An historian is a kind detective in seach of the fact – remote or otherwise – that brings to a set of events apparently unconnected with each other‚ the link that unites them‚ their justification‚ their logic.
You cannot imagine what great delights this profession affords. It’s as if‚ in every incunablum‚ consumed by worms and steeped in boredom‚ in every inarticulate scrawl‚ in every collection of forgotten chronicles‚ there presides a mischievous sprite‚ winking at you‚ who at the appropriate time confers on you your reward in the form of renewed wonder.
Round Place Maubert and La Montagne‚ everyone was familiar with this slightly crazy Gypsy who a few years ago used to carve puppets‚ have clothes made for them‚ and sell them at Mayette and Vaubaillon.
Our man confined himself to making glove puppets‚ that’s to say without legs‚ their costume serving to glove the hand of the puppeteer.
It was a labour of love‚ carving the figures‚ painting them‚ dressing their hair‚ ‘finishing’ them. In bars he made no secret of the pleasure he took in working his puppets. He improvised painfully funny playlets to suit his audiences’ sense of humour. But it was all the same to him as long as peals of impersonal laughter – that ‘frank laughter’ Heine speaks of – rang in his ears.
I developed some interest in this woodcarving puppeteer‚ so much so that he inspired me to write some plays for puppets. (It’s pleasant and relaxing‚ now and again‚ to ‘concoct’ folklore.) I penned five farces in the Lyons style. Vaubaillon and Billaudot published them. Through this entertaining friend of mine‚ I made the acquaintance of his main client: Monsieur Mayette.
About fifty years old. Long-time owner of a successful business‚ who’d started out as a conjurer and illusionist by profession. But above all a kindly and decent man‚ far from being uncultured‚ and most importantly instilled with that delicate sensitivity that does not deceive. What’s all this leading up to? The fact that Monsieur Mayette should have established himself there and not elsewhere. It’s always the same story.
With plenty of orders coming in‚ the Gypsy suddenly stopped making puppets. Yet‚ small-scale though this craftsman’s production was‚ his business was flourishing.
‘I’ve had enough‚’ he said to me one day. ‘I take too much trouble over my puppets. There’s no profit in it.’
‘Raise your prices!’
‘If only it were that simple.’
I wasn’t going to insist. On a previous occasion he told me he was ‘too fond’ of his creations – no two heads he carved were identical – and‚ although he’d produced hundreds of them‚ it was always a kind of wrench for him whenever he parted with one of his ‘children’.
‘I don’t know whose hands they fall into … It’s casting pearls before swine.’
Finally‚ he came out with the real crux of the matter‚ which at the time left me none the wiser.
‘You know‚ a carving‚ especially if it’s polychrome‚ is not meant to move. These faces‚ these half-bodies‚ when you animate them‚ they’re more live than the living. They can be dangerous for those who don’t really understand them. With contained energy‚ no one can predict what will happen when it’s released.’
He began to paint frescoes in cafés and then I lost touch with him.
Some time later I was reading through a number of ancient documents relating to the history of the neighbourhood. Among a great many other things‚ I learned from them that in the immediate vicinity of the Mayette premises‚ near the Passage du Clos-Bruneau (in 1248 called the Rue Judas)‚ a community of Orientals (Gypsies or Jews) had settled‚ who from before the Middle Ages had been engaged in making articulated dolls.
In my precious little Privat d’Anglemont‚ the following can be read on page 33:
‘We had encountered wandering musicians‚ organ grinders‚ exhibitors of monkeys and other live animals: there are some houses here that are veritable menageries‚ and this is where the impresarios of marionette theatre have established their headquarters.
These people have introduced an entire industry to Rue du Clos- Bruneau. They provide a living for the whole population‚ a quaint‚ gentle‚ kindly‚ almost artistic population vaguely reminiscent of certain characters in Hoffmann’s fantastic tales. They are all employed in the production of puppets. There is first of all the woodcarver who makes the heads. He is both painter and hairdresser. He makes both simple and high-quality products. He sells his high-quality youths’ heads for 2 to 4 francs; those of old men‚ with beards and white hair‚ for 10 to 12 francs; an ordinary wig‚ for 12 sous; curled and trimmed‚ for a woman or a Louis XIII courtier‚ 2 francs.
