September 1943
We’re under the full sway of uncertainty‚ indecision‚ flagging defiance. Every Frenchman has pinned to his kitchen cupboard a map‚ bought from a street hawker‚ of ‘The Theatre of Operations in the East’.
Every midday and every evening at nine o’clock‚ with a pencil or if he’s patient with the aid of little pins‚ he amends his ‘front line’ as he listens to the news from Radio London.
This is as far as his worries extend‚ his fighting spirit is confined to this. There’s increasing acceptance of the idea this endless conflict is just a huge con that we French can hardly complain about‚ for compared with all the rest of Europe we seem to be spoiled little darlings.
The producers‚ directors and stage-managers of future wars should have learned by now that a war‚ just like a film‚ cannot sustain periods of tedium. If the rearguard gets fed up and bored‚ the front-line combatant feels the effect‚ and this has an enormous influence on the quality of his output (fighting‚ that is).
As for me and my friends‚ whose information comes from sources not at all propagandistic‚ we know this will end sooner or later with the already orchestrated defeat of the German forces. We’re on the winning side. But I tell myself that if I were capable of holding any convictions and these drew me to the other side‚ I’d be no less blithe a loser‚ and I’d have no apprehensions whatsoever. Anyway‚ I congratulate myself every day on being in permanent contact with a select group of people who are no more in the business of altruism than anyone else – each man is primarily pursuing his own personal adventure – but who bring to bear an edge of danger‚ risk‚ violence‚ excitement without which dying of boredom would be only our just desert. All the same‚ if one day we hear talk once again of ‘authorities’ being entitled to some respect from a population that has regained its citizen status‚ the restored institutions – republican or otherwise – will have considerable difficulty in getting themselves taken seriously.
Fortunately the City is vigilant. It too has its secret weapons. Since the summer it has released safety valves that form part of a wonderful mechanism‚ known only to itself. For the past three months we’ve noticed the most heartening appearance all over the place of eccentrics‚ more or less raving lunatics‚ cranks‚ and reinvigorating crackpots. The most modest lay claim to securing only the well-being of France‚ or Europe. But the majority take on the whole World with a capital W‚ if not our poor little planetary system in its entirety. We already had our established comics: the ineffable Ferdinand Lop‚ about whom the most ignorant purveyors of anti-semitic‚ anti- democratic (as if that still had any meaning)‚ anti-whatever shit prose vent their indignation at ten francs a line in the appalling Pilori. I’ve long been convinced that our national institution Ferdinand isn’t as crazy as he likes to appear‚ and I think there’s something courageous about him. He lets the wolves howl and continues to receive a succession of contradictory messages announcing the arrival under the Pont des Arts of the submarine that will eventually pick him up and take him to the North Sea to negotiate a settlement between the warring parties. So what’s so stupid about that!
There’s Raymond Duncan‚ on Rue de Seine. Olympian‚ hieratic‚ cunning‚ superficial‚ he feels the need to dress like a character in an Aristophanes’ play adapted for Barret’s circus. He ignores the kids who make fun of him in the street. He continues to preside over ‘Socratic dialogues’ attended by frightful old trouts wearing huge hats‚ fantastic creations in which stuffed birds frolic among French-style gardens scattered with candied fruit. Duncan has managed to outwit the very naive Occupying Authorities: although an American‚ he’s not subject‚ as the rest of his compatriots who remained in France are at this time‚ to the regime of concentration camps‚ with all due honour‚ respect and deference owed to the shareholders and co-owners of many a steelworks‚ armaments factory and other bauble-manufacturing plant located in Hitler-controlled territory. There’s Fèvre‚ the booted‚ jacketed‚ pensioned-off soldier‚ with his long straggly hair under his bell-crowned hat‚ his wan face typical of the persecution maniac‚ his eunuch voice‚ his corkscrew cane. There’s Praying- Dodo‚ in a perpetual state of ecstasy‚ who‚ blessed with amazing suppleness‚ falls to his knees every ten paces‚ with his hands held out before him‚ and touches the pavement with his forehead‚ grown calloused as a result. And a few others of lesser distinction and interest‚ but no less longstanding members of the cohort of everyday eccentrics who will leave their mark on this quarter-century. They’ve been categorized‚ accepted‚ included once and for all. Only a country bumpkin would be prompted to raise an eyebrow.
And now we have the new ones‚ the unsuspected prophets‚ messiahs‚ krishnas‚ those ‘we’d always been waiting for’. There’s no part of the city that doesn’t pride itself on its own preacher.
Montmartre has its ‘public astronomer’ who for forty sous will show you the Moon and its craters through a gimcrack telescope‚ and treat you to a bonus tirade: ‘Ambassador of the stars‚ in the name of the billions and billions of galaxies’ (which is not greatly compromising)‚ ‘I protest against the war and I see the way out …’
Auteuil has Baptiste the tramp‚ a veteran‚ of the 1914 war of course‚ who predicts the imminent self-destruction of humanity‚ and the conquest of the world by horses‚ sea horses‚ land horses‚ the ressurrected ghosts of all horses killed in all battles of all ages.
At Grenelle‚ there’s the raving Ben Derrer‚ who by special favour is in constant communication with Mohammed. A third sex has come into existence‚ henceforth responsible for perpetuating the species. From now on it’s a mortal sin to put to normal use whatever bits of human plumbing we may have at our disposal. The future belongs to abstainers‚ masturbators‚ paedophiles and lesbians. So there you have it!
In Parc Montsouris‚ it’s a more serious business‚ because there’s a whole gang of them. Two gangs rather. What am I saying? Two sects who very decorously meet in the Marronniers temple‚ above the waterfall‚ and very politely indulge in absurd discussions. They are the ‘Radiant Vectorists’ and the ‘Perpendicants’. They’ve repeatedly baffled the guards‚ who must have thought they were using some sort of private language and left them alone. But when some police informers got to hear about them‚ they organized a raid. Apparently‚ it all came to nothing. They were just a bunch of low- grade clerks‚ very junior employees‚ harmless pensioners quite incapable of explaining why they felt the need to talk a lot of nonsense for at least an hour every day.
