well‚ they were regarded by others with some suspicion …’
‘Did you know that since forever the Mouffe’s been a place for saying phoney prayers?’
‘Phoney prayers? What do you mean?’
‘Prayers that are different from everyone else’s. Not the common currency. Ma’me Rita‚ you wouldn’t have the last few days’ newspapers?’
‘Indeed‚ Monsieur Edouard.’
And Keep-on-Dancin’ starts going through a dozen or so papers. His attention is completely devoted to this. He produces a flick knife with a blade as sharp as a razor. Every now and again he cuts out a very short paragraph‚ without any headline; and he puts the cutting in his pocket.
In its pure form‚ suppressed anger‚ that builds up because it can’t find any conductor through which to discharge itself‚ has a potentially huge destructive power. From Keep-on-Dancin’‚ silent‚ preoccupied‚ his teeth clenched‚ there emanated a raging storm of terrible humours. Anger‚ anger alone consumed him‚ permeated him‚ had become his entire being’s sole reason for existence. Though he strove to contain himself‚ nonetheless I dreaded an imminent eruption. Unseen by him‚ I picked up one of the articles he’d cut out. It gave notice‚ without any comment‚ that one Armand B‚ condemned to death by the Criminal Court of the Loire‚ for a double murder‚ had ‘paid his debt’ to ‘society’.
‘It won’t be long before the inevitable happens‚’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get to Olivier’s by first light.’
I said‚ ‘It’s a beautiful night. There’s something of Villon in the air.’
Keep-on-Dancin’ gave a start. ‘Villon! Did you say Villon? François Villon?’
‘Well‚ of course.’
‘Hang on. I’ve got something to show you.’
In his gun pocket‚ he had a luxury leather-bound edition of Villon’s Testaments and Ballads. But with him‚ nothing could surprise me any more.
‘He’s my man‚ my hero‚ if I’d known him‚ we’d have made a curious pair. I should have had a brother like him.’
He wanted to trace the poet’s footsteps. ‘So how far up the Rue St-Jacques did his uncle Guillaume live? And where exactly was the Pomme-de-Pin located?’
I answered his questions as best I could. We recited to each other under our breath ‘The Ballad of the Gallows-Birds’.
‘No‚ your pronunciation’s wrong. It’s much simpler than that.’
He meekly corrected himself. After which he heartily slapped me on the back. ‘You’re a great pal‚ and no mistake.’
I’d forgotten that since midnight‚ it was Sunday. On the stroke of five‚ we went out for a breath of air. At the very same moment‚ two hundred gnomes‚ goblins‚ elves or witches‚ clothed in rags‚ carrying enormous bundles‚ harnessed to trolleys or hauling improvised carts‚ emerged from the shadows like maggots out of a cheese‚ and coughing‚ belching‚ yawning‚ jostling‚ arguing‚ hurried in the direction of St Médard. These were the ‘owners’ of the first stalls of the famous Mouffetard Flea Market‚ on their way to fight over the best places on the pavements of Rue St-Médard and Rue Gracieuse. A very ancient concession permits the rag-pickers and anyone else who wants to come here‚ every Sunday morning‚ to trade their goods on the pavement‚ without having to hold a licence‚ or pay any fee.
At Olivier’s‚ the small smoky room ‘decorated’ with old colour covers of the Petit Journal Illustré was already filled with a chilled‚ damp‚ acridly steaming rabble.
The shop sign‚ of imposing size‚ brightly coloured and freshly revarnished‚ is affixed to the wall‚ to the left of the entrance.
The bas-relief figures of our four conspirators‚ each with a glass in hand and fired with enthusiasm‚ stand out against a seascape background overcast with pitch-darkened clouds. The naive skill of the craftsman who made this piece‚ a real jewel of popular art‚ betrays the exact date of its conception and completion: some time during the course of the year 1822‚ this jobbing-sculptor was in the grip of emotion‚ the generous indignation of a population incensed by the absurd beheading on Place de Grève‚ of four very young prankish insurrectionists. I ask you‚ what NCO in his cups has never made up his mind to save France – or some other country?