Next door is the seamstress who makes the costumes; she is supplied with the fabrics. When she works for a well-established theatre‚ such as that of Monsieur Morin‚ Rue Jean-de-Beauvais‚ she earns 2 francs a day‚ without too much effort. Then come the shoemakers who make the satin slippers for the ballerina marionettes and the leather boots for the chevaliers. The shoes cost 4 sous a pair‚ the boots 15 sous. Finally‚ the real magician of this world‚ the one who wires up the puppet. Wiring up a puppet consists of attaching all the strings to make it move about on stage: that is what will complete the illusion. A certain expertise is required to do the job properly‚ because the person responsible for making the puppet dance must never be able to go wrong and mistake one string for another‚ make an arm move instead of a leg: the way in which the puppet is wired must be such that on seeing the detached strings anyone practised in these matters should be able to say: this one is for the arms‚ that one for the legs …
So there you have it. And it was by chance that a trip to Switzerland‚ where he is still remembered‚ enabled me to reconstruct Brioché’s adventure.
Jean Brioché‚ round about the year 1650‚ was a famous tooth- puller. In the winter he operated on the Pont-Neuf and travelled round the country during the summer.
The bridge was crowded with charlatans of every kind‚ artisans‚ streetvendors‚ beggars and mountebanks‚ while onlookers gathered to watch in front of the amazing trestle platforms of Mondor and Tabarin. On a kind of scaffold all festooned with multicoloured posters‚ Brioché attracted clients whom he relieved not very gently of their rotten tooth stumps. His victims‚ thus exposed to the gibes – or admiration – of an overexcited public‚ remained as stoical as the painful operation permitted. Brioché‚ whom the populace nicknamed ‘Remover of the Cobbles of Gob Street’‚ deferred to contemporary custom by organizing a colourful and rowdy spectacle before each public extraction. Which was how he came by the idea of putting on a show of dancing puppets.
On the morning of December 24‚ 1649‚ a swarthy man stopped for a long time in front of the platform where Brioché was working his puppets. He patiently waited till the end of the performance. Then he approached Brioché‚ complimented him on his skill‚ and offered to make‚ exclusively for him‚ some much more beautiful marionettes‚ figuring the heroes of Italian farce: Pulchinello‚ Pantalon‚ Harlequin … as well as characters of religious inspiration that would allow him to stage the ‘mysteries’.
Brioché followed the man to his workshop in Clos- Bruneau. The fellow showed him samples of his work. Brioché was charmed by them‚ and placed an order for a whole set of characters. A price was agreed‚ to be paid later‚ as the puppets were delivered. A final settlement date was decided on: a year to the day from when the deal was concluded.
It was stipulated that in the event the marionettes had not been paid for by that time‚ they would revert to being the property of their creator. Brioché paid a deposit‚ and the deal was done!
The puppets were duly delivered. The dolls were so beautiful‚ and so easy to work that Brioché‚ abandoning his instruments and chair of torture‚ became his own manager‚ trained some assistants and devoted himself exclusively to putting on marionette shows. He did well by it: within a very short time he’d made his fortune.
The swarthy man came to see him and demanded some of the money owing to him.
With bad grace the miserly Brioché paid him the stipulated first instalment of the total price.
The craftsman indicated that he was making his own puppets responsible for ensuring that Brioché met his commitments. Brioché shrugged his shoulders.
He went travelling round the country‚ where his takings exceeded his hopes.
There were reports of him all over Burgundy‚ then in Savoy. He forgot about his creditor.
The very day that had been fixed for making the last payment – Christmas Day 1650 – Brioché and his company crossed the border into Switzerland.