Yes‚ there’s a wind of madness blowing these days – and this is no random choice of metaphor. No one’s immune from the collective enervation that’s affected people’s minds. Everyone considers himself a bit of a hero. Including – and this is the real disaster – the genuine heros. Those who ought not to see themselves in those terms for some time yet. I’m thinking of the guys I rub shoulders with every day‚ who‚ having been parachuted in‚ are being hunted down‚ and face the prospect of violent death if not the most dreadful torture. They’re well aware of what the slightest folly‚ the smallest departure from the very strict and very basic rules of caution might lead to. It makes no difference. They’re all capable of picking a fight with the most insignificant Feldwebel they might happen to run into at the wrong moment.
At Place Maubert‚ where their carefully fostered – this is one of their secrets – physiological plight keeps my tramps in a permanent state of nirvana‚ a universe of soft light and muffled sound‚ a weightless‚ insubstantial world‚ life’s an orgy of ultimatums and melodramatic gestures. A request for a glass of brandy on credit is met with a tirade that would have done Corneille proud.
Imagine the literary buff‚ steeped in his beloved classics‚ rejoicing in a memory that sings‚ prepared to dispense kilowatts of goodwill‚ who fetches up at the Odeon on an off day. There are days like that‚ when everything rings hollow‚ and even the hollowness is unconvincing. There’s nothing to be done about it: the inspiration’s not there. He’s left with a terrible sense of disappointment‚ resentment‚ against whom he doesn’t exactly know: the playwright or the actors? All he can do is curl up in bed‚ alone‚ all alone‚ and console himself with suitably wrought alexandrines.
With the tramps it’s different. The one who swears to God he’ll soon make his fortune solicits a miracle. For he knows that miracles can happen. You have to prop yourself up or sit down in a quiet corner‚ make sure you don’t attract any attention‚ close your eyes if you can – and listen. The fellow talks to himself. He lays out his gems. ‘On the head of Geneviève who had a little girl that died at the age of seven …’
This is way past the point of melodrama. This is high drama‚ the real thing. An event is never just what it is in itself and nothing more. It’s what goes on around it‚ at the same time‚ that makes it – potentially – a tragic situation.
You have to have been exposed to this‚ at least once‚ to understand it.
The responsibilities‚ day by day more serious‚ that I’m taking on constrain me to be always mentally alert.
So I’m now quite incapable of dozing as I used to‚ of devoting quite as much time to day-dreaming and doing sweet nothing. My investigations‚ my research take up all my leisure time. I would eventually like to publish‚ among other things‚ a glossary of French words that owe their origin to the lesser-known aspects of Parisian life. I’ve already conducted some very curious analyses and made some unexpected discoveries.
There is an ordinary‚ respectable‚ and equally unpretentious noun that nevertheless derives from the most Rabelaisian earthiness: the word ‘patère’. You know‚ that thing that causes you to forget your raincoat‚ on which people who still wear them hang their hats.
The word also means (according to Larousse) ‘gadgets’ fixed to the wall that serve to support curtains. Patère supposedly derives from patera‚ a Latin word that means something completely different. Well‚ far from it‚ as it turns out.
The Roman patera was a vessel ressembling a shallow saucer‚ used for libations. Its shape was reminiscent of our present-day wine tasters. On the grounds that these receptacles were usually embellished with engravings‚ they’ve been likened to the decorative metal heads sometimes attached to the ends of patères‚ or hooks: all this in order to justify a far-fetched etymology. You are mistaken‚ gentlemen of the Sorbonne. Once again‚ Paris has the right answer.
Now‚ in olden days‚ on Monkey Island‚ a spit of green beyond Les Gobelins that divided our old friend the Bièvre in two‚ there used to be some constructions of wood and branches. The land belonged to everyone‚ and riverside dwellers with time to spare liked to come and relax now and again in this quiet and shady place.
Now‚ during a period I believe I can date to around 1350‚ a priest whose name posterity has not bequeathed to us went into retreat on this island in the summer season. An early Robinson Crusoe‚ he lived austerely in a hut built by his own hands‚ and devoted himself to strict and profound meditation. When the weather was hot‚ he was not above devoting himself to pious ablutions in the waters of the river. Few human beings lived in that place. And the pure-hearted priest‚ having nothing to hide from his Creator‚ would bathe in nature’s apparel although‚ as a mark of the utmost respect‚ he would keep his hat on.
Brambles and brushwood formed tufted promontories‚ and the shores of the island were thus fringed with charming creeks where a person could feel at home‚ in the trustful privacy of earliest times.
One day the priest ventured a little further out than the curtain of foliage allowed. The water only came up to his mid-thigh. And there he found himself face to face‚ so to speak‚ with two adorable naiads – it might have been Eve with her twin sister. Surprise transfixed our sirens for a while. And perhaps a touch of curiosity …
The ways of the Lord are impenetrable. Was not this vision one of the temptations the Gospels warn us against?
The priest was in a quandary: wanting to observe the basic tenets of decency‚ and also to beseech God not to let him succumb to temptation and to deliver him from all his impure desires.
In great agitation he removed his hat‚ which he placed where eternal laws dictated‚ joined his hands above his head and in all humility recited: Pater noster qui es in coelis …
Then the miracle occurred: O‚ the Lord in His omnipresence is ever mindful of His servant! The hat remained in place.
Adveniat regnum tuum …
The marvellous efficacity of the Paternoster recited in such dramatic circumstances confirmed the priest in his edifying beliefs.
With his own hands‚ he built a chapel on that very island and adorned the front of it with the face of a young woman radiant with divine purity. And the chapel was dedicated to St Patère. No one held against him the addition of this newcomer to the ranks of the blessed.
Even among the Elected‚ there should be a ‘Company of Irregulars’.
