1946
There’s someone for whom those drowned in the Seine represent a real patrimony. This character is Poloche the shrimp-fisher.
Very small‚ his hands reaching almost down to his knees‚ like some chinless chimpanzee‚ Poloche lives on Quai de la Tournelle in a tiny room crammed with bizarre objects that derive exclusively from dredging and cleaning operations carried out on the riverbed. One day recently he caught sight of me on the embankment and accosted me with all the signs of violent indignation.
‘You’re someone that knows the big shots at Police Headquarters. You have to help me. I need you to do me a favour!’
‘Sure. Although my influence isn’t very great. What’s the problem?’
‘It’s always the little guys that suffer in this bloody country. You want to know something? They’re destroying us small traders‚ they want to kill us off. There’ll only be room left for the big guys!’
‘Quite so. But what do you want me to do about it?’
‘Come with me.’
Poloche took me along the riverbank‚ having ‘forced’ me (a euphemistic term) to knock back a muscadet at the Bouteille d’Or. With a trembling finger‚ he pointed to the water‚ silt-laden at this point.
‘Look!’
‘Well? It’s just water …’
‘That’s what you may think! It’s a whirlpool‚ my whirlpool‚ where I’ve been laying my nets since before the last war. No one ever gave me a hard time about them till now. And every season‚ the shrimps I collect I sell to the Bouteille‚ the Tour d’Argent. I’ve even sold some at the Eiffel Tower. And at the Vel’ d’Hiv’‚ every year during the cycling championships. After all‚ I wasn’t doing anyone any harm.’
‘And what’s stopping you from carrying on.’
‘Just listen. Apparently the whirlpool’s disrupting traffic: it sends the barges off course‚ it’s a threat to the bridge pier. Rubbish! Despite the fact the River Police are connected with Police Headquarters‚ they sent guys here from the Civil Engineering Department‚ the Forestry Commission‚ God knows what! And now they want to remove it. My whirlpool. My livelihood. You see‚ all the stiffs‚ as soon as they’re light enough to be carried by the current – not bloated enough to float – whether they come down from Bercy‚ or Charenton‚ or much further upstream‚ this is where they “come to land”.
‘They’re here for two or three days and then‚ phut‚ they’re gone‚ they take themselves off. That’s why this part of the river’s always clean. But no more whirlpool‚ no more stiffs‚ and with no more stiffs‚ no more shrimps! Damn it! At my age‚ where are they going to send me to make my catch? Billancourt?
‘Otherwise‚ they should pay me a pension. Can’t you pull some strings to arrange that for me? We’d have a feast to celebrate. When we do‚ I promise you a basketful of shrimp. Still live and kicking. Word of honour!’
One-armed‚ one-eyed‚ lame and crippled‚ nearly all of them. They get through life on the crutches of their dreams.
In their world‚ according to their lore‚ a person passes away only to be immediately replaced: permanent reincarnation. They’re more bound up with the dead than the living‚ and their behaviour makes them heirs to the mysteries of paganism dating back to the most distant times.
Respect for death in itself‚ and deference owing to the dead‚ is completely alien to them. But they steer clear of the dying‚ and carefully avoid contact with a corpse too recently deceased‚ that’s to say one that’s been dead less than twenty-four hours‚ or even going anywhere near one.
One of them‚ an Oriental‚ born in Mosul‚ in Persia‚ described to me the practices followed by one particular sect in his country‚ to ascertain the dead person’s chances of attaining the sphere of the elect. The body is laid on the ground. A piece of bread is placed between its teeth. A dog that was unknown to the dead person is brought along. If the animal backs off‚ the dead person is damned. If it sniffs at the corpse‚ a period of time in purgatory has been allotted‚ which the dead person’s relatives can reduce through prayer. If the dog actually climbs on to the corpse to take the piece of bread‚ then the soul of the deceased is in paradise‚ and this gives rise to great rejoicing.
It’s true that dogs – not all of them‚ but many – are sensitive to certain emanations that are still a mystery.