At Solothurn‚ he put on a show for a large invited audience. The Swiss were unfamiliar with marionettes: they marvelled at the complicated leaps and bounds performed by the characters in the first ballet. Three violinists played behind the scenes‚ while puppet musicians sawed away on stage on pretend instruments. But this was only a prelude of things to come.
The curtain rose amid general enthusiasm on the previously announced play: The Damnation of Pulchinello (which sounds like a curious transposition of Marlowe’s Faust).
Then the most amazing thing happened: the puppets suddenly ignored their master! They knotted‚ tangled‚ broke the strings that were supposed to control their every movement: released‚ unfettered‚ they began to whirl‚ leap‚ quarrel‚ fight‚ and there was nothing anyone could do to arrest them.
The spectators declared that ‘no one in living memory had ever heard of such dainty and agile creatures‚ such chatterboxes as these’. The audience was alarmed: there were fears of witchcraft. The dolls were said to be nothing other than a gaggle of goblins at the command of a devil.
The Swiss police tied up Brioché and escorted by a vociferous populace dragged him off before the judge. The judge wanted to see the evidence: the theatre was brought to him‚ with the wooden mischief-makers ‘that he could not touch without shuddering’‚ and Brioché was condemned to be burnt alive along with all his paraphernalia.
This sentence was about to be carried out when a certain Dumont‚ a captain of the Swiss Guards in the service of the King of France‚ happened to turn up. Curious to see the French magician‚ he recognized the wretched Brioché who had made him laugh so much in Paris. He hurried to the judge’s house: having obtained a stay of execution for one day‚ he clarified the situation‚ explained how the puppets worked‚ and got the judge to order the release of Brioché.
This was no easy matter: for those witnesses at the trial who had been in the audience remained adamant and continued yelling accusations of witchcraft. The population of Solothurn were long divided on this issue.
Brioché returned with all possible speed to Paris. Nor did he rest until he had rushed over to Clos-Bruneau and settled his debt with the magician – I meant to write‚ with the craftsman – cash on the nail.
Thereafter‚ his fame only increased. He often performed before the Court.
Thus are legends born. I don’t know what element of fiction there is in this story about Brioché: the fact is‚ there are contemporary documents preserved in Switzerland that record the circumstances of the trial‚ and everything reported above.
I’d very much like to meet again that Gypsy who told me: ‘A polychrome carving’s not meant to move. The reactions of contained energy are unpredictable.’
I found out that at the end of the last century Gabriele D’Annunzio acquired some of Brioché’s puppets. The most beautiful. They now belong to the poet and dramatist Guillot de Saix‚ the ‘White-Bearded Child’.
Gérard is making progress. Séverin too. They’ve had a very good influence on Paquito‚ who’s developing most satisfactorily. The three of them have organized an exhibition of their works in Rue de Seine. My fellow journalists have given them flattering reviews. Since then‚ their canvases have been selling as well as can be expected. Our ‘general trading’ friends‚ Géga first and foremost‚ are giving them a real helping hand. The group’s relatively well off at the moment. But there’s a shadow hanging over all this. And the name of that shadow is Elisabeth‚ whose eighteenth birthday we’ve just celebrated.
They’re all more or less in love with her. My own feelings are more paternal. But I’m just as jealous of her as the others.
One fine evening last October a legionnaire out on the town fetched up at the Quatre-Fesses. I was there. I was in civvies. The soldier was absolutely determined to fraternize with everybody. He’d already come by during the day and buttonholed Olga. Not bad-looking in a rugged sort of way. A smooth talker – oh‚ yes indeed! – he’d made a good impression on her. In the evening he behaved in a likeable manner‚ and bought two drawings from Paquito. With no cause for mistrust‚ it seemed natural to invite him to join us at our table. He chose to sit in the corner‚ so he couldn’t be seen from outside: friends of his might pass by and spot him and he wasn’t interested in meeting up with them.
