The Belly of Paris

by Emile Zola

  Lisa was at the counter, annoyed by the sight of Florent's dirty shoes, which were tracking mud onto the floor's pink and white tiles. She had already gotten up twice to toss handfuls of sawdust on the floor. She smiled at Marjolin.

  “Monsieur Gavard,” said the young man, “has sent me to ask …” He stopped, looked around, and lowered his voice. “He told me to wait until you were alone and then repeat these words, which he made me learn by heart: ‘Ask them if there is any danger or if I can come talk to them about the matter they know about.’”

  “Tell Monsieur Gavard that we're expecting him,” said Lisa, who was used to the mysterious ways of the poultry vendor.

  But Marjolin did not turn to leave. Instead, he remained in his tracks in a state of ecstacy before the beautiful charcuterie mistress.

  As though moved by silent adulation, she asked, “You are happy at Monsieur Gavard's? He's not a bad man, and you should try to please him.”

  “Yes, Madame Lisa.”

  “But you're not being sensible. Only yesterday I saw you on the roofs of Les Halles. And you were with a bunch of lowlifes. You're a man now, and you should be thinking of your future.”

  “Yes, Madame Lisa.”

  But then she had to tend to a customer, a woman wanting a pound of pork chops and cornichons. She got up from the counter and went to the chopping block at the far end of the shop. There, with a slender knife, she separated three chops from a side of pork. Lifting a cleaver with her bare, strong hand, she gave three sharp blows. At each blow her black merino dress rose slightly behind her and the stays of her corset showed under her tightly stretched bodice. With great seriousness, her lips tight, her eyes wide, she slowly gathered up the chops and weighed them.

  When the lady had left, Lisa saw Marjolin, enraptured at the sight of her delivering those three blows of the cleaver, so clean and powerful. “What, you're still here!” she shouted at him.

  He started to leave, but she held him up for a second. “If I see you again with that little tramp Cadine … don't deny it. This morning again you were together at the triperie, watching them splitting sheeps' heads. I don't understand how a handsome man like you can be interested in a slut like Cadine, the little grasshopper. Okay get going and tell Gavard that he should come now, while there's no one in the shop.”

  Marjolin walked off in confusion and despair, without saying anything.

  Beautiful Lisa stood at her counter, her head turned slightly toward Les Halles, while Florent studied her in silence, surprised to find her so beautiful. Until that moment, he had never really seen her. He didn't know how to look at women. She appeared to him over the meats displayed on the counter. In front of her, laid out on white plates, were dried sausages from Arles and Lyon, tongues and pieces of petit salé boiled in water, pigs' heads covered in jelly an uncovered crock of pork rillettes, a can of sardines whose torn-back lid showed a lack of oil inside, and then to the right and the left, set up on boards, were Italian pains de fromage and fromage de cochon,16 an ordinary pale pink ham, a York ham with deep red meat sealed in a layer of fat. There were round and oval dishes with stuffed tongues, a truffled galantine, and boar's head with pistachios, while closer to her, within her reach, stood yellow earthenware crocks with larded veal, pâté de foie gras, a hare pâté.

  Since Gavard had not shown up, she arranged some lard de poitrine17 on a little marble shelf at the end of the counter and straightened out the crock of saindoux18 and the crock of fat drippings from the roasts, wiped down the platters on each side of the balance scales, and poked around the waning fire in the food warmer. The perfume of meat rose and overtook her in a heavy truffle-scented calm. That particular day there was a wondrous freshness to Lisa. The crisp whiteness of her apron and sleeves reflected in the whiteness of the plates around her, and above, her plump neck and rosy cheeks showed, echoing the pastel of the hams and the paleness of the transparent fats.