Last winter carried off the Old Shepherd. He was eighty- four when I first met him. A big bearded fellow‚ standing tall and straight. He’d once been able to read‚ but no longer remembered how: to what purpose? On the other hand‚ he knew the names of hundreds of stars‚ which he’d point out without ever making a mistake. The various stages of his life were marked by the loss of a succession of dogs. Having become a rag-picker like everyone else‚ he carried within him the quiet contentment of the patriarchs. Once he said to me‚ ‘On the plains of Beauce and the Perche‚ where for seventy- one years I led my flocks to pasture‚ there were nights when my dogs would howl to kingdom come. I knew then who in the nearby villages was sick or very aged‚ and it was no surprise to me that my dogs should demonstrate an unerring premonitory instinct. Now‚ on four occasions spaced out over the years‚ my dogs howled when as far as I knew there was no one for miles around in any immediate danger of death. On those occasions it was always young people that died‚ victims of unforeseen accidents: a horse that bolted‚ a blazing barn‚ an overturned truck.’ And the Shepherd added‚ ‘Death and nothingness are not the same thing. Death is a powerful force‚ less evil than is generally believed. To people who aren’t afraid of it‚ it comes as a friend. When it strikes‚ it needs to finish the job without delay.
‘Nothing can surprise me any more. You know‚ you learn a lot living under the stars.’
According to one enduring legend‚ when it’s known that no one’s going to come and claim the body of a person who’s taking too long to die in a welfare-assisted bed‚ the last rites are administered. Destined for the dissection room and for pickling in formaldehyde‚ already carved up alive by professors and medical students‚ our dying patient receives the sweet restful dose that will despatch him ad patres. True or false? I’ve no idea. The fact is that our tramps‚ while fully appreciating a stay‚ even an extended one‚ especially in winter‚ in a warm room where getting enough to eat doesn’t present a daily challenge‚ are reluctant to go into hospital when they feel their end is near. That ‘nasty injection’ inspires the vagrant with more horror‚ indignation and repugnance than the loathsome fate of those sentenced to death by the criminal courts. In their eyes the condemned man has committed the unpardonable sin of getting caught‚ and having thereby justified the existence of Their Honourable Cogs in the much abhorred machine: that of the police and a repressive system of justice.
However‚ the vagrants are well able to defend themselves against those among them who provoke and taunt the Grim Reaper by being too reckless or irresponsible. The story of Maurice is very telling in this regard.
Maurice is in fact none other than the son‚ illegitimate of course‚ of La Goulue‚ a famous dancer of the French cancan at the turn of the century. Remember the Moulin Rouge‚ Valentin the Contortionist. Maurice claims to be the fruit of his mother’s liaison with Edward VII of England. In support of this assertion‚ he has been known to produce documents that make unsettling reading‚ to say the least. From scrutiny of these documents it emerges that the old man had a gilded youth‚ thanks to the munificence of His Britannic Majesty. The latter paid out a very comfortable monthly allowance from the royal coffers to his unacknowledgeable offspring. Of all this Maurice retains only two mementoes: a magnificent tattoo – a bust portrait of La Goulue‚ the work of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec – that adorns his chest; and a profile – his own – that bears a striking resemblance to the pennies stamped with the effigy of his putative father. It is in any case an undisputed fact that the sovereign‚ remembered for his dissolute life‚ kept up a long-lasting relationship with the famous dancer‚ both in London and in Paris (the couple would meet in Rue Montorgueil‚ on the first floor of the Rocher de Cancale‚ in an apartment designed by Gavarni). Maurice sank into beggardom in the interwar years. He’s presently lodged at the Nanterre workhouse‚ where in all probability he will end his days. He’s become a pitiful derelict.
He takes advantage of the days he’s allowed out to return to La Maubert – I met him at Pignol’s – and until recently would readily direct his footsteps to the area round Rue du Croissant‚ with which he had links.
There‚ he drank with the typographers‚ rotary printers and newspaper distributors.
He instigated some memorable scandals. But the story that will not soon be forgotten is that of the ‘death’ of Pussy.
The aforementioned‚ an unbelievably ugly and grubby streetwalker‚ had become Maurice’s girlfriend right after the Liberation. This picaresque couple were wonderfully well matched. Maurice benefitted considerably from the generosity of his companion who occasionally‚ especially at night‚ managed to ‘seduce’ a drunk. One day‚ a black soldier with the American Army agreed to ‘go upstairs’ with Pussy. Instead of displaying any exotic ardour‚ the black guy began to lay into Pussy with the very clear intention of beating her senseless and robbing her. The girl screamed‚ the black guy took fright and fled. Maurice came running and found Pussy passed out. The ‘king’s son’ wasted no time: he announced the sudden death of his partner throughout the neighbourhood‚ and appealed to everyone to make a contribution to the expenses of the decent funeral he wanted her to have. Everybody gave something. That evening‚ beaten black and blue‚ eyes half-closed‚ a puffy and tearful Pussy turned up while in a nearby bistrot there was Maurice in blithe spirits‚ tanked up with the numerous litres with which he’d washed down a substantial slap-up meal.