With a distant look in his eyes‚ he talked about Africa‚ Saigon‚ Shanghai‚ and Tonkin‚ where he’d fought.
He only gave the kid a polite distracted glance as he said goodbye. She didn’t seem to care about him one way or the other. But she was petulant when Clément offered to walk her home‚ as usual. And we sensed that Clément was very unhappy.
The soldier came back every evening after that: and every time he brought a knuckle of ham ‘to share among friends’‚ he said. He spent a lot. ‘Money! For all the use it is to me …’ In a steady penetrating voice he recounted his adventures in Algeria‚ Tunisia‚ and Indochina where he’d been caught up in the Japanese invasion. But he’d ‘taken to the maquis’‚ he said – just like some ordinary guy in the Cevennes.
He described the endless voyages travelling in steerage. The torpor. The boredom. His mates‚ their lives‚ their stories. And then‚ at eleven thirty:
‘Time to go. I’ve only got leave of absence till midnight.’
‘Where are you going back to?’
‘Vincennes. So long.’
And he would hurry off towards the metro. On one occasion‚ one of the regulars‚ Dédé‚ who owns a car‚ offered him a lift. He accepted. Twenty minutes later Dédé was back.
‘So soon? All the way from the Fort de Vincennes?’
‘You must be joking. I dropped him off at a hotel‚ in Rue de la Convention.’
Edmond was there. He muttered‚ ‘I don’t know what you lot think of him‚ but I don’t much like the look of him.’
The next day the soldier said he could stay later. An itinerant accordeon-player kept the place crowded for part of the evening. It wasn’t till about midnight that we were really on our own. Edmond‚ who spends more and more time with us‚ was sitting next to Elisabeth. He was awkwardly‚ touchingly attentive towards her.
The soldier had launched himself into a complicated account of an expedition in Tonkin‚ complete with parachute jumps‚ ambushes‚ belly-crawling through paddy fields. He was asked details about how he’d managed to get himself repatriated. At that point he hummed and hawed a bit‚ then recovered and began to impale and strangle the Japanese‚ or cut their throats. He was on to his twelfth when a chortle was heard‚ and that familiar little voice‚ ‘Ha! Ha! Not true!’
The Old Man‚ tucked in his corner of the banquette‚ laughed‚ sarcastically this time‚ confidently‚ with the obvious intent of challenging the imposter. The latter rose to feet‚ white-faced. He was furious.
‘What! How dare anyone …?’
‘Well‚ yes‚ someone dares! Yes‚ I dare!’ shouted the Old Man. ‘Lying comes as naturally to you as breathing. You’ve never set foot in Indochina. Or Africa. You’ve just come out of prison! Clear out. Go on.’
It looked as though the legionnaire‚ beside himself with rage‚ was going to hurl himself at the Old Man. But then Edmond was on his feet.
‘Now listen‚ pal. These other guys may have a subtle way with words‚ not me. We don’t like your spiel. Now get out of here. Maybe you’d like a lift back. To the Fort de Vincennes?’
The fellow took himself off without another word. Elisabeth looked thunderstruck. Clément was jubilant.
I’d vowed to keep an eye on the Old Man when the party broke up. Why did Edmond have to take me aside at that very moment in order to tell me – I don’t even remember what it was any more? Everyone was attending to something else: the minute our backs were turned‚ the Old Man was gone.
For a while Elisabeth received letters that her aunt’s caretaker delivered to her ‘personally’. She was completely changed‚ remote‚ distant‚ secretive‚ and often after modelling disappeared for several hours. Somebody told us that some guy met her at the Jussieu metro station. We checked it out: it was the legionnaire‚ but now in civvies. So as not to cause Clément unnecessary heartache‚ we agreed to keep him in the dark about these assignations. Once‚ Elisabeth didn’t go home to sleep. Frantic‚ her aunt woke us at dawn: we swore that she’d been with us all night‚ at an artists’ party that had carried on into the early hours.