Keep-on-Dancin’ nudged me with his elbow. A man stood motionless in front of the sign‚ which he seemed to be examining with close attention. He was not in the least affected by the increasing rowdiness. It was dawn. Revealed against the light was a sharp profile set off by a narrow fringe of greying beard. I got as close as I could to this man. I’m sure I’m not mistaken: he was praying with unusual fervour‚ I could feel it. This went on for some minutes‚ very long minutes. Almost imperceptibly‚ the man bowed his head three times. And then he turned and approached the counter. Keep-on-Dancin’ went up to him and with easy familiarity placed his arm under his elbow. I thought they knew each other. But not at all. Keep-on-Dancin’ signalled to Olivier‚ with his thumb‚ to serve the fellow a drink‚ whatever he wanted. And then my newfound friend drew from his wallet a large sum of money: several thousand francs. Discreetly‚ he offered them to the guy. ‘For the family‚’ he said‚ in an undertone. The man thanked him with a knowing smile and a handshake that spoke volumes. He went off without having uttered a single word. Keep-on-Dancin’ produced one of those cuttings he’d taken from the day before yesterday’s newspapers.
I said‚ ‘Thanks. I’m beginning to understand.’
‘Maybe‚ but you don’t know the whole story yet‚’ he said.
And he whisked me off once again. He pointed to the Vieux-Chêne. Between the two first-floor windows were displayed the old oak’s twisted branches and sturdy roots.
‘Could you say how old that tavern sign was?’
‘No. All I know is that it was already there by about the middle of the seventeenth century.’
‘What’s it made of?’
‘Wood‚ with several layers of plaster mixed with alum‚ to protect it.’
‘What kind of wood?’
‘How do you expect me to know that?’
‘I’m going to tell you: ship wreckage. The wreckage of a vessel that sank in the Seine estuary in 1592. I repeat: fifteen ninety-two.’
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘Here and there‚ but mostly at Melun where I was doing time.’
They sure as hell know a thing or two‚ the guys that graduate from Melun!
Keep-on-Dancin’ went on‚ ‘And do you know where its sister sign is?’
‘Yes‚ on Rue Tiquetonne‚ there’s one that resembles it: the Arbre-à-Liège. Old La Frite’s place.’
‘Right. To begin with‚ you’ll realize they’re both cut from the same wood. But apart from that‚ you don’t notice anything?’
‘Straight off‚ no.’
‘I’ll fill you in. First‚ we’re going to have a bite to eat.’
And that’s how we came to buy the lobster.
Keep-on-Dancin’ lifted a corner of the veil for me. In simple words‚ commonplace expressions indicative of the fundamental honesty and profound goodness that inform this veteran villain‚ he led me to discover my City from a wonderful perspective. I would never have dared to imagine everything he told me.
‘Yes‚ my friend‚ ship wreckage was once the wood of a tree‚ nothing special about it – just like any other kind of wood. Men cut down the tree. They sawed and worked and planed and shaped and polished and caulked and tarred it. They made a ship out it‚ and they celebrated the birth of that ship‚ they christened it like a child. And they entrusted themselves to it. But the men were no longer very much in charge. The ship too had its say. A ship’s a being in its own right‚ like a person‚ so to speak‚ that thinks‚ and breathes‚ and reacts. A ship has its own mission to accomplish. It has its own destiny. So it sinks‚ this vessel‚ it founders because it was meant to founder‚ on such a day at such a time‚ on account of this or that‚ and in such a place. Maybe it was already written in the stars. And then long afterwards‚ other men discover the wreck‚ they refloat it‚ they bring to the surface the bits of wood – and you should see with what respect they do this. And you think a piece of wreckage like that doesn’t know anything‚ doesn’t remember anything‚ isn’t capable of anything‚ that it’s as senseless as it is hard‚ that it’s … as thick as a plank? I’ll tell you something worth remembering‚ that sailors well know: wood from a shipwreck is “back-flash” wood. Whatever takes place under the auspices and under the sign of even the smallest fragment of a shipwreck cuts more than just one way. One swinish deed is multiplied a thousandfold; one flower’‚ (he meant‚ a kindness)‚ ‘will bring you a field full of flowers‚ an entire province‚ tulips‚ cyclamens‚ take your pick. For instance: there’s shipwreck wood in the base frame of the sign of the four sergeants. That’s something “the likes of us” know. Well‚ once that guy was through‚’ (he meant‚ the man who’d been praying)‚ ‘I guarantee‚ the judge‚ every member of the jury‚ the prosecutor‚ the warders‚ the hangman‚ his assistants‚ the whole damn lot of them are going to get their comeuppance‚ and how! From now on they’re jinxed. Seriously jinxed. And for a long time to come.’
‘In other words‚ it wasn’t‚ as in the usual way of things‚ for the repose of the soul of the departed that guy was praying?’
‘No. It was not a well-intentioned prayer. And believe me: to take that risk‚ the guy must have had some courage. Luckily people like him exist. Otherwise how could the rest of us defend ourselves?’
‘You say‚ “the rest of us”. There may be charges against you‚ but you haven’t actually been sentenced to death‚ have you?’
