Chapter XIV

Keep-on-Dancin’s first trial was annulled. The second dragged on for ages. He was condemned to death by two different courts on loads of charges. He was guillotined ten days ago.

‘Topped! They did that to him! And you think that’s going to be the end of it? To hell with it all! I’m going back to Paris!’

‘Please‚ Pierrot‚ don’t be a fool.’

Keep-on-Dancin’

Paris‚ March

Keep-on-Dancin’ had been executed‚ and no one was protesting about that. ‘Those were the rules of the game‚’ in his own words. He shouldn’t have let himself get caught in such an idiotic way like that. But around Mont-St-Geneviève we’d all known him‚ and everybody began to consider and comment on the actual process of execution. And outraged by it‚ everybody declared it was degrading to all of us‚ appalling‚ disgusting. It’s the beheading that sickens them. An Arab told us that the beheading of a single Muslim‚ however abominable a criminal he might be‚ causes millions of fists to be raised against the sacrilegious Christians. A Muslim does not present himself before Mahomet purged of all his earthly sins with his head under his arm. Dolly-the-Slow-Burner was terribly upset. It became quite another matter when Tricksy-Pierrot showed up‚ bearded‚ bespectacled‚ unrecognizable.

In the back room at Quarteron’s they rallied a few supporters and held a kind of war council. Everyone agreed ‘it shouldn’t end there’. Dolly’s unbridled anger verged on hysteria. It was she who had the nerve to reach the conclusion‚ ‘Either we’ve got guts‚ or we haven’t. I say‚ we ought to do in a cop.’

Feelings were running high among the others. Pierrot backed Dolly.

‘Absolutely‚ they need to be taught a lesson. If the law’s left to the fuzz‚ it means the death of the petty crook …’

A little later Alexandre Villemain turned up. Drunk‚ like he was every evening. And like every other evening when he was drunk‚ he came out with the same old story.

‘I’m like you … I’m with the police …’

Everyone stared at him with interest.

It’s curious how the waters of the Seine act differently on the drowned‚ depending on whether they’ve eaten or drunk‚ or the proportion of unabsorbed alcohol circulating in the system. When two days after the memorable meeting between the friends of Keep-on-Dancin’‚ Villemain was fished out on Quai du Marché-Neuf‚ his hands and feet had become chalk-white and enormous. His dosser friends organized a collection.

So he didn’t have to be buried in an unmarked grave.

Solange is inconsolable. She’s made up a little bag that she wears next to her skin like a scapular. She’s tucked inside it the last memento she has of her friend. An exhibit that was produced as evidence in court‚ stolen during the trial. A human ear‚ a right ear‚ tanned like leather‚ long and a little pointed.

I’ve treated her and her girlfriends to a bottle of champagne. They’re wondering if I’ve come into an inheritance‚ or something. It’s made them feel slightly uncomfortable. This is no way to ‘bury’ a friend.

Today I’ve lost all sense of modesty. For the first time I’m celebrating an award. I’ve been decorated. I show Solange the citation from which I’ve cut out the verbiage:

‘Resolution no. 1347 dated 18th November 1945 … on the 4th June 1944 uncovered a Gestapo agent who came to him to join the network. Killed him and disposed of the body … thereby saving the organization’‚ etc.

Solange made an effort to smile. She said‚ ‘All that’s down to Keep-on-Dancin’. I realize more and more he’s not as dead as all that‚ which bucks me up. Besides‚ it’s being taken care of …’

‘Oh? By whom?’

‘You’re not one of the family yet. It takes a long time‚ you know. You’ll work it out for yourself later‚ much later.’

And off she went‚ saying‚ ‘Bye-bye.’

A client was waiting for her out in the street.