A mouth‚ a face can lie. But not Elisabeth’s body. That day‚ as soon as she appeared nude‚ we could tell that Elisabeth had lost her virginity.
A scarcely perceptible sagging of the breasts – her upper cleavage was gone; areas of her stomach that caught the light instead of dispersing it; heavier rings round her eyes; less looseness of the hips‚ which a kind of – yes‚ that’s what it was – a kind of shame had infiltrated‚ infused‚ contaminated: none of this could escape us. We felt a stab of very bitter resentment. Our eyes must have been filled with reproach or pity: the poor girl couldn’t withstand our gaze for more than five minutes. She suddenly covered herself with a curtain and started sobbing. We didn’t press her.
Time passes. I’ve kept some sketches from ‘before’. To tell the truth‚ since that day we take less pleasure in the work.
Elisabeth continues to meet ‘her man’. We never mention him to her. And Clément‚ who’s waiting his chance‚ continues to play the lovesick suitor.
At Military Intelligence HQ‚ my basic mission is to track down those comrades of ours who were arrested here and deported to the East.
I’ve been assigned an orderly. A young soldier with non- combatant status‚ who was determined to join Leclerc’s army. Poor boy! It must have been out of pity that they drafted this wretched‚ woe-begone‚ bewildered creature‚ who‚ by some inexplicable miracle‚ escaped being rounded up by the Germans when they purged his street.
Father‚ mother‚ elder brother – Polish Jews – deported and exterminated‚ we now know. This feeble-minded boy – a bout of meningitis has left its mark – is afflicted with a curvature of the spine that precludes any physical effort. His face with very receding chin and bulging eyes is reminiscent of a bird at first‚ then a fish‚ and finally a rabbit. To cap it all‚ even his personal details are a joke. He has exactly the same name as what is generally referred to as ‘a high-ranking political personality’. To avoid causing any offence‚ I shall call him Simon Baum.
The sole concern of the military authorities who drafted Baum was to ensure that he was materially reasonably well provided for during his few months’ service. And maybe to save him from fits of depression that might prove fatal. I’m known to be susceptible to certain feelings of absurd pity. And I’ve been landed with this runt.
He drives me crazy. I’ve told him in the strongest terms that he’s not to concern himself with my shoes or my clothes‚ or to go rummaging among my personal belongings. A secretary files my papers with which he has no reason to meddle. His uselessness oppresses him. As a soldier‚ he would like to have fought and conquered Alsace the way the kids of Montmartre fight over their potholes. I send him on impossible errands or give him magazines that he quietly pours over‚ huddled on a bench at the end of a corridor. I shall soon be more or less rid of him‚ at last.
Zoltan Hazaï has tracked me down again. He came into my office‚ with a suspicious policeman on his heels. I was pleased to see him.
‘What’s new?’
‘No problems any more. I work for myself: resurfacing parquet flooring. At last I can work as hard as I like. I tell you‚ I really put my back into it.’
‘And apart from that?’
‘I’d like to get French citizenship as soon possible. I need a reference.’
‘No problem.’
My Hungarian now speaks a heavily accented but very correct French. He tells me that he’s living over in the Faubourg St-Antoine area‚ Simon Baum’s home ground. This has suddenly flashed into my mind‚ and gives me an idea.
I hand Zoltan a document declaring that to my knowledge he hasn’t commited any murder‚ sunk any allied submarine‚ handed over to the Gestapo any parachutist. And then: ‘Tell me. You wouldn’t be in need of some help? A young man who could carry your tools‚ run errands‚ a poor harmless lad …’
‘I might consider it. Why not?’
I explained the case of Simon Baum.
‘It’s not just because I want to get him off my hands. He needs to be given the illusion of doing something useful.’
I called Simon. He gazed at me with those big honest eyes of his.
‘This is a friend: he’s from your neighbourhood. You need something to do‚ some exercise. I’m putting you in his charge. I’ll renew your passes every two days. You’ll come here to collect your linen‚ subsistence allowance and tobacco.’
Simon passively consented.