Maurice’s regular drinking companions held council. They brought the culprit to book‚ made him admit his offence and took him to task for having fostered in people’s minds‚ by falsely announcing Pussy’s death‚ that letting-go‚ that extension of pity‚ that sentiment ‘you only have once’. To ‘stave off bad luck’ three or four tramps went all round the area and asked the same people for a contribution equal to what they’d given for the ‘burial’. This time the money was presented to Pussy who‚ with no hard feelings‚ paid for her man to get drunk.
Some time afterwards she died‚ worn-out‚ broken down and decrepit. And from that day onwards Maurice became a permanent outcast‚ banned for ever from Rue du Croissant‚ which he’d desecrated.
No‚ Fernand Fabre should never have done what he did to me. He began by convincing me he was no longer interested in the Keep-on-Dancin’ affair. Besides‚ he’d just been transferred to National Security. He was only concerned now with suspect foreigners‚ when he was with me at least. What a relief.
I’d heard there were several occasions when Fernand had come looking round Rue de la Montagne without making any attempt to meet me. He’d appeared mostly in places I’d already taken him to. Friendly and good-humoured‚ never unwilling to buy a round‚ he’d quickly won over the locals. He readily engaged them in conversation and very cleverly made inquiries about Keep-on-Dancin’’s habits.
Once‚ a student told him how surprised he was by the fact this uneducated fellow should profess such a liking for François Villon‚ collecting different editions and books about him. They’d spent a whole evening discussing the subject. To Fernand Fabre‚ this was remarkable. So much so‚ he made some notes.
As soon as I was told about this‚ I declared covert war on my friend the policeman. I in turn began to pester everyone I knew‚ describing Fernand as a ‘cop’‚ a dirty rotten cop‚ a ruthless hypocrite. Nearly always‚ I’d get the reply‚ ‘Bah! That’s all a load of nonsense. He seems like a decent enough bloke. Even if he did book Jojo-the-Hustler. And besides‚ whether he’s a cop or not‚ why should it bother us?’ It was depressing. Eventually I ran into Fernand. Just ignoring him wasn’t very subtle. Neither was questioning him. I preferred to let him do the talking.
We took a turn down Rue de l’Estrapade and quite naturally ended up at Place de la Contrescarpe. From there we descended Rue Mouffetard. As we were passing the Théâtre Mouffetard‚ just opposite the Vieux-Chêne‚ I noticed a poster:
Karel Kapek’s
MARIONETTES
‘Must be good‚ that show‚’ said Fernand. ‘I read in the paper that at the end of every performance‚ the manager of this place – I think he’s a painter – does recitations from Villon when he takes a shine to members of the audience.’
Villon. My heart leapt into my mouth. But I’d detected the trap and quickly changed the subject.
Change the subject. There was nothing that could be done to alter the course of events. Each person had their role to play‚ just like marionettes. The die was cast‚ the mechanism now set in motion such that to try and halt it was a presumption as absurd as expecting to turn back the clock.
A patient audience waited in silence for the three knocks to reverberate. Students and hard-up intellectuals – or those pretending to be – occupied half the rows. At last the lights dimmed and just two spotlights lit the opening item on the programme: a Slovak folk dance. Behind the scenes‚ someone played a piano. Against a rural backdrop‚ six dolls‚ facing each other in pairs‚ turned in time to the music‚ skipped‚ bowed and curtsied to each other with innocent charm. And suddenly there was total darkness: a power failure. Candles were produced. Everyone agreed to take a break until the lights came on again. There was a sort of family feeling among us. But the power cut went on and on. After a quarter of an hour‚ the manager of the theatre‚ Adrien‚ and a few of his assistants‚ began rounding up the spectators who had dispersed into the street.
Adrien had placed a petrol lamp on either side of the small stage. The somewhat greenish lighting cast splashes of pallor on people’s faces ruthlessly outlined by the drastic darkness. That night’s drama was the colour of herbal tea.
Fernand Fabre displayed an interest in the fresco covering the wall. I dragged him off to the other end of the room. Right next to him‚ I’d recognized Keep-on-Dancin’. But Fernand didn’t notice.