He shrugged dismissively.
‘Uh! Not quite. But as I was saying‚ the Vieux-Chêne is the only place in this part of town to have “declared itself”. Whatever you do‚ or say‚ or even think here is deadly serious‚ and fraught with repercussions. It’s the start of the circuit that has no place for bullshitters. Now‚ wait‚ I’m going to show you something else.’
He insisted on clearing the table‚ and again devoted himself to his game of patience: piecing together the map of Paris‚ the bits of which he’d stuffed into the pocket of his raincoat‚ folded up any old how.
I helped him.
Then he asked me‚ straight out‚ ‘What would you say was the true centre of Paris?’
I was taken aback‚ wrong-footed. I thought this knowledge was part of a whole body of very rarefied and secret lore. Playing for time‚ I said‚ ‘The starting point of France’s roads … the brass plate on the parvis of Notre-Dame.’
He gave me a withering look.
‘Do you take for me a sap?’
The centre of Paris‚ a spiral with four centres‚ each completely self-contained‚ independent of the other three. But you don’t reveal this to just anybody. I suppose – I hope – it was in complete good faith that Alexandre Arnoux mentioned the lamp behind the apse of St-Germain-l’Auxerrois. I wouldn’t have created that precedent. My turn now to let the children play with the lock.
‘The centre‚ as you must be thinking of it‚ is the well of St-Julien-le-Pauvre. The “Well of Truth” as it’s been known since the eleventh century.’
He was delighted. I’d delivered. He said‚ ‘You know‚ you and I could do great things together. It’s a pity I’m already “beyond redemption”‚ even at this very moment.’
His unhibited display of brotherly affection was of child- like spontaneity. But he was still pursuing his line of thought: he dashed out to the nearby stationery shop and came back with a little basic pair of compasses made of tin.
‘Look. The Vieux-Chêne‚ the Well. The Well‚ the Arbre-à- Liège …’
On either side of the Seine‚ adhering closely to the line he’d drawn‚ the age-old tavern signs were at pretty much the same distance from the magic well.
‘Well‚ now‚ you see‚ it’s always been the case that whenever something bad happens at the Vieux-Chêne‚ a month later – a lunar month‚ that is‚ just twenty-eight days – the same thing happens at old La Frite’s place‚ but less serious. A kind of repeat performance. An echo …’
Then he listed‚ and pointed out on the map‚ the most notable of those key sites whose power he or his friends had experienced.
In conclusion he said‚ ‘I’m the biggest swindler there is‚ I’m prepared to be swindled myself‚ that’s fair enough. But not just anywhere. There are places where‚ if you lie‚ or think ill‚ it’s Paris you disrespect. And that upsets me. That’s when I lose my cool: I hit back. It’s as if that’s what I was there for.’
God knows what maelstrom I’ve got caught up in on account of Keep-on-Dancin’. I certainly didn’t need this‚ but I won’t do anything to impede the unfolding of all that’s to follow.
Yesterday‚ apart from Brizou and Tricksy-Pierrot‚ his side- kicks‚ and bodyguards when necessary‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ was accompanied by a badly-dyed blonde. Not a young woman. Dumpy and loud-mouthed. He introduced us: Dolly-the-Slow-Burner. She was‚ he said‚ his ‘orderly-in- chief’. She receives his mail and when the gang wants to spend the night locally she takes care of finding them some discreet hangout.
They were all in a pretty foul mood‚ angry with some Corsican who’d crooked them in a rather complicated- sounding deal involving tungsten steel drills. Having been summoned‚ the Corsican had failed to appear. Keep-on- Dancin’ was seething.
‘This is the last time that bastard puts one over on me. When I next see him‚ even if he shows up now‚ I’m going to twist his ears.’
I knew these were not just empty words. I wished for an easing-up of tension quite impossible to achieve. Fortunately Alexandre arrived.
A rag-picker. A little too fond of the bottle. Harmless- looking sort of guy. Known round here as a bit of loony. No one pays much attention. Everyone has their little foibles.
‘Ah‚ police officer‚’ said Keep-on-Dancin’‚ suddenly relaxed‚ good-natured. ‘Have a drink‚ that’s an order.’
‘Thanks‚ boss‚ to your good health‚ boss‚ ladies and gentlemen‚ one and all‚’ the fellow belched‚ downing two large glasses of rough red‚ one after the other.
Brizou laughed outright‚ but Tricksy-Pierrot and Dolly- the-Slow-Burner‚ she especially‚ eyed him with distaste.