At last I’ve freed myself of the haunting prospect of hearing Simon furtively coming in to see me every hour‚ and asking in that scarcely post-pubertal voice‚ ‘What should I do?’ only to be rebuffed‚ often with an impatience for which I immediately reproach myself. If he were the poor innocent beast he resembles‚ I’d have showered him with kindnesses. But he’s a human being‚ damn it! And as such‚ he exasperates me. He came to pick up his pass‚ allowance‚ and clean shirts. I gave him several K rations‚ and all the tobacco I could lay my hands on. He was fearful and subdued‚ as usual. (He has a marked Jewish accent.)
‘So‚ how’s the Hungarian?’
‘Oh! he’s kind‚ very kind to me. Teaches me lots of things …’
‘Like what?’
‘I collect the wood shavings and put them in a bag.’
‘He’s not encouraging you to drink‚ I hope.’
‘Oh‚ no! Anyway‚ I never feel like drinking.’
I had difficulty reconstructing the scene.
Zoltan was bent over‚ breathing heavily‚ resurfacing the floor of an empty room. His moving torso sweated in the warm sunshine. Nearby‚ also on all fours and naked to the waist‚ was Simon. Zoltan stands up‚ dusts himself down‚ and goes off for a drink. Simon remains squatting: he gathers the wood shavings the way a child sweeps up dry sand to prevent his mud pies from sticking to the ground. In an ill-fated gesture‚ moving his left hand too quickly‚ a long splinter penetrates deeply between his thumb and palm. Intense pain. He faints.
Zoltan realizes something’s amiss and approaches‚ slowly‚ with a waddling gait‚ as is his wont when some unspecified danger lurks. He goes to fetch a chair‚ sits my comatose Simon on it. A panful of cold water and a repeated couple of slaps. Zoltan stares hard at the boy. ‘Are you a man‚ or aren’t you? Are you a man?’ Simon’s eyes open wide. He’s still stupefied. Zoltan grabs the injured hand‚ sees the place where the splinter entered‚ rushes off to the caretaker‚ comes back with a pair of tweezers. Skilfully‚ but not gently‚ he extracts the thin sliver of wood. Now in good humour‚ he places his hands on Simon’s shoulders‚ and gazes at him intently. ‘Now‚ chin up‚ do you hear? Chin up‚ you little weakling!’
His eyelids half-closed. Simon remained silent‚ still‚ and apparently unconscious. Zoltan had hypnotized him without realizing it. At this point‚ the Hungarian committed a serious error. Instead of wakening his ‘subject’ with vertical hand movements‚ up and down – from the stomach to the forehead‚ and then aside‚ past the eyes – and failing that‚ instead of telephoning me‚ he grabbed a towel soaked in cold water and began belting the poor kid‚ who started screaming and struggling‚ stricken with a terrible attack of nerves.
It took him several days to recover‚ installed in the Hungarian’s bed‚ while a mortified Zoltan looked after him like some inept clumsy nanny.
I went to see Simon every evening. It was easy to plunge him into an hypnotic trance‚ from which I immediately released him. But my attempts to waken him fully proved futile. He remained from that day on under the the Hungarian’s influence‚ in complete thrall to him. Zoltan conceived a genuine remorse for this incident‚ and I confess to feeling tormented still by my own share of responsibility in the affair.
Once Simon had recovered‚ in appearance at least‚ he continued to trail after Zoltan‚ but no longer as his helper or assistant. The Hungarian was no longer ‘the boss’ but ‘the master’ of this too faithful‚ too submissive dog always at his heels. His hard day’s work over‚ Zoltan felt the need to get away for a few hours‚ if only to court a certain little lady selling lemons (or aubergines‚ depending on the season). To do so‚ he found himself obliged to confine Simon to his room and put him to sleep – as simple as that – before he could bolt the door and slip out.