‘Under these conditions we’re unable to stage the rest of the show‚’ announced Adrien. ‘Your tickets will be valid for any other performance. But you won’t have come here for nothing. This gloom gives us the opportunity to present a staging of Villon.’
The curtains parted to reveal the striking spectacle of four puppets swinging from a gallows. And Adrien‚ in his deep bass voice‚ began to recite:
‘Frères humains qui après nous vivez
N’ayez les cuers contre nous endurciz
Car si pitié de nous pauvres avez
Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercy.’
[Fellow human beings living still
Don’t harden your hearts against us
For if you take pity on us poor wretches
The sooner will God show mercy to you.]
As the lines reverberated the puppet in the foreground‚ which was bigger than the others and had been very cleverly wired up‚ fell to pieces‚ losing one foot‚ then the other‚ then a hand‚ an arm‚ a thigh‚ until completely dismembered‚ it was no more than a skeletal torso with a hideous face whose eye-sockets a nightmarish bird came to peck at.
‘Plus becquetz d’oilseaux que dès à couldre …
De notre mal personne ne s’en rie:
Mais priez Dieu que tous nous veuille absouldre!
[More pitted by beaks than a thimble …
Let no one laugh at our misfortune
But pray God He absolve us all!]
After this curtailed performance‚ entertainers and public met up outside on the pavement.
Across the street flickered the candles – there was still no electricity – hurriedly lit by the patron of the Vieux-Chêne.
Quite naturally it was there that most people ended up. I was with Fernand‚ whom I tried to lead towards the back. I was watching the door. Keep-on-Dancin’ came in‚ the fool. And just behind him‚ two big lads I didn’t recognize and who didn’t much look like the type to be interested in Karel Kapek’s marionettes. Keep-on-Dancin’ – what an idiot! – spotted me in the smoky fug‚ came over and shook hands warmly. He saw Fernand‚ whom I’d introduced to him in the past‚ and stuck out his paw which the other didn’t take straightaway‚ busy as he was – hmm! – rummaging in his pockets.
‘No change? Don’t worry‚ I’ll pay for this round‚’ said Keep-on-Dancin’ in his usual way.
He too searched his jacket‚ stuffed with small banknotes and coins. The first thing he laid on the counter was a dessicated human ear that looked as though it’d been tanned‚ a right ear.
Fernand smiled.
‘What a coincidence!’
Alongside the right ear‚ he laid the one that matched it‚ the left ear‚ less well preserved than the other. It was slightly crumpled.
The two big lads had closed in on us.
‘The game’s up‚’ said Keep-on-Dancin’‚ holding out his wrists.
‘There’s no hurry‚’ said Fernand. ‘Take your time‚ finish your drink.’
We stuffed Keep-on-Dancin’’s pockets with sandwiches. I borrowed two handkerchiefs and a blanket from the patron. No one noticed the handcuffs. As he went through the door‚ Keep-on-Dancin’ uttered these three words: ‘Free at last!’
Probably the last I’d ever hear from him. The police Citroen pulled away silently.
One day I took Zoltan and Simon to lunch at a Jewish restaurant in Rue des Ecouffes. I like this melancholy part of town‚ all squalor‚ and beards‚ steeped in legends and the Orient.
It was during those months when the survivors of the death camps were arriving in batches before travelling on to the countries of their choice.
Around us‚ incredibly thin people‚ their faces stamped for ever with definitive and seemingly age-old sadness‚ were slumped with dignity‚ if we can accept such a paradox. A woman who was once beautiful‚ with a five-figure registration number tattooed on her forearm‚ was serving mushy food that they swallowed slowly‚ with difficulty.
We were sat at a table. There was an uncomfortable oppressive silence. I was ashamed‚ and Zoltan too‚ of presenting these people with the spectacle of our good health‚ our freedom from care.
Simon‚ sitting next to me‚ seemed preoccupied‚ perhaps intimidated. His face gives little away about the feelings that stir him‚ or rather arrest him.
On Simon’s left was a skinny young girl‚ in crumpled clothes‚ with a shawl over her head. Tentatively and with infinite difficulty she was trying to eat her way through a tiny portion of salmon roe.
Her hands were translucent. Cord-like veins throbbed in her neck. Zoltan had noticed this image of the most appalling distress. Simon seemed oblivious.
An ordinary Jewish meal: fish stuffed with bread‚ boiled beef with horseradish sauce. The pot of horseradish was close to the young girl. Zoltan asked Simon to pass it. Being clumsy‚ Simon knocked it over.