A great many things have been said about Alexandre Villemain. Complicated‚ disturbing‚ not very nice things. The truth is more straightforward. I heard it from Quinton‚ his main ‘buyer’. Here it is:
At forty-five years of age Villemain was called up and drafted into the territorial army to take part in the very confused phoney war of 1939–40. Impossible to get this dosser to do anything. Incapable of marching in step‚ but canny as hell‚ and a source of amusement to everyone. One day it became apparent he couldn’t read. He was redeployed to a different company – without being entered on the roll of his new unit – given a fake commission covered with bogus stamps‚ a Gras gun‚ some Lebel cartridges‚ provisions for three days‚ a bucket of red wine‚ a litre of brandy‚ and installed in a roadman’s hut by the side of a road just above Senlis. An NCO tells him‚ ‘You police the road. You stop every vehicle‚ military or civilian‚ check their papers‚ and only let them through if they’re in order. Otherwise‚ you call the gendarmes. Understand? Dismissed!’
And the regiment went off‚ leaving Villemain behind. An obliging soul by nature‚ he lent a hand here and there to the farmers‚ repaired bicycles‚ and set about scrounging from wherever he could food‚ wine‚ tobacco and‚ when reduced to rags‚ even clothes.
Locally he was known as ‘the freak’. But during his regular working hours – from six thirty am to five in the evening – he carried out his duties conscientiously‚ frowned over the documents of motor vehicles‚ allowing them to pass with a big wave and a patronizing smile. On the stroke of five from the nearest church bell‚ he would lay down his gun‚ close up his hut‚ and go foraging. His policing of the road made hundreds of people‚ including several generals‚ weep with laughter. And this went on until the exodus. Then there were just too many people: Villemain granted himself leave‚ and took a rest. Two days‚ two nights of silence‚ no other sound but that of aeroplanes in the distance‚ and above his head the crows …
And then a Panzer division turned up‚ in the most orderly fashion. It’s quite true that Villemain stopped the motorcycles riding ahead. Amazed by this apparition‚ they disarmed him‚ put him in a sidecar and took him with them ‘to show them the way’.
Arriving ahead of schedule‚ the division camped out to the north of Paris for two days. Alexandre was kitted with Kraut fatigues‚ rewarded with a pair of boots‚ and made officially responsible‚ at a Kantonsstandort Kommandantur‚ for the distribution of petrol to fugitive Belgians returning to their country.
This extraordinary adventure addled his already feeble wits‚ and ever since then poor harmless Alexandre has a way of buttonholing people. A gabardine in his eyes is a kind of uniform. Every time he sees someone wearing a raincoat‚ he sidles up to them‚ nudges them gently and says‚ very mysteriously‚ ‘I’m like you … I’m with the police …’
After Alexandre left‚ tight as a tick‚ the better off for a hearty snack‚ with a little money in his pocket‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ and Brizou joked light-heartedly. ‘Ah! isn’t he a laugh? If only all cops were like him!’ This clearly didn’t go down well with Tricksy-Pierrot‚ and Dolly had her say: ‘I don’t find him funny‚ that tramp of yours‚ no way. So what if he’s bonkers? Even if he’s got nothing to do with the fuzz‚ like this jerk who can’t even write his own name‚ any guy that imagines he’s a cop isn’t to be trusted. On principle. It’s in his blood. No need even to bribe him to grass. And‚ shall I tell you something‚ I wouldn’t be so sure this fellow wasn’t a bit of squealer.’
And Tricksy-Pierrot chimed in. ‘The poor sod must be deranged. Otherwise‚ being a local lad‚ he’d know that‚ here‚ there’s a price to be paid for everything‚ especially anything you say out of line. But it’s not me that’s got any reason to be scared of him‚ I’m lucky‚ he’s a problem for the big guys. Besides‚ you’ve got to have some fun from time to time. “You just keep on dancin’‚ I know what I’m doing …”’
Keep-on-Dancin’ wanted to take everyone to eat at some place run by a Chinaman he knew‚ when the Corsican turned up. It would have been better if we’d left five minutes earlier.
What a ugly mug! I’ve come across him two or three times before. He’s revolting. He calls himself Sacchi or Saqui or Saki. He says he’s from Calvi‚ but I’d swear he belonged to that rabble of the voluntarily stateless‚ reprobates from all over‚ those oily‚ greasy‚ creepy-crawly‚ stinking human cockroaches that infest some Mediterranean shores. They’re not features on his stupid face‚ but rather disfigurements. Along with loose bags under his eyes and great flapping lugholes. Sick-making.