At first Zoltan found it a burden to have someone trotting along beside him all the time‚ reading his thoughts‚ anticipating his every move. And then he got used to it. And between these two individuals‚ so unalike‚ there came to be a flow of affection operating on a level that can only be described as psychic.
There was plenty of work. Zoltan was in demand for various reasons. Many families who’d gone into exile finally returned to Paris and wanted to refurbish their homes. They recommended him to each other. Zoltan’s savings grew: he thought of setting himself up as a master craftsman. ‘I’d certainly consider getting married‚’ he said to me one day‚ ‘if it weren’t for the kid.’ The kid being Simon.
Just as many bilingual people are more likely to speak English to their animals‚ horses or dogs‚ Zoltan when he was busy spoke to Simon in Russian. Moreover‚ when the job to be done proved long and hard‚ that’s to say a match for his abundance of physical energy‚ he would think in Russian. Recalling the tough years he’d spent in Odessa.
‘There at least I had a good time‚’ he liked to say‚ flexing his biceps.
Simon had never learned a single word of Russian. Apart from his rudimentary French‚ he very vaguely knew just a few Yiddish phrases he’d heard his parents use in the past.
At first‚ as a joke‚ he taught himself to say to his master – badly pronounced – ‘Zdravstute‚ gospodine!’ (Good morning‚ sir!) or ‘Spasibo!’ (Thank you). That was all.
Last month‚ feeling drowsy on a stifling hot afternoon‚ Simon went to sleep on a sofa in a room adjoining the one where Zoltan was working. Zoltan suddenly pricked up his ears. Someone nearby was talking Russian. The person was saying‚ ‘Ya umirayu ot zhazhde. Segodnja tak zharko. Davajte pit!’ (I’m dying of thirst. It’s so hot. Let’s have a drink.)
Utterly amazed‚ Zoltan got up and peered into the hall and the adjoining room. No doubt about it‚ he was alone‚ with Simon asleep. Without waking him‚ he said‚ ‘Ty govorish po- ruski?’ (You speak Russian?)
And in a more confident voice than when he was awake‚ without stammering in the least‚ Simon replied‚ ‘Vot vopros! Nyuzheli vy nu znete? Ya vsegda govoril po-rousski.’ (What a question! Didn’t you know? I’ve always spoken Russian!)
I was soon told of the phenomenon‚ which I’ve since verified several times. I questioned Zoltan. He confessed that he enjoyed putting Simon to sleep whenever he wanted a few moments alone. Then he would communicate his thoughts in Russian‚ he said‚ because he was more at ease in that language and he had the impression of being able to project his will more strongly.
He got hooked on it‚ and within a few weeks poor Simon‚ the idiot‚ the moron‚ began speaking Russian fluently‚ with no grammar‚ no textbook of any kind‚ no notebook.
That’s the situation at the moment.
October
This morning Gérard came and woke me in a great panic. He was brandishing a newspaper.
‘Elisabeth mustn’t see this! Go and find her‚ keep her busy all day‚ whatever it takes.’
Filling two columns on the front page‚ with a sensational headline‚ was a report of the legionnaire’s arrest. There was a photo of him‚ smiling and handcuffed‚ looking cocky. Thief‚ murderer‚ swindler and pimp. Everything you could wish for.
I rushed over to where the dear girl lived. I found her in the caretaker’s lodge. She was reading a letter. As pale as could be. She was trembling. All she said was‚ ‘You already know?’
‘Yes‚ I know.’
It was a bundle of despair‚ a vulnerable and buffeted little bird that I dragged round the exhibits at the Salon d’Automne.
The girl eventually shared her secret with Séverin and me. Not knowing where else to turn‚ she asked us point blank to find her an angel-maker to perform an abortion. Round Place Maubert‚ they call this ‘plunging the dipstick’ in memory of an old woman who‚ in the ‘conveniences’ at Guignard’s‚ would use a long needle to carry out this operation. We couldn’t make Elisabeth listen to reason. We suggested taking a trip‚ going into hiding‚ staying in the country with one of our relatives until her confinement. Her aunt and Clément would know nothing about it. It was a waste of breath. She was obdurate. She gave us an ultimatum: it was either that or suicide. You can imagine our quandary.