I’ve come across late 16th-century references to the remains of the St Patère chapel. I have a special fondness for this little saint. I think of her every time I hang up my raincoat.
I’ve run into the Gypsy‚ of Rue de Bièvre fame‚ on several occasions. He continues to occupy the site of the demolished house. Despite his actually very weak denials I haven’t concealed from him my conviction that the whole series of disasters connected with this place was his doing‚ and due solely to his ill-will. But leaving that aside‚ I don’t presume in any way to pass judgement on him or his behaviour: I confine myself to my very self-centred remarks. Fascinating as they are. He smiles‚ without ever compromising himself.
However‚ one day‚ he said to me‚ ‘I shan’t be staying in Paris all the time. I’ve two things to ask of you: if you run into me anywhere else but here‚’ (his circular gesture was intended to include La Mouffe‚ La Maube‚ and La Montagne)‚ ‘act as though you’d never seen me before. There’ll be time enough to renew our acquaintance‚ if you so wish.’
‘All right. I give you my word. What else?’
‘You very likely have contacts … among architects … city officials …’
‘Very likely indeed. So what?’
‘So‚ do as you will‚ say what you like‚ but make sure that no one decides to build anything you know where‚ for a long time‚ a very long time.’
‘Why not? What would happen?’
‘Catastrophes … unimaginable … there’s nothing more I can do about it …’
‘I’ll see to it‚ I promise. One day I’ll even write about it.’
‘That would be better still.’
Dolly-the-Slow-Burner‚ who’s out looking for me‚ stops me crossing Rue de la Huchette. She’s covered kilometres of paving stones and asphalt before catching up with me. With a firm grip‚ she drags me off to St Séverin. Into the church. There at least no one bothers you.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Yes … No. Yes and no.’
‘Keep-on-Dancin’?’
‘Lying low. There’s trouble brewing. He’s got to go into hiding.’
‘What’s he done now?’
‘The Corsican …’
A discreet but nervous gesture‚ indicating that I’m not going to be given any details.
‘And what can I do?’
She comes right up close. A whisper: ‘There’s no one but you that’s to be trusted any more. We’ve got to get something to him …’
She draws out of her bag a brown paper parcel tied with string.
‘What is it?’
‘Right. Where?’
An address‚ or some crazy joke? Rue des Terres-au-Curé. There’s actually a street in Paris called that? The Street of the Priest’s Estate?
Yes. At Porte d’Ivry. On the outskirts. Low-built houses. Very few Germans. No cops. Keep-on-Dancin’ greets me in this simple little restaurant with the kind of deference and courtesy I’m not really used to.
Stuffing the parcel into his pocket‚ he asks: ‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Not right now‚’ I said.
‘So much the better. We’ll talk later. But don’t ask any questions.’
We went for a walk. In that quiet neighbourhood too‚ a lot of people make their living dealing in second-hand goods. We went into a shop with an earthen floor‚ a kind of storeroom‚ an Ali-Baba’s cave filled with the most disparate and apparently most useless objects. The owner is a Polish Jew‚ a jolly little chap whose French vocabulary comprises not more than fifty words. He’s contrived to instal a bar in a corner of this retreat. He pours us some excellent plum brandy.
‘You see‚ Papa Popovitch is one of the best‚’ declares Keep- on-Dancin’. ‘Seeing it was me that introduced you‚ you can ask him for anything. Even dangerous things‚ which is something good to know.’
The guy has his own way of concurring: with a burst of laughter. I’m amazed this old fellow doesn’t seem to be affected by the raids and all the kinds of persecutions with which his community is oppressed.
‘He’s registered at Gentilly‚’ explains Keep-on-Dancin’‚ ‘but he lives round here. Nothing to fear. You see‚ this area lies outside the zone I marked out for you one day. But you’ll be able to complete the map‚ draw a line from Place d’Italie. Because Paris is expanding‚ little by little. It takes a lot of time and patience before it embraces a new village.’
Keep-on-Dancin’ made it clear he didn’t want to share any more of his problems with me than he had already.
‘My affairs are my own look-out‚ it wouldn’t serve any purpose to get you involved. I’ve got to get away from the City. It’s getting too hot to stay here.’
I said‚ ‘What about your Corsican? Have you seen him again?’
The look in his eye said it all as he calmly replied‚ ‘If by chance you meet him in the street and you don’t like ghosts‚ cross the road.’
Keep-on-Dancin’ put into an envelope two pages of notepaper covered with his neat upright handwriting. These are addresses‚ practically all of them of drinking establishments‚ telephone numbers‚ names like Swindle-the-Hat at Les Tonneaux between eight and midnight; Redhead-Dora‚ Passage Ramey at five o’clock‚ etc. All these people‚ on the sole recommendation of my friend‚ are to provide me in case of need with unhesitating and unqualified assistance. This is extremely valuable. But that’s not all. Keep-on- Dancin’ mounts his hobby-horse and is determined to pass on to me his final tips‚ for we’ll probably never see each other again. He tells me‚ this time in extraordinarily abundant detail‚ where best to go in Paris to instigate‚ discuss‚ conclude an affair of this or that nature. And above all‚ the places to avoid. It’s a kind of initiation into the mysterious fluxes that pulse in the darkest secrecy of the City’s veins. Keep-on-Dancin’ also told me a number of astounding things I’m forbidden to divulge. Especially his last remark‚ a matter of eight words. And suddenly he leaves me there‚ shakes my hand and is off‚ into the boulevard outside without a backward glance.
I had for some time felt I was being followed‚ tailed to be more exact. No matter how much I resorted to the ploys used in such circumstances – abruptly turning round‚ stopping in front of shop windows that reflected the traffic in the street – I saw no one. Yet I cannot be mistaken. Finally my mind was put at rest: it was the Gypsy‚ who came up to me with a smile on his lips after Keep-on-Dancin’ had left.
‘I wouldn’t have spoken to you. Remember what you made me promise …’
‘Oh! I remember. And that’s valid from this evening. But before that I wanted to see you one last time.’