They immediately got down to business. I vaguely understood that the deal involved selling off to some German purchasing agency a consignment of drills made of metal that was hard to come by‚ all of which had been rejected as faulty. They were to be sold at full price‚ and Sacchi was willing to take care of that. But in order to keep most of the profits for himself‚ he was claiming the unverifiable existence of countless middlemen who naturally had to be bribed. The guy’s deviousness was patently obvious. Keep-on-Dancin’ held himself in check. Finally‚ with deceptive calm‚ he went up to the cringing Sacchi and said‚ right in his face‚ ‘You frigging Corsican. I gave you a chance. You can forget the drills‚ I’ll flog them myself. But you screwed me over that deal with the vices‚ and the one with the copper wire. You’re going to bugger off and stay away from this neighbourhood‚ right now. But before you go‚ I’ve got something to settle. Not with you‚ with my patch. This here is my patch. I swore I’d twist your ears. I can’t go back on my word here.’
And my giant friend grabs the other by his lugholes and sends him flying through the air over a rattan chair. It was a terrific stunt! The Corsican flailed about‚ whimpering cravenly. Quarteron did well to intervene. Sacchi was bleeding‚ both ears practically torn off.
He made a dash for the door‚ and pointing an angry finger at his torturer said‚ ‘This time I’m levelling with you: my ears will bring you bad luck. Do you hear? Bad luck they’ll bring you!’
Keep-on-Dancin’ spat in his direction. ‘Come here and say that‚ I’ll cut them right off‚’ he said‚ drawing his knife.
But the treacherous Corsican was gone.
‘Let’s make a move‚’ said Dolly. ‘We shouldn’t hang about here. That guy’s evil‚ now you’ve given him a beating he’s capable of anything.’
We went off to the Chink’s place‚ and of course didn’t get back until dawn. Clearly obsessed with what Sacchi had said‚ three times that night Keep-on-Dancin’ swore he would slice off his ears and dry them out to keep as lucky charms.
He wasn’t at all drunk.
Yesterday I was at Brétigny with Watsek‚ the Polish radio operator. Everything went extremely well. Very clear weather‚ almost no cloud. The two Wellingtons‚ after circling above for a few minutes‚ dived twice‚ braving the flak. The Jerries in a panic ran for shelter. Unfazed‚ Watsek transmitted his messages. I can breathe freely now. But tomorrow’s going to be difficult: we have to radio from Paris and our transmission centre‚ near the Gare de Lyon‚ has fallen into the hands of the Germans. Fortunately without causing us too much pain.
At lunchtime I heard that ten minutes after we left Quarteron’s the other evening four police inspectors‚ tipped off by a phone call‚ came to nab Keep-on-Dancin’. In charge of the operation was my friend Fernand. I wish he’d turn his attention to something else.
I said nothing of this to the Corsican who‚ to my great surprise‚ was waiting for me at the Trois-Mailletz. Ingratiating‚ smarmy‚ devious as ever‚ he tried to pump me for information. He wanted me to arrange one last meeting between him and Keep-on-Dancin’. He said everything could be straightened out and there was a lot to gain. Of course I refused‚ with the excuse that I didn’t know where to contact any of the gang‚ and that their affairs were of no interest to me. At which point the guy showed his hand. He bears a terrible grudge against Keep-on-Dancin’. That punishment session the other night has made a mortal enemy of him. With me‚ giving the impression as I do of being absolutely neutral‚ he feels the need to boast. Even though he hardly knows me‚ he wants to regain some sort of credit in my eyes. He inflicts stories on me‚ with no truth in them for sure‚ of cruel revenge in which he’s always cast as the leading light‚ and to which he adds crudely sadistic details as he goes along.
I let him talk because he twice said to me‚ ‘My ears’‚ (they’re both covered with dressings held in place with sticking plaster)‚ ‘my ears will bring him bad luck.’
‘But why your ears rather than anything else – your entire self‚ for instance?’
‘Just my ears. Then I won’t need to do anything else.’
‘But what are you going to do?’
‘Damn it! I’ll have them magicked. You don’t know about that?’
‘No‚ I’m afraid I don’t. And I’d be very interested to hear about it.’
‘I can give you the low-down‚ but nothing’s free. Fair’s fair‚ eh? A thousand francs.’
The little shit. I paid him half in advance. We arranged to meet on Friday morning‚ at the Gobelins intersection.