It was very late. No one was talking. Elisabeth had in despondency hidden her face in her hands. Clément thought she was ill and didn’t know what to do. Olga wanted us to eat. We weren’t hungry.
In comes Marina‚ a little squiffy‚ accompanied by Batifol’s wife‚ she too sozzled. They were bickering. They wanted cognacs.
‘I’ll tell you whether you’re being cheated on‚ I’ll tell you right now.’
They sat down. The Spanish woman took out her cards. She laid them out in a triangle‚ covered them‚ turned over spades‚ hearts and jacks. She gave a derisive laugh.
‘What did I tell you? Cheated on‚ you are‚ right up to the hilt! He’s only giving you as good as he got. Does he know? That Jeannot’s not his. Eh?’ (Jeannot is the Batifols’ kid‚ just turned ten.)
In a fury Batifol’s wife tried to slap the witch in the face. Olga intervened and separated them with a firm hand.
Then from his usual corner came the voice of the Old Man. ‘Marina‚ go away! You’re drunk.’
‘Why should I go anywhere? I’ll stay if I want to.’
‘Marina‚ go away! You bring bad luck on children.’
‘No children here.’
Then with his long index finger pointed at Elisabeth‚ who was sunk in despair‚ the Old Man said‚ ‘Yes‚ there is‚ there’s the child she’s carrying.’
Elisabeth sat up‚ distraught‚ her fists to her temples. It was the cry of a she-wolf that she uttered. She made for the door and ran out into the night.
We would never have thought the Old Man capable of leaping up the way he did‚ on those short bandy legs of his. He threw aside his stick and went rushing after the girl: this time we saw him leave.
A blind dash through the clammy streets down to the Seine.
From the bottom of Rue du Petit-Pont‚ we heard two splashes in close succession. Clément had the presence of mind to bang on Felix’s door to wake him up and telephone the fire brigade‚ and the police immediately afterwards. Ah! It didn’t take long. In three minutes the River Police boat was there. Some big strapping lads‚ trained and ready for anything‚ fished out Elisabeth‚ who was floundering underwater. Meanwhile the fire brigade and the land-based police turned up. It was quite a party. A searchlight was turned on‚ but the Old Man couldn’t be found.
About five o’clock we returned to the Quatre-Fesses to tell Olga what had happened and reassure her about the fate of the girl. Olga was fussing over her friend‚ who looked quite out of sorts and shot a terrified look at us (yes‚ us!).
‘What’s wrong? She’s that upset by all this?’
‘It’s not so much the girl‚ it’s the stick.’
The Old Man’s stick had bounced on the tiles with a dull thud as he threw it aside to go running after Elisabeth. When she picked it up‚ Suzy remarked to herself how heavy it was. She laid it on the bench. Then‚ when the two women began to clear up‚ Suzy once again picked up the long stick‚ intending to carry it to the back of the room. As she was walking‚ she felt the object grow very‚ very light‚ so much so she turned round to share her surprise with Olga. At that moment the stick literally dissolved in her hands.
That was several days ago now. Suzy still hasn’t recovered. You can’t mention it in front of her: it makes her blanch and tremble like a leaf.
The day after her escape from drowning‚ we went to visit Elisabeth. She asked for news of the Old Man.
‘He must have sunk like a stone.’
‘I’m not really surprised‚’ she said.
She remained silent for a moment. And then she put her hands on her belly and decided to keep the child.
I said to Boucher‚ the inspector at the police station in Rue Dante‚ ‘What about the Old Man? Any news?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘We’ve enough work as it is‚ in your neighbourhood full of crazies. If we had to go looking for ghosts as well …’
The child will be named Patrice if it’s a boy‚ otherwise Ghislaine. Clément’s just waiting for it to be born so he can claim paternity and marry the baby’s mother.