‘How did you know I was in this area?’
‘When I want to find someone‚ I know how to go about it.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Well‚ I’m leaving Paris for a while. I have to change my name.’
‘Because of the police?’
‘Not at all. It’s a family matter. I may tell you about it one day.’
‘So you want some false documents?’
‘No need. We have our own ways and means.’
‘Money?’
His smile broadened.
‘No‚ no. I’ve chosen you as my godfather: you’re going to tell me what my first name’s going to be for the next seven years.’
What he told me‚ I shall be able to reveal later.
Yesterday‚ between eleven and midnight‚ at a time- honoured location in Rue St-Medard‚ as instructed by the Gypsy‚ I played my part in performing the rites of his tribe. We had a glass filled with wine. With the aid of a razor‚ we each made a small incision in our left wrist. A few drops of blood fell into the wine‚ which we drank in four mouthfuls – two each. The Gypsy will henceforth be named Gabriel.
I already knew quite a lot: I’ve often had the pleasure‚ when a rare document has come into my hands‚ when my eyes have fallen on the forgotten pages of a three-hundred-year-old book‚ of realizing that what I’d just read confirmed intuitions that didn’t even need any external proof to become certainties. But Keep-on-Dancin’ and the Gypsy‚ the latter especially‚ opened up new horizons to me‚ when I was far from suspecting they were so vast. I couldn’t help going and prowling round Rue de Bièvre once more‚ by myself. Having paid my respects to the wretched place‚ I found myself walking past the railings of the archbishop’s palace‚ and my footsteps led me to the Ile St-Louis‚ ‘isle of my misty delight …’‚ that enclave of trusting peace‚ that vessel of dreaming stones with which‚ at certain times‚ on certain nights‚ I feel I’m communing. As I crossed the bridge it occurred to me that the Gypsy was not the only one of his race to have cast an evil spell on a site of Parisian wrong-doing.
A chronicle of 1427‚ in the middle of the Hundred Years’ War‚ tells us that on 17 April of that year‚ twelve ‘Penitents’ arrived in the City: that’s to say‚ ‘a Duke‚ a Count‚ and ten men on horseback that describe themselves as Christians of Lower Egypt driven out by the Saracens who having come to the Pope to confess their sins were told as a penance to travel the world for seven years without lying in a bed. Their retinue was of some 120 persons‚ as many men as women and children remaining of the 1200 they had been at their departure. They were lodged at the village of La Chapelle where crowds flocked to see them. They had pierced ears from which hung a silver earring. Their hair was black and curly‚ their women very ugly and witches‚ thieves‚ and fortune-tellers …’
These ‘Bohemians’ were summarily banned from the City‚ where they intended to commit themselves to ‘spectacular devotions’. Faced with the intransigence of the mounted police‚ they tried to stir up the ever-generous crowd of onlookers. They were rounded up and forced on to the ferry‚ then landed in batches on the shores of the Ile Notre-Dame‚ which now forms the prow of the Ile St-Louis‚ until they could be repelled further. This swift banishment was not to their liking. At which point the penitents revealed their true selves and put a curse on the branch of the Seine they’d been forced to cross.
Since when‚ at that very place‚ things have happened.
In 1634 the Wooden Bridge‚ built by Marie de’ Medici‚ was no more than ‘an eight-yard span‚ with railings on either side’. It was inaugurated with a jubilee procession. When three parishes rushed onto the bridge at the same time‚ it collapsed. Twenty drowned‚ forty injured. In 1709 what remained of the bridge‚ badly damaged by ice-drifts in the Seine‚ had to be demolished. It was rebuilt in 1717‚ and painted red; hence the name ‘Red Bridge’‚ perpetuated by the tavern that stands at the corner on the embankment. This structure soon began to display signs of inexplicable weakness. It was closed to carriages. In 1819 the arches had to be rebuilt. By 1842 the accursed bridge was again in danger of collapse. A provisional metal bridge was erected‚ then the stone-built Pont-St-Louis … which completely collapsed in December 1939.
Since then‚ we have this dreadful makeshift structure of wooden planks and iron crossbars linking the two islands.
‘Where my horse passes …’ as Attila was wont to say.
For all that‚ I don’t think Gypsies ought to be likened to birds of ill-omen. They return evil for evil‚ and good for good. One hundredfold. Their powers seem to exceed them. I knew some in Spain who could read the stars; in Germany‚ who could heal burns; in the Camargue‚ who tended horses and could lessen the birthing pains of both women and beasts.
There are some human beings who are not bound by human laws. The sad thing is perhaps they’re not all aware of it.
Meanwhile‚ here’s an idea I volunteer: the day when the borders of Europe and elsewhere become‚ as they once were‚ open to the movement of nomadic tribes that some regard as ‘worrisome’‚ it would be interesting if researchers qualified in astronomy (yes‚ indeed)‚ with calenders and terrestrial and celestial maps to hand‚ were to examine the routes travelled by wandering Gypsies.
Maybe they’ll discover that these slow and apparently aimless journeys are related to cosmic forces. Like wars. And migrations.
The Gypsies were persecuted‚ in France and elsewhere‚ with cyclical regularity in a vicious‚ inept and stupid manner. Almost as much as the Jews. In Paris for century after century they were corralled outside the successive boundaries of the City. In 1560 they were banished by the Estates of Orleans‚ on pain of being sent to the gallows or the galleys if they dared to show themselves again. Tolerated in a few regions riven by heresy‚ driven from other places as the descendants of Ham‚ the inventor of sorcery‚ nowhere were they regarded as anything but a menace.
Only people with a yearning for the supernatural dared to reach out to them‚ beyond walls and barriers. Nowadays‚ there are some who have become ‘respectable’‚ ‘assimilated’ – a dreadful word! – who take pains to conceal their origins‚ except from those whom they know – or sense – to have an intuitive sympathy towards them.