‘Forgive me.’
‘Pozhalusta (That’s all right)‚’ said his neighbour with a wan sad smile.
Simon gazed at us very proudly. He too was smiling. That was something we hadn’t seen for a very long time.
Faltering at first‚ then more sustained‚ a conversation in Russian began between Simon and the young girl. Her name was Ida Bleivas‚ and she was from a remote village on the Russo-Lithuanian border. Liberated just in time from a camp devastated by typhus‚ she was part of a convoy of displaced persons on their way to the newborn state of Israel. She looked exhausted. We caught sight of her‚ in the back room‚ adjusting her shawl in front of a mirror. Her head was shaved. At last Simon had found a wretchedness to equal his own: he was happy.
Simon met up with his friend every evening. He became almost gallant. He offered her tea‚ held her hand‚ and took her wandering through the streets of the sorely depleted ghetto. They spoke little. These two afflicted souls didn’t have much left to entrust to each other but their mutual presence.
Zoltan celebrated with me this unexpected turn of events. Finally‚ it was possible to envisage for our Simon the prospect of a more or less normal future.
Simon was disconsolate over the imminent departure of young Ida. But meanwhile difficulties arose in Israel where the arrival of thousands of helpless starving immigrants was viewed with some alarm. And Ida Bleivas’s stay in Paris was extended.
One day she told Simon she’d like to have heard him speak Yiddish. That devil Zoltan more or less knew the language: and he starts repeating the same experiment as before on Simon. In less than two weeks he instilled in him not just enough to get by‚ but the ability to speak almost fluently.
Simon was transformed: quicker-witted and more lively‚ with even occasional bursts of sheer joyfulness. When he spoke French his mispronounciations had almost disappeared.
One evening when we were taking the air together‚ Simon told us that he didn’t after all much care about having French nationality‚ he wanted to share his life with the girl and follow her to Israel. I regarded this decision as his only hope of happiness and warmly approved it. But to my great surprise Zoltan became sullen.
From that moment I witnessed an extraordinary phenomenon: Zoltan was tormented with intense jealousy originating beyond any extremely improbable physical attraction. He’d developed such an attachment to the boy he called his ‘burdensome beast’ that the thought of their separation unhinged him. All my efforts to calm him‚ to make him see reason‚ proved futile.
One day he uttered these dreadful words in my presence: ‘I shall wipe from his mind everything I put there.’
An expected assignment suddenly sent me off on a mission to Germany for six weeks. During my absence Simon’s regular certificates of leave couldn’t be renewed. But in the ordinary course of events he should have been free every evening.
I found out on my return that Simon had started stammering‚ then dribbling a bit.
He was admitted to Val-de-Grâce military hospital. He soon proved incapable of uttering anything intelligible whatsoever‚ even in French.
Then came the day when he was struck down with an epileptic fit. He was immediately invalided out of the army.
Ida Bleivas was woken at dawn one day by ‘officials’ of I don’t know which organization‚ and given an hour to pack her meagre belongings and join a convoy on its way to Marseilles‚ as a first stop.
No sign of Zoltan. His landlord had to force the lock. His room was found neat and tidy‚ containing his clothes and work tools.
Where else would Zoltan be if not in La Mouffe?
Which is where I came across him several months later. Terribly aged‚ emaciated‚ all he said was‚ ‘It’s worse than if I’d committed a crime. I don’t know whether I can ever redeem myself. But I’m trying to.’
He wasn’t resurfacing wooden floors any more. For a glass of wine‚ a bite to eat‚ often for nothing at all‚ he was teaching Russian to generous-spirited and ‘committed’ students. Let there be no misunderstanding: he enabled them to make such rapid progress that ‘someone very respectable‚ wearing glasses and with a slight accent’‚ became intrigued by his method of teaching and forcefully insisted on taking him on a journey. No one could tell me where.
There are in every ghetto in the world street-pedlars selling pumpkin or melon seeds – I’m not quite sure what they are. The Jews chew these the way others chew hazelnuts.
Over in Belleville‚ round République‚ there are cinemas where they often show pre-war yiddish films: Yidl mitn Fidl‚ Der Yidisher Kenig Lir‚ Der Dibuk …
At the entrance is a pathetic figure selling seeds‚ or trying to. He’s constantly nibbling at them; he looks increasingly rodent-like.
He can’t speak. From the sounds that issue from his constricted throat you can just about make out two syllables: I-da … I-da …