Géga is the most unbelievable guy. These days he’s always broke‚ yet he always manages to do the most unexpected favours for the wanted men that happen to end up in my care. He finds us shoes‚ decent clothes‚ food‚ places where they can sleep easy – it’s as well not to be too particular on this score – and even bicycles that he buys piecemeal‚ as the parts turn up. Now he’s the owner – or manager‚ no one knows for sure – of a little café he’s just opened in Rue de Bièvre‚ next to the vacant lot where old Hubert’s house used to stand. As Géga is completely skint – being the person we know him to be‚ this won’t last – and he has almost no supplies in stock‚ his customers pay in advance when they come to him for a drink. Then he goes and gets the glasses filled at the bar across the street. He doesn’t make anything out of this‚ which everyone finds killingly funny‚ he most of all. This afternoon we held a council of war at the Eye – the name of Géga’s new bistrot – with two radio operators from the wireless group Hunter‚ and Watsek the Pole. We have a problem. The messages that are supposed to be transmitted in twenty-four hours are so important that we must at all costs‚ whatever the risks‚ immediately find some place to send them from. Until the last few days there were two rooftops we could use to set up the aerial. The motorcycle direction finders located them. So that’s that. Transmit from the outskirts? We’d run the risk of interfering with transmissions from a friendly network based locally‚ and jamming everything‚ their messages and our own. Reluctantly‚ Cap’n Brochard‚ head of the group‚ had to come to a decision.
‘Too bad. We’ll transmit from the wine market‚ where the guy who lends me his shed has no idea what we’re going to do there. It’s almost certain there’ll be trouble. All we can do is ask for our cover to be increased. It can’t be helped‚ we have to go through with it.’
He’s right. Maybe several hundred lives depend on just one of our messages getting through: what must be averted is the bombing in the station‚ in a very densely populated area‚ of a train carrying a much greater quantity of explosives than London has been led to believe. The convoy is travelling south. A ground attack would destroy it in open countryside. That’s where I come in.
The guys looked at each other. They know what lies ahead. They nodded: OK. Watsek didn’t turn a hair.
Keep-on-Dancin’ is really playing with fire. He only has to be seen by some nark and he’s done for‚ simple as that. Well‚ there’s no reasoning with him: he insists on making his appearance in the neighbourhood.
Quite by chance he came into the Eye and on seeing me he said‚ ‘It seems I’ve sniffed you out.’
This didn’t amuse me‚ but there was nothing I could do but introduce him to Géga and the boys. They talked for quite a while. About what‚ whom‚ I ask you? About François Villon. Keep-on-Dancin’‚ who’s practically illiterate‚ almost hero- worships him. Géga‚ a well-read fan‚ was in seventh heaven. I was watching the door. You never know.
It was in 1940‚ in a cat-house in Lorraine. Some guys from another company were with me. Being responsible for the ‘good behaviour’ of the detachment‚ I had to look out for them like a mother hen.
The colonel had told me: ‘The 10th goes into attack at four in the morning. There’s no telling what they’re going to have to face.’ (He dared not come right out and say that in his view it was completely futile‚ but you could work it out for yourself.) ‘These guys deserve a bit of a good time. Just make sure they don’t get drunk. Try to get them to write home. And bring them back before midnight.’
And then the old boy turned his back to me and let drop the words‚ ‘Poor kids!’
I shall remember for the rest of my life those hours spent with four jaded tarts‚ so worn out and disenchanted they didn’t even bother with make-up any more. They were expecting to have to evacuate the area at any moment. They were much more interested in getting some sleep than in turning a trick‚ and none of my guys was in the mood for any fun and games.
They sat there quietly drinking Moselle wine. There was a general air of melancholy‚ which even affected the madam‚ who out of despair stood her round. Everyone was isolated with his or her own memories. And it was at that moment‚ as though through a mist‚ a greenish cloud which does not deceive‚ that I saw four of the ten faces turn a pearly grey‚ become attenuated‚ spare‚ translucent‚ then blurred. I even scribbled on the tablecloth some fragments of a poem:
‘Yes‚ I see you marked out beforehand
My brothers on this last morning …’
The following evening was soon enough to find out I’d not been mistaken in my forebodings.
But what happened just now‚ in the presence of Keep-on- Dancin’ and the radio operators‚ was quite different. My sixth sense‚ more edgy than ever before‚ authorizes me – no‚ compels me – to assert there are two prospective dead men among us. Two imminent deaths. Which two? I don’t yet know. It’s almost as if it were up to me to decide. An inexplicable sense of responsibility oppresses me. With all my might I project onto Watsek my will to see him survive this.
Keep-on-Dancin’ went off once darkness had fallen. Before leaving‚ he took me aside.
‘You know that bastard Sacchi? He tried to shop me. Now‚ he’s finished for sure.’ And he made three slashing gestures – two at his ears and one across his throat.