  Florent began to feel intimidated by the sight of her, made uneasy by her primness. He stole looks at her from the mirrors around the shop. He could see her from behind, in front and in side view, and even from the ceiling, which showed the tightly rolled chignon and the bangs along her temples. The shop was packed with a crowd of Lisas, showing their broad shoulders, the strength of their arms, their round breasts so stiff and inexpressive that they aroused him no more than the sight of a belly would. He stopped himself, settling on one of the side views at the mirror next to him, between two sides of pork. Along the line of marble and mirrors ran hooks from which hung sides of pork and rolls of larding fat, and Lisa, with her strong neck, her round hips, and her swelling bosom, in side views, looked like a trussed-up queen in the midst of lard and raw flesh. Then the beautiful charcutière leaned forward and smiled warmly at the two goldfish forever swimming circles in the aquarium in the window.

  Gavard came in. With an air of urgency he looked in the kitchen for Quenu. As soon as he had installed himself sidesaddle at a marble table, with Florent still in his chair, Lisa still at her counter, and Quenu leaning against a side of pork, Gavard announced that at last he had found a job for Florent. And that they would laugh when they heard about it and the government would be stung.

  Suddenly he stopped, seeing Mademoiselle Saget push open the shop door only because she had seen from the street such a well-attended meeting at the Quenu-Gradelles'. The little old woman in the faded dress with her ever-present black bag on her arm, in a ribbonless black straw hat that cast a furtive shadow over her pale face, nodded to the men and gave Lisa a caustic smile.

  She was an acquaintance who still lived in the house on rue Pirouette as she had for the past forty years, doubtless on some meager income, though she never discussed it. She had once mentioned Cherbourg, saying that she had been born there, but nothing more than that was ever learned about her. She spoke only of other people, of every aspect of their lives, down to how many shirts they had laundered per month, taking her need to peer into her neighbors' existence to the point of listening at doors and opening letters. Her tongue was feared from rue Saint-Denis to rue Jean-Jacques-Rousseau and from rue Saint-Honoré to rue Mauconseil. All day long she drifted through the streets with her empty basket, as though she were shopping but buying nothing just trading news, keeping up to date on the most trivial of facts, thereby managing to store in her head the complete history of every house, every floor, every person in the neighborhood. Quenu had always accused her of being the one who had spread the story of Gradelle dropping dead on the chopping block, and he had borne her a grudge ever since.

  As it happened, she was extremely well informed on the subject of Uncle Gradelle and about Quenu as well. She had collected all the details, examined them from every possible angle, and committed them to memory. But for the last fifteen days, the appearance of Florent had been confusing her and a raging curiosity was consuming her. It made her physically ill when she hit a blank spot in her intelligence. Yet she could have sworn that she had seen this tall loafer before somewhere.

  She stood in front of the counter, looking at the dishes one by one and murmuring in her wispy voice, “I never know what to eat anymore. When it gets to be afternoon, I'm like a tortured soul thinking about my dinner. And then, later, I don't feel like anything. Madame Quenu, do you have any of those breaded chops left?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she lifted one of the lids on the food warmer. It was the section used for andouille, fresh sausages, and boudin. But the dish had gone cold, and only one stray forgotten sausage was left on the grill.

  “Have a look on the other side, Mademoiselle Saget,” said the charcutière. “I think there's one chop left.”

  “No, that doesn't do anything for me,” muttered the little old lady, who nevertheless stuck her nose under the second lid. “It was just a whim—but breaded chops tonight would be too heavy. I'd rather have something that I wouldn't need to heat up.”

  She had turned toward Florent and was staring at him. She looked at Gavard, who was d
rumming his fingertips on the marble tabletop. With a smile, she invited them to resume their conversation.

  “Why don't you take a piece of petit salé?” Lisa suggested.

  Mademoiselle Saget picked up the fork resting on a plate by its metal handle and poked around with it, prodding each piece of petit salé. Lightly tapping each bone to estimate its thickness, she then turned them over to examine the pink meat, again saying, “No, you know I'd really like a breaded chop. But the one that's left is too fatty. I'll have to try another time.”

  Lisa bent over to watch her through the sausage skins hanging in the front and saw her cross the road and go into the fruit market.

  “The old nanny goat,” snarled Gavard. And since they were now alone, he told them about the position he had found for Florent. It was quite a tale. One of his friends, Monsieur Verlaque, a fish inspector, was so ill that he needed to take some time off. Just that morning the poor man had told him that it would be a great favor if he could recommend someone to take over and keep the position open for him in case he wanted to return.