I can’t resist the pleasure of relating at this point a fifteenth- century legend. It relates to the effigy of a virgin that once adorned the choir of the chapel of St Aignan‚ the remains of which are still to be found in the City‚ on Rue des Ursins‚ very close to Notre-Dame.
At the window of a low-built house‚ a young girl sewed and mended her family’s clothes. Outside‚ children played beneath her gaze: her own younger brothers‚ and the neighbours’ sons. One hot afternoon a Gypsy minstrel was making his way to the parvis of St-Julien-le-Pauvre where‚ as was the custom‚ singers‚ musicians‚ storytellers‚ animal exhibitors‚ and contorsionists came to give an open-air demonstration of their talents and to hire out their services to the stewards of castles near and far.
The Gypsy stopped in the middle of a little square lined with squat houses. Attached to one of these houses was a well-head.
Women stood chatting round it. The Gypsy drew a viola from his green canvas bag. He patiently tuned it.
Attracted by the appearance of the bronze-skinned young man‚ by the bright colours of his unusual style of dress‚ by the strange shape of his instrument‚ the children came running.
The Gypsy took up a position near the young girl and observed her at length.
The maiden’s hair was braided and pinned up beside her cheeks in the fashion of the times. A white veil framed her face of such perfect beauty that its sweetness‚ refinement‚ oval purity were already legendary: had not a monk drawn inspiration from it to paint the virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel?
The Gypsy began to play. And the melody that filled the air was so captivating‚ so appealing‚ the sound of his instrument so ravishing that‚ stilled and reduced to silence‚ everyone there was caught in its spell: for spell there was. But it was not intended to affect the children or the women rendered speechless with wonder and admiration. The young girl realized the Gypsy was playing for her‚ and for her alone. The departure of the musician‚ who against all expectation solicited no payment for his playing‚ left her overcome with blissful languour. In her innocent mind unfamiliar dreams began to flourish.
On the following days‚ the Gypsy returned at the same time to play in the same place. His gaze grew bold enough to meet that of the young girl. He must have beheld there so much admiration‚ gratitude and amazement mingled with a desire at once fierce and ill-defined that the magic stratagem he was pursuing seemed to be favouring him. When he was sure of having won the fair child’s heart – to what demonic end? – he began to play a bizarre tune‚ at first heart-rending‚ disquieting‚ and then obsessive; ever faster but always dwelling on the same motif‚ one that seemed to want to sweep up in a frantic saraband houses‚ stones‚ sun and people.
He concluded abruptly‚ on a shrill note. Then off he went‚ very quickly‚ without looking back‚ and disappeared into the narrow streets that led towards the cathedral.
It was impossible for the young girl to conceal from her family how deep – and strange – an impression the Gypsy had made on her heart and her feelings. And her father had taken exception to the street musician’s insistance on playing his bewitching tunes outside her window. He was about to chase him away when the Gypsy left the square.
That very evening the young girl‚ succumbing to a sudden fever‚ began to shiver and grow delirious. Her mother sat at her bedside.
‘Mother‚ the Gypsy’s calling me. He draws me to him with his violin. He plays as he walks and people come running‚ people of many colours …’
‘Those are the colours of the lingering clouds. It will be dark soon. Go to sleep.’
‘The Gypsy‚ the Gypsy‚ he’s calling me! Everyone’s dancing round him. There are so many people! I can’t see their faces. I’m going‚ I want to join him! I’m leaving. He’s calling me‚ he’s calling me!’
There was nothing to be done but to send for a priest. Even before midnight he was reciting the prayers for the dying.
No one ever knew what became of the Bohemian. Once again all foreign nomads were driven out of the City‚ with the intention they should be banished from the realm.
Many people believed that during the requiem mass they saw the pure-faced virgin above the choir in the St Aignan chapel stir‚ and her complexion darken.
And who was the German poet’s inspiration for the legend of the Roi des Aulnes (Der Erl-könig)?
Here‚ I must yield to the voice of the great Kostis Palamas:
‘Music becomes flesh and thrives in a new world‚ a new man … He‚ the last-born‚ son of music and love‚ shall arise in triumph over an ample land‚ prophet of a soul yet more ample …
‘Take me in your arms‚ o great virgin forests‚’ he said‚ ‘and listen! And we embraced him in our dream and the voice of the singing lyre consumed everything‚ became an abyss‚ a dream and an incantation: we became a temple‚ and he a bard‚ a prophet‚ a god of harmony …’
O Bohemians of my Bohemia! Happily the curses and anathemas heaped on you for centuries have not shaken the vigilant fraternity of your true bards.
Every day the words that Keep-on-Dancin’ and the Gypsy imparted to me – theories‚ observations‚ advice and warnings – are substantiated and acquire deeper meaning.
‘It’s not for nothing there are so many bistrots in Paris‚’ Keep-on-Dancin’ asserted. ‘The reason so many people are always crowded into them isn’t so much they go there to drink but to meet up‚ congregate‚ come together‚ comfort each other. Yes‚ comfort each other: people are bored the whole time‚ and they’re scared‚ scared of loneliness and boredom. And they all carry around in their heart of hearts their own pet little arch-fear: fear of death‚ no matter how devil- may-care they might appear to be. They’d do anything to avoid thinking about it. Don’t forget‚ it’s with that fear all temples and churches were built. So in cities like this‚ where forty different races mingle together‚ everyone can always find something to say to each other.
‘But this is something you need to know: when you find a place that suits you‚ where you decide to go back to often‚ to meet your pals there‚ if you want to feel at home and not discover some snag at the wrong moment‚ sit yourself in a corner‚ write letters‚ read‚ try and eat there‚ and watch what goes on for a whole day. At least twice during the day‚ and three times if the place is open at night‚ there’s that moment of “temporal void”. It happens every day‚ at the very same hour‚ at the very same minute‚ but it varies from place to place. People are talking‚ letting their hair down‚ having a drink together‚ and all of a sudden‚ the moment of silence: everyone turns stock still‚ with their glasses in the air‚ their eyes fixed. Immediately afterwards the hubbub resumes. But that moment when nothing’s happening – it can last five‚ ten minutes. And during that time‚ outside and everywhere else‚ for other people life goes on‚ faster‚ much faster‚ like an avalanche. If you’re prepared for it‚ and take advantage of that moment not to be fazed and to have your say‚ you’re certain to be heard‚ and if necessary even obeyed. Try it. You’ll see.’