Friday evening
As was only to be expected‚ it was not plain sailing. At five to five everything was in place. At five-o-four they linked up with the relay transmitter flying over Normandy‚ halfway from the English coast. Five nineteen: tranmission completed. Five twenty-three: raid by roaring motorcycle radio-detectors‚ immediately followed by Feldgendarmes‚ and straight after by a truck-load of SS.
The equipment was left behind. Brochard‚ in his shirt- sleeves‚ rolled an empty barrel down to Rue St-Bernard‚ managed to reach the embankment and hide on a barge. He’s safe‚ as well as Watsek: but there’s one dead‚ a guy from the protection group – and two slightly wounded who’ve fallen into the hands of the Jerries. Even if they tell all they know‚ we won’t have anything more to worry about: once again the warning system has worked. One dead. Just one. I know that’s not the full score. I’m relieved about Watsek‚ but can’t help thinking of Keep-on-Dancin’. It’s no good telling myself that whatever happens doesn’t depend on me‚ I can’t shake off this awful anxiety.
This morning Sacchi was waiting for me as arranged. First of all he hit the bottle‚ and demanded his five hundred francs‚ swearing me to silence with regard to what I was going to see and hear.
I thought this district‚ essentially bounded by Boulevard Arago‚ Avenue des Gobelins and Rue Croulebarbe‚ was one that I really knew like the back of my hand. Why did it have to be this unspeakable creature‚ reviled by his fellow men and the very buildings themselves‚ who revealed to me the secret of this happy hunting ground?
Away over there‚ the Gobelins Factory‚ Collège Estienne‚ the metro shunting yards. A little closer to hand‚ the furniture warehouse. And here‚ the streets lined with low buildings‚ with their reassuring names: Rue des Cordelières‚ Rue des Marmousets‚ Passage Moret. The stones are light-coloured‚ the courtyards deep and spacious‚ from which outside staircases of mahogany wood give access to the first floors. Many artisans seem to have inherited – and continue to practise – skills of bygone days: skinners‚ bookbinders‚ illuminators‚ lithographers. The pace is slower here than elsewhere.
The faces of the people express a quiet and industrious patience. Now what have we here? That’s curious: this wall overlaps its neighbouring wall by some fifty centimetres‚ with at most a foot between them. For the locals‚ who are more of a late-to-bed than up-all-night crowd‚ this is a perfect ‘natural’ urinal. A thin man has to edge his way along the narrow space‚ which I manage to do without difficulty in the wake of Sacchi‚ to find himself at the end of a long curving passageway‚ unknown even to the kids from round here who would have used it without shame as a buen retiro. Forty‚ maybe fifty metres long‚ running between two blind-deaf-mute walls‚ one of hollow brick‚ the other of unrendered limestone. We veer right: and suddenly there’s an indentation on the horizon‚ revealing a patch of miserly sky‚ above a miniature Venice of the North. I was unaware there was a stretch of the Bièvre‚ in Paris‚ that flowed above ground. It’s cold. The windows over these black waters are closed. With your right arm you have to grab hold of a rope hanging from the wall and haul yourself on to a narrow suspended walkway that comes halfway up your thigh. Having negotiated this feat with difficulty – it’s a standing jump – you edge your way along the wall‚ until you reach a Lyon-style wooden blind: and you’re there. Jump inside‚ on to not very solid ground‚ a floor still softened by a layer of sawdust. You’re in the home of Monsieur Klager‚ right in the heart of a sorcerer’s lair. I recognized him straightaway: it was the bearded man engaged in ‘unholy prayer’ at the Quatre-Sergents on Sunday. He gave me a pleasant unassuming smile‚ but his expression froze when his eyes fell on the Corsican. He spoke to him harshly‚ treated him brusquely‚ unceremoniously. So much the better.
‘Did you bring what I told you?’
Cowed‚ cringing‚ sheepish‚ Sacchi said‚ ‘Yes. Here you are. It wasn’t easy to come by. And it cost me.’
‘That’s your business‚ keep it to yourself. You’ll never pay enough for what you’re up to‚’ growled Monsieur Klager scornfully. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
Sacchi removed the lid of an ordinary round cough-sweet tin. It had been filled with a substance that shared a likeness with him: dark‚ dirty‚ greasy and smelly. Monsieur Klager examined the contents of the tin in the daylight‚ and sniffed at them.
‘That’ll do‚’ he said. ‘Let’s get on with it. Stand straight. Don’t move.’
The other obeyed.
Monsieur Klager‚ who was wearing a grey overall‚ rolled up his sleeves. He seemed to meditate for a moment. Then he turned his attention to working some of the disgusting paste between his fingers‚ and smeared it over Sacchi’s ears‚ rubbing them with his thumbs. He followed this up with a series of strokes‚ that became ever less slow‚ from the back of his neck to his parotid glands‚ and along his jawline.