  “You have to understand,” Gavard added, “Verlaque isn't going to last another six months. Florent is going to be able to keep his position. It's a beautiful situation. It will completely dupe the police. The prefecture is responsible for the position. It's going to be a big laugh when Florent starts getting paid by the police.”

  He broke into a huge belly laugh, finding it all perversely comic.

  “I don't want the job,” said Florent emphatically. “I've sworn to accept nothing from the empire. I would rather die of starvation than work for the prefecture. It's out of the question. Do you understand, Gavard!”

  Gavard understood and was slightly embarrassed. Quenu lowered his head. But Lisa turned to glare at Florent, her neck puffed up, her bosom nearly popping its bodice. She was just about to open her mouth when La Sarriette came in and the shop again fell silent.

  “Well!” exclaimed La Sarriette with her soft laugh, “I almost forgot to get lard. Madame Quenu, could you cut me a dozen strips, nice and thin? You know, for larks.19 Jules wants to eat larks. Oh, and how are you, Uncle?”

  She filled the shop with her swirling skirts and smiled at everyone with the freshness of milk and her hair on one side falling down from the wind. Gavard took her hands, and she brashly went on, “I'll bet you were all talking about me when I came in. What were you saying, Uncle?”

  Lisa called to her, “Tell me if these are thin enough.” On the edge of a board she was delicately cutting the lard. As she wrapped it up, she asked, “Can I get you anything else?”

  “Oh my God, I must be losing my mind,” said La Sarriette. “Give me a pound of saindoux. I just love fried potatoes. I can make a lunch of nothing but two sous of fried potatoes and a bunch of radishes. Yes, one pound of saindoux, Madame Quenu.”

  Lisa took a thick piece of paper on the scale and, taking the crock of saindoux from under the shelf, scooped out globs with a wooden spatula and built a mound on the paper with gentle taps. When the scale plate dropped, she took the paper and quickly twisted the ends closed with her fingers.

  “That's twenty-four sous,” Lisa said, “and six sous for the larding strips, that makes thirty sous. Did you need anything else?”

  La Sarriette said, “No.” Still laughing, showing her teeth, she paid. Staring at the men, her gray skirt a little off kilter and her carelessly tied red scarf revealing just a little bit of the white of her bosom. Just before leaving, she challenged Gavard again: “So you're not going to tell me what you were talking about as I came in. I could see you laughing from the middle of the street. Oh, you sly one, I won't love you anymore.”

  She walked out and crossed the street. Lisa dryly observed, “Mademoiselle Saget sent her.”

  Then it was back to silence. Gavard was taken aback by Florent's response to his proposition. Lisa spoke first.

  “It's wrong of you to turn down the position of fish inspector, Florent. You know how hard it is to find a job, and you're hardly in a position to be choosy.”

  “I have my reasons,” answered Florent.

  Lisa shrugged. “Come on, you can't be serious. I understand how much you dislike the government, but it would be stupid to let that stop you from earning a living. Besides, dear, the emperor isn't a bad man. You don't believe, do you, that he knew of your suffering? How could he know if you were eating moldy bread and tainted meat? He can't be held responsible for everything that happens. You can see for yourself that he hasn't interfered with the rest of us. You're not being fair, not at all.”

  Gavard was feeling more and more uncomfortable. He could not stand hearing these tributes to the emperor.

  “Wait a minute, Madame Quenu,” he murmured. “You're going a bit too far. He really is trash.”

  “Oh, you!” the energized Beautiful Lisa interrupted him. “With all your stories, you won't be satisfied until someday you get robbed and massacred. Don't talk politics to me, because it will make me mad. We're talking about Florent now and saying he should take the inspector job. Isn't that right, Quenu?”

  Quenu, who until then had not breathed a word, was caught off guard by the abruptness of his wife's question. “It's a good position,” he said without committing himself.

  Once again an awkward silence fell on the room, and Florent said, “Please, just forget it. My mind is made up. I'll wait.”

  “You'll wait!” shouted Lisa, at the end of her patience.