It’s absolutely true. At Les Grilles Pataillot‚ on Rue Frédéric- Sauton‚ the first ‘temporal void’ is at 12.36. I happened to be there three weeks ago. There was Jean the mattress-maker‚ a very simple decent sort of fellow‚ and among some dozen regulars two young housewives everyone knew‚ Jeannine and Thérèse. They’re great friends and usually do their shopping together. The ‘vacant moment’ came. And during that pause Jean‚ looking at the two woman and voicing what was passing through his mind – normally not a great deal – said‚ ‘Oh‚ look! Coquette and Cocodette.’ That was all. Just a couple of words. Anyone could have said any other words. But the moment of their utterance invested those words with such weight‚ such resonance‚ they prospered. From that day on‚ throughout the entire neighbourhood‚ they were no longer Jeannine and Thérèse‚ seen together doing their shopping‚ but Coquette and Cocodette.
No one will shake my conviction that those leaders of men‚ who are in the nature of carbuncles‚ of semi-conscious abscesses‚ who draw feverish crowds to them like noxious humours‚ have an innate knowledge of arrested time. They play with those vacant moments as though at a game of chequers. A fraction of suspended‚ frozen time‚ of inert time‚ jammed like a wedge into the most wonderfully oiled cogs of the most lucid of minds: and the whole mechanism is brought crashing to the ground‚ prepared to accept any authority‚ to endorse the most monstrous aberrations‚ especially collective ones.
You have to have been present‚ as I have‚ at one of the Licht- Dom ceremonies to understand the Nazi phenomenon‚ to experience its sterile grandeur and to appreciate its real danger‚ which will not cease with the defeat of the Wehrmacht.
Cyril is devoting himself to developing his ‘receptive’ faculties. He now claims to be capable of distinguishing‚ more or less at a distance‚ a true Nazi from an ordinary German soldier. It’s mostly in the metro that he indulges in this little game. He picks out a Jerry with his back to him. He tries to get close. Puts out all his feelers. Makes his assessment. Then all he has to do is check. Those who were members of the Party or belonged to the Hilter Youth before 1939 wear a black-and-purple badge. Apparently he’s never wrong.
What I’ve been doing until now is not ‘adventurous’ enough for my taste. There is a danger‚ of course – it’s all about not getting caught – but it’s just the work of a clandestine bureaucrat. So I no longer take any notice of strict instructions that preclude me from any other activity apart from my official missions.
I distribute false papers as freely as handbills to anyone who asks. I hide escapees‚ parachutists. I’ve arranged for Austrian deserters to slip into the southern zone. Now I’m taking really big risks. But my luck never fails: my City’s taking care of me.
However‚ I did go a little too far in giving my address to Oscar Heisserer. He’s a guy from my regiment. We recognized each other in the street. He’s Alsatian: another five hundred metres and he’d have been German. He speaks French without an accent‚ but his mother tongue is the language of Goethe. I recall that he was not very keen on the phoney war. Once he was taken prisoner‚ he immediately became very friendly with the Jerries. A little more perhaps that was appropriate. His comrades – for whom he acted as an interpreter and ‘right-hand man’ – didn’t like him‚ and among themselves referred to him as a turncoat. Freed as a German national‚ he doesn’t fancy putting on a German uniform and being sent off to the Russian front. I made up a set of papers for him in the name of Lagarde. Census certificate‚ work permit‚ the lot. Yet I know he’s very impressed by the German ‘order’‚ very influenced – perhaps since before the war – by Nazi propaganda. He’s exactly the type to be wary of. I’ve been insanely reckless. But he’s tortured by doubt and I like to play on that.
I also have ‘my’ cops. These guys are pure gold. The most valuable‚ and he’s also a really decent bloke‚ is Jean Lecardeur. This enormously fat man has been out of uniform for at least fifteen years. He acts as an inspector at Les Halles‚ where he has the power to allocate ‘medals’ – the licences for authorized porters. He lives at Ste-Geneviève-des-Bois‚ near Brétigny‚ and every morning he brings me my liaison agents’ reports‚ as some of them actually work on the base there. Lecardeur takes care of my ‘babies’‚ as he calls them‚ providing them with fruit‚ vegetables and sometimes meat.
The other day he told me he had a problem on his hands. He’s got mixed up with a stateless person‚ a Hungarian called Zoltan‚ who has once and for all signed his own separate peace with whoever’s fighting‚ Axis or non Axis‚ and has little desire to go and swell the ranks of Admiral Horthy’s troops.
His long and eventful wanderings through central Europe had reached their logical conclusion when in 1938 Zoltan settled in Paris‚ where he intended to lead a quiet life free of surprises. Twenty years of adventures and mixed fortunes had furnished his mind with enough memories to fill the three or four hours of blissful daydreaming Zoltan allowed himself every day‚ regardless of how convenient this might be.
Employed in a circus in his native Budapest at the age of twelve‚ Zoltan Hazai became successively an apprentice pastry-cook in Belgrade‚ the proprietor of a disreputable eating-place in Saloniki‚ a docker at Tulcea on the Danube.
He embarked on a Russian vessel and for two years stacked crates on the wharves of Odessa. After that‚ he travelled through Poland‚ northern Germany‚ and was in France when the phoney war broke out. He fell under the suspicion of the police authorities – no one quite knows why – and it was only thanks to the confusion following the German attack that he didn’t enjoy the hospitality of our own concentration camps (which‚ since the flight of the Spanish Republicans‚ will never be any credit to our country – far from it).
Since the Occupation‚ the situation has changed. Zoltan keeps to himself‚ lies low‚ plays dumb. But a man has to live. Being of very muscular build‚ he finds work now and then at Les Halles.