‘There you are‚ it’s done. Don’t wash it off before tomorrow. I suggest you go straight home: you stink.’
Discomforted‚ Sacchi drew Monsieur Klager out of my presence into a neighbouring room‚ to hand over the fee for his ‘intervention’. Which must have come at a high price‚ to judge by the prolonged rustle of large bank notes‚ which have a distinctive sound.
‘Now‚ I just have to get the bastard to pull my ears again. But his days are numbered‚’ sniggered Sacchi‚ his eyes screwed up‚ his mouth ugly.
‘All the same‚ you’d better watch out‚’ replied Klager. He turned to me‚ and in a decidedly more friendly tone said‚ ‘For you‚ sir … well‚ now that you know your way here … At your service.’
He obviously didn’t want me to say anything about my own affairs in front of his other visitor. We took our leave before climbing out of the window. Sacchi tentatively extended his hand‚ which Klager ignored.
I stayed with the wretched Corsican a while longer‚ in order to find out two things.
‘What are you intending to do now‚ about Keep-on- Dancin’?’
‘Get two tough guys to come along with me‚ meet up with him and provoke him. He has to touch my ears once more. But only touch them‚ mind: I don’t want to take a beating like I did the other day.’
‘And then what happens?’
‘One way or another‚ he’s in for a hard knock.’
‘Yeah‚ but tell me‚ what was in that tin of yours that smelt so bad?’
‘Don’t talk to me about it. It’s disgusting. All I can tell you is that in order to obtain it I had to get a grave-digger from Bagneux involved.’
‘You mean‚ that was the smell of putrefying flesh?’
‘Maybe.’
Having parted company with the skunk – ugh! I felt like vomiting! – I rushed back to Klager. I couldn’t help myself‚ I wouldn’t have been able to sleep. He greeted me without surprise.
‘That guy … you know him?’
‘Very vaguely. I don’t like him. He intends harm to a person I’ve not known for very long either‚ but for whom I have a certain regard. That aside‚ not much to recommend him.’
‘The one who was there on Sunday?’
‘And you’ve come here for …?’
‘I couldn’t exactly say. Originally‚ I think I’d better admit straight away‚ though I’m sure it’s not what you’d like to hear‚ out of sheer curiosity. And now because I must learn more about things I was previously completely unaware of.’
‘But who exactly are you?’
From what I told him‚ just a technical education supply teacher‚ curious by nature‚ passionately interested in everything related to Paris as it used to be‚ and whatever survives of its old traditions.
‘A journalist?’
‘Not in the least‚ especially not right now.’
That made him smile. We understood each other. He ushered me through the door at the back of the room.
Our conversation lasted two long hours. I cannot report it in its entirety‚ here or anywhere else‚ now or later. I’m bound to secrecy‚ and it’s much more out of respect than fear that I hold my tongue and stay my pen.
If by any chance‚ however‚ I happen to speak of Monsieur Klager‚ or write about him‚ I’m entitled to reveal what follows.
First of all‚ Klager’s real occupation doesn’t in any way consist of ensorcelling his fellowmen or casting spells on this or that part of their anatomy. Nor engaging in occult and baleful prayers. Klager is a brass-worker. He makes metal objects – bowls‚ goblets‚ vases‚ buttons‚ brooches – in repoussé. Right now‚ the shortage of tin and copper‚ either as sheet metal or in any other form‚ means that Monsieur Klager has been forced to do something slightly different: he makes all kinds of lanterns and light fittings. With consummate skill and very good taste‚ he uses whatever materials he happens to come by.
But this man‚ whose life should have been free of any care other than that of his very profitable livelihood‚ had not always known days of plenty and reliable friends. While still young‚ in order to avert a disaster that would have compromised his peaceful existence for ever he felt constrained to resort to a magus from Lorraine. The latter died suddenly of a stroke during a particularly serious and delicate ‘operation’. Ever since that day‚ Klager has been the involuntary heir to an enormous complex of forces – good and evil‚ to put it in very elementary terms – that he administers like a banker‚ according to his conscience and depending on the opportunities that arise to ‘unload’ – as he puts it – an ‘accrued glut’.
‘But why do you allow your power to be used both ways?’
‘Do you think that the bad people who come to me would behave any better if they didn’t know me‚ and would do less harm?’
‘But you take money for what you do.’
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t kept a centime of that money for myself: it ends up in deserving hands. And that’s not exactly charity.’
And am I any different? I try to anticipate the points of impact‚ simply in order to limit the damage‚ but there’s nothing I could do to reduce the hail of bombs.