  Two reddish flames were burning on her cheeks. Planted firmly there in her white apron, her hips wide, she struggled to resist unleashing unkind words. Then another customer came into the shop, deflecting her anger. It was Madame Lecœur.

  “Could you please give me a half-pound assorted plate at fifty sous a pound?” she asked. At first she pretended to have not seen her brother-in-law; then she greeted him with a nod. She studied the three men from the tops of their heads down to the tips of their toes, no doubt hoping to find their secret somewhere in the manner in which they were waiting for her to leave. She could sense that she had somehow disturbed them, and that made her look even sharper and more sour than usual in her drooping skirts, with her long spidery arms with their gnarled hands held under her apron. Gavard, ill at ease in the silence, detected a slight cough and asked, “Have you caught a cold?”

  “No,” she said curtly. In the places where the bones neared the surface of her face, the skin was stretched brick red and the dark flame that touched her eyelids pointed to a liver ailment fed by the bitterness of her jealousies. She turned back to the counter and followed Lisa's every gesture with the untrusting eye of a customer convinced she is going to be cheated.

  “Don't give me any cervelas,” she said. “I don't like them.”

  Lisa cut the thin slices with a small knife. She moved to the smoked ham, then the ordinary ham, curling off fine slivers that curled in her hand as she leaned slightly forward to keep her eye on the knife. Her plump, ruddy hands, which worked around the meats with a light, dextrous touch, seemed to have acquired the suppleness of fat. She held out a terrine and asked, “You'd like some larded veal, wouldn't you?”

  Madame Lecœur seemed to think about this for a long time; then she agreed. Lisa then sliced from the terrine. She took some slices of larded veal and a slab of hare pâté on the end of her knife blade. Each slice was placed in the middle of a sheet of paper on the scale.

  “Aren't you going to give me any boar's head with pistachios?” asked Madame Lecœur in an unpleasant voice.

  So she had to give her the boar's head. This butter vendor was becoming difficult. She wanted two slices of galantine, she liked that. Lisa, already irritated, fidgeted with the knife handle and pointed out that the galantine had truffles and could be included only in an assortment at three francs a pound. The customer continued to sniff around the plates to look for more things to ask for. When the assortment was weighed out, she insisted on Lisa adding some aspic and cornichons. The block of aspic, in the shape of a
gâteau de Savoie in the middle of a porcelain platter, jiggled in the grasp of Lisa's angry hands, and vinegar squirted from the jar as she grabbed two cornichons with her fingers from behind the dish warmer.

  “That's twenty-five sous, isn't it?” Madame Lecœur asked in a casual tone. She could clearly see and tremendously enjoyed Lisa's repressed irritation, slowly taking out her money, as though the coins had gotten lost in her pocketbook. Then she glanced disdainfully at Gavard, reveling in the strained silence that her presence prolonged, vowing that she would not leave as long as they were concealing some “chicanery” from her. But Lisa finally placed the package in her hand and she had to leave. She exited without saying a word, casting one last stare around the shop.

  Once she was gone Lisa exploded, “La Saget sent her too! Is that old battle-ax going to march everyone in Les Halles in here to find out what we were talking about? And what vicious people they are! Whoever heard of breaded chops and assorted plates being sold at five in the afternoon? They'd rather make themselves sick with indigestion than miss out on what we were saying. If La Saget sends anyone else, wait and see the reception she gets. I'll show her the door, even if it's my own sister.”

  The three men were silenced by Lisa's anger. Gavard had leaned over the brass railing, where, lost in his thoughts, he absentmindedly fiddled with a little glass railing that had come loose. Then he raised his head. “Personally,” he said, “I look at the whole thing as a big farce.”

  “What's that?” asked Lisa.

  “The fish inspector job.”

  She raised her hands, shot one last look at Florent, and then sat on the cushioned bench behind the counter with her mouth sealed. But Gavard began to expound on his theory, the idea being that the government would get fleeced because Florent would get their money. He repeated with satisfaction, “My dear friend, weren't those the bastards that nearly starved you to death? Well, now's your chance to make them feed you. It's a beautiful thing. It struck me immediately.”