Which is how he came to be taken under the wing of Jean Lecardeur‚ whose duty was to hand over this ‘maverick’ to the Police Aliens’ Department‚ that’s to say‚ the Germans.
‘He speaks German‚ Russian‚ all the languages of the East. We should give him some false papers. He could be useful to us.’
Yes‚ but I can’t pass him off as a Parisian when he still speaks so haltingly. In France he’s mixed almost exclusively with Jews‚ Poles and Gypsies. Besides‚ his physique won’t allow him to pass unnoticed. We’ve found him a job as a labourer with a timber merchant‚ at Clamart. And it’s turned out well. According to Lecardeur‚ the Hungarian feels the need to get rid of so much physical energy that‚ in addition to his job‚ he seeks out and cheerfully performs the most arduous tasks. I went to see him twice. I was pleasantly surprised by his evident intelligence‚ his knowledge of men‚ his patient indulgence towards those of a pig-headed or fanatical disposition. To enable him to improve his French‚ I lent him the series of novels by Panant Istrati: Kyra Kyralina‚ Uncle Anghel … He devours them and in just a few days has already made astounding progress.
It was raining outside. All day long a persistent drizzle imbued garments‚ faces‚ even the walls with a kind of chilly dampness that seemed to seep from within. We’d met up‚ all the artist crowd‚ at the Quatre-Fesses.
Feeling dejected and chilled‚ we’d unadventurously ordered for ourselves‚ each man for himself‚ some pretty poor quality drinks: thin red or acid white wine.
When Olga‚ a brunette with her hair cut very short‚ pudding-basin style‚ had reassured herself that none of us was in any mood to misbehave‚ she said‚ ‘All right. This evening‚ drinks are on the house.’ Thereupon she opened a litre of punch and immediately set it on the stove to warm up.
The atmosphere soon improved. We all had something to say about the rain and we started chatting. During the course of the evening Gérard gave Olga one of his canvases.
I gave her friend Suzy some engravings I happened to have with me. And Paquito – a new recruit – offered to go and fetch coal from the bunker at the back of the yard the following morning. Olga and her companion were so touched by these demonstrations of generous goodwill that the glasses of punch were succeeded with a pretty good Beaujolais‚ accompanied by a rustled-up snack.
Outside the rain grew bolder. Now less furtive‚ it drummed down fiercely‚ and occasionally a vicious gust would drive it horizontally against the windowpanes. Olga asked us to help her lower the shutter and bolt the door‚ so we’d be more cosy. Who could possibly be expected to turn up at such a late hour in weather like this?
It was then that she appeared in the doorway‚ breathless from running‚ dripping wet‚ with her hat in her hand. Very beautiful. Really very beautiful. She gave the impression of having fallen with the rain‚ and as she wiped her face‚ of swallowing childish tears.
Her name was Elisabeth. She stayed‚ not in too much hurry to leave‚ waiting for the rain to stop. She stared at all of us in turn. She was probably surprised that‚ having asked her name‚ none of us felt the need to pose any further questions.
It was for fear of being disappointed‚ of finding out she was stupid or not at all virginal. We were satisfied with her just as she was. Her wet hair and pale face lent her the charms of a water-sprite.
Olga had taken off her shabby coat and hung it to dry by the stove.
The rain intensified‚ we could hear it pelting on the asphalt and roofs. We’d turned off the light that could be seen from outside. Huddled in the semi-darkness‚ squeezed up next to each other‚ we were about to take it in turn to recite in hushed tones one of the poems that haunt our memories.
At that moment brakes screeched outside the door. There were two sharp knocks on the iron shutter‚ then two more with a greater interval between them. ‘It’s Edmond‚’ said Olga. ‘I’ll go and let him in.’
She went down the corridor.
‘It’s no joke getting in here!’
My chum Edmond and his inseparable companion Bucaille jigged about‚ shaking themselves dry. Naturally they ordered drinks – all round‚ would you believe it!
We really liked Edmond and Bucaille. Nevertheless‚ they’d broken the incipient spell and we were disappointed. I was certainly annoyed with them.
True to form‚ after cracking a few coarse jokes‚ though not too obscene on account of Elisabeth being there‚ these two cronies got out their notebooks and pencils‚ and started settling some business between themselves. Within two minutes they were shouting and hurling abuse at each other as though about to come to blows.
Edmond had put down in front of him a pile of old books that had been saved from pulping. The boys and I started to look through them. The argument between the two rag- pickers went on interminably. It’s all beyond me‚ but I think I understood that one of them was accusing the other of having sold him some copper more dearly than the going rate. They ended up shouting figures at each other. ‘A hundred and eighty!’ ‘Two hundred and five!’ Then from behind the stove‚ behind the rest of us‚ a shrill quavering voice said very calmly‚ ‘A hundred and eighty-eight! It’s dropped six francs since the day before yesterday!’
I had plenty of time to notice that the Old Man’s hair and beard were unruffled and completely dry as if he were immune to the weather‚ or had emerged from some underground tunnel whose outlet nobody knew of.
He asked for some warm milk and gazed at us good- humouredly.
‘So‚ my friends.’
He pointed to Elisabeth.
‘Who’s this young lady?’
‘A friend‚’ said Gérard.
‘Elisabeth‚’ said the water-sprite with a smile.
The Old Man Who Appears After Midnight stroked his beard with that familiar slow gesture.
‘Elisabeth … mmmmm … yes … pretty.’
The rain drummed its fingernails on the lintel outside.
‘Where does the young lady live?’ asked Edmond.
‘Rue d’Ulm‚ beyond the Pantheon‚ with my aunt.’
‘I’ve got the van. No point in getting your feet wet. At five o’clock I’ll give you a lift. Until then‚ you might as well relax …’
Edmond‚ Bucaille and Paquito started a game of cards.
Olga and Suzy dozed in each other’s arms.
Gérard found a sheet of canson drawing paper and began to sketch a portrait of the girl.
As usual I offered round my packet of cigarettes. The Old Man thanked me with a meaningful smile‚ a smile that said‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect me to smoke?’
Yet he drinks milk and‚ on other occasions‚ wine. So why not?
There’s no way of getting him to talk. I know he never answers direct questions‚ especially about himself. But that’s no reason to be so timid and unenterprising. I’ve known fear before now – but not fearfulness. With the Old Man‚ that’s how I was‚ tongue-tied and pathetic‚ and I felt the total absence of radiance‚ projections of warmth or any other emanation that might have issued from him. I was intimidated by a moving stone. The Old Man could read me like a book‚ and he smiled. He doesn’t know how to chuckle‚ he can’t possibly know. It was he who broke the ice.
‘What became of that Pole you brought along to Rue de Bièvre one day. You seemed very anxious about him.’
I notice he addresses me as ‘vous’. I had the impression he normally used the familiar ‘tu’ with everyone. His question throws me into confusion. The number of times I’ve thought about that moment when I felt death lurking‚ taking stock‚ as though quite at home. I try to respond. ‘But that was during the daytime. You weren’t there. How could you …?’
To silence me‚ a wave of his hand‚ and the same meaningful smile‚ which this time said more or less‚ ‘You don’t seriously expect me not to know something?’
I yield to his authority. ‘The lad survived. He’s not in France any more. He’s keeping himself in training somewhere else‚ until he can get back to work.’ And I made a noise‚ ‘Bzzz … bzzz …’‚ pointing at the ceiling.
The Old Man looks at me intently. ‘No news of Keep-on- Dancin’?’
‘No. Because I don’t want to hear any. I know he’s alive and that’s enough for me. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know which of the two would have been better off not spending so much time with the other. But you were bound to meet.’
These words were spoken in a tone of voice that removed any suggestion of slight or offence that might have been detected in them. They mostly conveyed a strange regret. Could the ‘powers’ of our old after-midnight visitor be so restricted?
I’ve had plenty of time to relive that awful moment when‚ sensing Watsek to be a marked man‚ I exerted all my energies to try and save him‚ this time at least‚ from a fateful end. As others would have prayed with the most concentrated fervour.
Watsek made it. Only the young gunner was killed. There should have been two corpses. That claim was outstanding‚ and death wants its due. Which of the others?
If I learn of Keep-on-Dancin’’s death‚ even in twenty years’ time‚ I shall feel partly responsible.
The water-sprite was tired‚ the light too poor. Gérard put away his drawing and decided to finish it another time: the girl had promised to come and see us again.
I borrowed a sheet of paper from Gérard and a charcoal pencil. I did a fairly elaborate sketch of the Old Man – he complied with good grace – which I carefully put away in our group’s portfolio until I could fix it. Watching me strive so hard to capture his features‚ especially the detail on one of his hands‚ seemed to delight the Old Man. He didn’t say why.
We made some coffee. Notre-Dame struck five o’clock. We all got to our feet. In the confusion that preceded and followed our farewells‚ the Old Man melted away.
The next day I bought some Lefranc fixative and borrowed Gérard’s aspirator in order to preserve my portrait of the old boy‚ which I considered quite successful. I hunted through the portfolio in vain‚ I couldn’t find my drawing. In the end we took out every single item it contained‚ one by one. I recognized my sheet of paper‚ carefully laid flat on a piece of white card. The drawing had completely disappeared‚ as though it had been rubbed out. We had to clean the bottom of the portfolio‚ for the cloth was blackened with charcoal powder.
Elisabeth came back to see us now and again. And then it became a habit. Very young‚ newly arrived from the country. No other family but her aunt‚ a prospector for old books and rare documents.
Funds were low: ‘the black flag flew over the cooking pot’. The girl had no work experience‚ and certainly didn’t have the face or the hands of a domestic servant or waitress. We wanted to help her out.
Gérard eventually sold a few canvases. Paquito received some pretty meagre funds from his family‚ but they came regularly. Séverin survived‚ by falsifying foreigners’ passports when their visitor’s permit expired. For this‚ he used my own fake ID materials. As for myself‚ I put everything I earned into the kitty‚ as well as my allowance from the network budget. For everyone it became easier to get by. Meanwhile Doudou Landier‚ born in Tahiti‚ an excellent painter and sculptor‚ was allowed to ‘join the club’. And Clément Dulaure‚ a sign painter‚ decorator – wood-graining and marbling – who thought that because he occasionally copied a postcard with the skill of a good craftsman it was only natural he should be included in our group. Much younger than the rest of us‚ and ‘not one of the lads’‚ he was soon Elisabeth’s lovesick suitor. A very pure‚ shy‚ romantic suitor. Apart from the poet’s cape‚ all he needed was the balcony‚ the guitar and the knotted climbing rope.
One day we hatched a scheme amongst ourselves. We’d get Elisabeth to pose for a few hours a day in Doudou’s room‚ which was spacious. We’d pay her‚ and it would be too bad if one of us didn’t manage to produce a saleable piece of work out of it.
Dressed up in more or less bizarre costumes‚ the girl posed with a guitar‚ a child‚ a bandoneon‚ and a large earthernware oil jar that we chose to see as an amphora.
The lovesick Clément didn’t get back till the evening.
Our canvases‚ gouaches and drawings found favour here and there among the local metal traders. Géga especially became something of a patron.
On one occasion Elisabeth agreed without any problem to pose with a bared breast. It was with no ulterior motive‚ and certainly with great tactfulness that we asked her to give us a few quick full-nude poses every day. To show her how natural‚ commonplace‚ necessary and uncomplicated it was‚ we took her to the Grande-Chaumière one day.
She agreed‚ on condition we kept it a total secret. And above all‚ above all‚ ‘Don’t tell Clément! He’d be really upset.’
Ah! That body‚ that line‚ that pearly whiteness! For the past two months we’ve felt akin to the artists of classical antiquity.